Drawing Crowds

“Success is easy to spot—it’s the eyes that linger too long you need to worry about.” — Daniel Campbell

The spring sun climbed higher over Edinburgh Castle as the Artisan Food Festival hit its stride, the ancient fortress presiding over the festivities like a weathered guardian from another age. What had begun as orderly morning preparations had transformed into a kaleidoscope of colour and motion, the historic grounds now teeming with life and purpose. Canvas awnings snapped in the breeze like ships' sails catching Atlantic winds, while streams of visitors wove between stalls with the fluid grace of a well-choreographed dance—pausing here to sample artisanal cheese, there to admire hand-thrown pottery, creating patterns of movement that resembled nothing so much as a living tapestry woven from footsteps and curiosity.

The Leaf & Bean's booth had become one of the festival's focal points, drawing crowds that ebbed and flowed but never quite disappeared. Its elegant design stood out among the more conventional displays, with Maeve's artistic touch transforming the standard festival framework into something that felt almost otherworldly—like stumbling upon a secret garden that happened to serve exceptional coffee.

Isla commanded the till with quiet authority, her precise movements and professional demeanour creating an anchor of calm amid the festival’s cheerful chaos.

A queue had formed at their booth—something that provoked satisfied glances from Daniel whenever he looked up from the espresso machine—but Isla’s confidence kept it flowing, each transaction handled with quiet grace and a kind of attentiveness that made customers feel both welcome and, when needed, gently hurried along.

"What makes your signature blend different?" asked a woman in a tailored navy suit, her dark hair pinned up in a twist that had started to loosen in the spring breeze. Her voice was smooth, polished, but carried an undercurrent of intensity that didn’t quite match her casual smile. Her eyes—deep set and restless—scanned the booth like someone cataloguing variables. Not an idle browser. An analyst.

Isla met the question evenly, slipping into the rhythm of practiced explanation. "The Leaves & Beans Latte blend is exclusive to our café. It’s a medium roast, low acidity, with subtle notes of hazelnut and caramel. But the depth comes from the soil where it’s grown—and from years of refining the roast profile. My father’s been working on it since before I was born."

The woman’s expression shifted slightly—not surprise, but interest sharpened by recognition. "A twenty-year refinement cycle? That’s… unusual. Most cafés pivot every two or three years. Keeps trends fresh."

Her accent was harder to place—English, perhaps, but softened by years elsewhere. And though she looked mid-forties, there was something ageless about her. A sharpness worn smooth by time and purpose.

"I used to run a small café in Bogotá," she added suddenly, her gaze flicking toward the display of sealed bags. "Specialised in micro-lot roasts. We had a varietal from near Santa María that developed these same caramel tones under shade-grown conditions. Never could figure out why it changed flavour after harvest."

Isla stilled for a fraction of a second, surprised by the specificity—then covered it with a slight smile. "You sound like you know your way around a cupping table."

"Used to." The woman’s tone was lighter now, but something guarded crept back in. "Moved into supply chain logistics a few years ago. Less romantic, but steadier pay. Though I still miss the smell of fresh grind in the morning."

Nathan, from his post by the supply bins, narrowed his focus. The woman’s stance wasn’t entirely casual. Her sample cup remained untouched. Her questions had revealed genuine knowledge—but the way she dropped her background into the conversation felt almost… rehearsed.

"Family businesses develop their own ways of doing things," Isla replied, her tone diplomatic, her smile a little more measured now. "We focus on legacy and consistency more than market trends."

The woman’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary on the decorative plants flanking the display. Not admiring—assessing.

"Well," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair back into place. "Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. This stall’s been one of the busiest all morning."

Then, with a polite nod, she drifted away toward a neighbouring cheese vendor. But she didn’t vanish into the crowd. Instead, she lingered just beside a wheel of aged Dunlop, turning it in her hands while her line of sight to the Campbell booth remained uninterrupted.

Nathan noted the behaviour with a quiet shift of posture. She hadn’t asked the wrong questions—but she had asked them in the wrong way. Not an amateur. Not a journalist either. Someone who knew enough to know what to look for.

