“Order up, Mary!” the bartender shouted.

“Haud yer wheesht!” she yelled over her shoulder, then smiled sweetly at me. “Enjoy your luncheon and take good care.” She turned and marched to the bar, where she bared her teeth at the burly bartender as she collected a tray of drinks.

I wasn’t an expert in the Scottish dialect, but I believed she’d just suggested to her boss that he shove a sock in his piehole.

I chuckled as I checked my wristwatch, then paid the bill. Barely an hour in Edinburgh and I’d fallen in love with the people all over again.

I’d arrived at the Royal Thistle Hotel after flying nonstop from San Francisco to London, then catching a quick shuttle flight north. I’d checked in, unpacked my bags and headed straight for the hotel pub to grab a sandwich and a beer. Now I was ready for a brisk walk out in the cold March air. In travel, I believed in hitting the ground running.

I was here to attend the annual Edinburgh Book Fair and was looking forward to visiting with friends and colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while. I would be giving a few workshops, and there would be thousands of beautiful books and fine bindings to study and drool over. With any luck, I’d find one or two bargains to snag for my very own. I expected lots of good conversation and much pub crawling in one of the most delightful cities on the planet.

I should’ve been elated. Instead, I was sad and feeling a little overwhelmed, knowing that Abraham Karastovsky, the man who first taught me bookbinding years ago, the man I’d worked with most of my life and always considered a mix of beloved uncle and benevolent dictator, wouldn’t be in Edinburgh with me.

I’d known him since I was eight years old, when he’d repaired a favorite book my brothers had ruined. Fascinated with what he’d done, I’d gone back every day to watch him work in his small bindery, pestering him so much that he’d finally brought me on as his apprentice.