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53.

Meg and I went down to the beach in front of the castle. Chilly day, but the sun was bright.

We stood on the rocks, looking out at the sea. Amid all the silky islands of seaweed we saw…

something.

A head.

A pair of soulful eyes.

Look! Seal!

The head bobbed up and down. The eyes very clearly watched us.

Look! Another!

Just as Pa instructed, I ran to the water’s edge, sang to them. Serenaded them.

Arooo.

No answer.

Meg joined me, and sang to them, and now of course they sang back.

She really is magic, I thought. Even the seals know it.

Suddenly, all over the water, heads were bobbing up, singing to her.

Arooo.

A seal opera.

Silly superstition, maybe, but I didn’t care. I counted it a good omen. I took off my clothes,

jumped into the water, swam to them.

Later, Pa’s Aussie chef was horrified. He told us that this had been a supremely bad idea, more

ill-advised than diving heedless into the darkest water of the Okavango. This part of the Scottish

coast was teeming with killer whales, the chef said, and singing to seals was like calling them to

their blood-soaked deaths.

I shook my head.

It had been such a lovely fairytale, I thought.

How did it get so dark so fast?