The streets of Whitby clacked with the steady rhythm of polished boots and the low drone of sea wind pushing in from the grey horizon, but it was the kilted procession that made heads turn.

The palanquin, lacquered in rich koa wood and inlaid with subtle brass flourishes, floated through the narrow lanes like a carved canoe upon cobblestone waves. Suspended between four tall, broad-shouldered Scotsmen—MacKenzies all, each one chosen with a suspiciously gleeful precision by the lady herself—it was a sight Whitby had certainly never seen before. The men wore full Highland dress: green and black tartan swaying about their knees, gleaming buttons, and salt-thick braids down their backs. They didn’t speak much—they didn’t need to. They were ornamental and functional both, and Lailani had arranged them like a painting.

Inside, Lailani MacKenzie sat with one hand braced against the window drapery, trying not to chew her lip. Her other hand clutched the woven lauhala gift basket—a carefully curated selection of delicate shortbread biscuits, mango preserves, three types of candied ginger, two tins of imported Ceylon tea, a pot of guava butter, a pressed posy of plumeria and thistle, and, in a small, sealed ceramic bowl tied with a ribbon of tartan silk: lau lau and poi, still faintly warm.

“I should’ve left out the guava butter. That’s too much. No, no—it balances the saltiness of the pork,” she murmured, glancing again at the basket, then craning her neck toward one of the kilted men.

“Seumas,” she called, adjusting the violet hibiscus tucked behind her ear. “Do you think she’ll think this is—mm—gaudy?”

The eldest of her kinsmen—a man with a weathered face and smile lines that crinkled as he walked—lifted one brow.

“Aye, lass,” he rumbled. “But that’s the point, no? They’ll nae forget ye now.”

“I don’t want unforgettable,” Lailani huffed, tugging at the edge of her pale pink sash. “I want respectable. Normal! Like…oh, I don’t know. A pastor’s daughter in a nice hat.”

“Well, you’ve missed that boat, love,” came another voice—Malcolm, the youngest of her carriers, no older than twenty-five but grinning like a rogue. “Pastor’s daughters don’t come in koa canoes with four men in skirts.”

“Kilt,” she corrected dryly, though her lips twitched.

“You’ll be grand, Lani,”

The palanquin swayed gently with each step, lifted high on the shoulders of four burly MacKenzie men, their tartan kilts catching the summer light with each sure-footed movement down the cobbled lane. Whitby’s seaside scent mingled with the faint, perfumed salt of dried ti leaves tied to the palanquin’s carved beams—an old gesture from Lailani’s mother, meant to protect and bless. It had been Lailani’s idea entirely, of course. Everything about this—especially the arrival—was meant to declare her presence, her mana, her lineage, her future.

Inside the velvet-draped palanquin, Lailani MacKenzie adjusted her posture with unconscious grace, one hand wrapped firmly around the handle of a meticulously arranged basket. Its contents had begun as a simple, elegant hostess gift—a jar of guava jam from Oahu, a tin of Darjeeling, and a sprig of plumeria wrapped in waxed cloth—but sometime between brushing out her hair and selecting her dress, she had added candied hibiscus, a paper fan painted with sea serpents, a silver letter opener shaped like a marlin, and a tiny brass bell. It now looked less like a gift and more like a feverish offering. She clutched it tighter.

“Donnachaidh,” she said, leaning toward the man nearest the carved slit in the palanquin’s side curtain. Her voice held the lilting sway of the Pacific, softened by Edinburgh vowels. “Does my hair still look like something died in it?”

The kilted man snorted but didn’t slow his pace. “You look like an opera goddess, Lady Lailani. The kind that eats sailors.”

“I am a sailor,” she muttered, pushing a dark curl behind her ear. “And I only eat them if they’re rude.”

That got a low chuckle from the others.

“Cam,” she called to the tallest, broad-shouldered even for a MacKenzie, “how far now?”

“Just up ahead, my lady,” he rumbled. “We passed the mill.”

Lailani’s stomach twisted. She didn’t get nervous—she climbed sea cliffs in her drawers, she surfed standing up, she once knocked out a man with a jar of coconut oil—but she felt it now. The weight of the moment. Norman’s sister was, by all accounts, very proper. Educated. Polished. And whatever Norman had told her (probably nothing useful), Lailani knew she herself could seem like a tidal wave in polite society. She was proud of her title, her bloodline, her money—but it all came with sand on the soles of her boots and strange bursts of melancholia that could flatten her for days. What if Winnifred thought she was improper?

She inhaled, then let it out through her nose.

“Alright,” she said to the men. “Slow now. Steady pace. Heads high. Remember, you’re carrying a MacKenzie.”

They rounded the final bend, the house coming into view—whitewashed stone, neat shrubbery, a tidy life Lailani might just fall in love with.

She spotted Norman first, standing in the doorway, flustered and red-faced, shirt slightly rumpled like he’d been running. Too late, she thought with wry affection. Then, a woman beside him—tall, composed, with the air of someone who made good tea and better judgments. Winnifred.

Lailani straightened.

“Set me down,” she instructed calmly. The palanquin lowered with practiced grace.

With fluid ease, Lailani stepped out barefoot—her slippers tucked in her satchel—onto the smooth stones. Her dress was a marvel: silk in ocean blue, fitted at the waist, with subtle Hawaiian motifs stitched into the hem and tartan trim along the sleeves. Her dark hair black hair clearly cared for but free in its style like ink black spirals over her shoulders and back.with a carved coral pin,

She lifted the basket high as she approached, her smile luminous and strange and utterly regal.

“Aloha sister Winnifred,” she said, eyes sparkling as she offered the overloaded gift basket with both hands. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet you. I’m Lailani MacKenzie—thank you for receiving me. I’ve brought you jam, a fan, a letter opener, several other items I no longer recall, and some poke—a fish dish from home, I promise it’s fresh.”

She turned briefly to the kilted Highlander Scottish men and inclined her head. “Mahalo, cousins.”

Then she turned back, beaming, trying to read the flicker of surprise, judgment, or delight in Winnifred’s eyes.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Lailani added, her tone teasing. “Norman promised me we wouldn’t arrive late, and so I gave myself an entourage.”

And with that, she offered her hand—steady, warm, ungloved. A Hawaiian princess making her play for English sisterhood.