And someone who might, like the Campbells, be protecting something of her own.

Nearby, Maeve had transformed coffee sampling into performance art, her natural creativity finding expression even in this commercial setting. Each mini cup received individual attention: a perfect swirl of cream applied with artist's precision, a dusting of spice distributed with careful attention to aesthetic balance, a tiny chocolate garnish placed just so. Her artist's eye transformed simple beverages into miniature masterpieces that customers often photographed before drinking, spreading images of Campbell creations across social media platforms with every posted image.

"Try our Portal Cappuccino," she called to a passing group of university students, holding out a tray of samples with the confidence of someone who knew her creation would impress. "Watch what happens when you stir it!"

Her enthusiasm drew people in, their expressions shifting from curiosity to delight as the drinks changed colour in their cups, shifting through subtle shades of purple and blue before settling into rich brown. The students' exclamations of surprise drew yet more attention, creating a ripple effect of interest that expanded through the nearby crowd.

"How do you achieve that effect?" asked a man in wire-rimmed glasses, studying his sample with academic intensity that seemed too focused for casual appreciation. His fingers held the cup at an angle that suggested he was examining properties beyond mere appearance, and his questions carried the precision of scientific inquiry. "Some sort of natural additive? The colour change suggests pH-sensitive compounds, but the flavour profile doesn't indicate anything acidic enough to trigger such a dramatic shift."

"Trade secret," Maeve winked, the gesture playful but her eyes watchful. Nathan caught the slight hesitation before her response, the momentary calculation that had become second nature to all the Campbells when fielding questions that probed too close to family secrets. "But everything we use is completely natural. Some of the ingredients come from our own greenhouse."

The man's eyebrows lifted, his interest visibly intensifying.

"Your own greenhouse? Fascinating. I'd love to hear more about your growing methods—particularly for specialty botanicals with culinary applications. Are you working with any unusual varietals?"

"Maeve!" Isla's voice cut through the conversation with perfect timing that suggested either extraordinary luck or intentional intervention. "More samples needed at the front."

The siblings' coordination was seamless, years of protecting family interests having honed their ability to extract each other from potentially problematic conversations.

Maeve moved away with an apologetic smile, but the man lingered, his gaze tracking her movements with uncomfortable focus, his hand reaching into his pocket where Nathan glimpsed what appeared to be a small notebook. Nathan made a mental note of his appearance—late fifties, academic posture, Norwegian or perhaps Swedish accent beneath his perfect English—before the crowd shifted, obscuring him from view. Another face to remember, another potential interest to monitor.

Rowan had become something of a festival attraction herself, her youth and natural exuberance providing a counterpoint to her sisters' more measured approaches. Darting through the crowd with seemingly boundless energy, her copper curls catching sunlight as she moved, her sample tray became a mobile stage for impromptu performances that drew smiles from even the most reserved festival-goers.

"These aren't just any coffee beans," she told a captivated group of children, their parents watching with amused interest as she gestured dramatically toward the display with the natural theatricality of fourteen-year-old enthusiasm. "They're special beans that only grow in magical soil. That's why our coffee makes people feel so good!"

"Rowan," Daniel called from across the booth, his tone carrying a warning note that made her quickly adjust her story. His eyes conveyed what his voice couldn't in the public setting—a reminder of boundaries, of the line between enthusiastic promotion and revealing too much.

"I mean, they're special because Dad knows exactly how to roast them," she amended with barely a pause, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief and the knowing look of someone sharing a secret with her audience. "He's like a coffee scientist, figuring out exactly the right temperature and timing to make them taste amazing."

The slight emphasis on 'taste' suggested other effects without stating them directly—a young person's clever wordplay that walked the line of revelation without crossing it.

Kelly moved through the stall with practiced ease, her presence grounding amid the whirlwind of family dynamics and festival bustle. She had a natural rapport with customers—her warmth genuine, her humour disarming. Years in Edinburgh had softened the edges of her Arizona straightforwardness, blending it into a style that was both approachable and efficient. Where the Campbells sometimes carried the weight of legacy, Kelly brought lightness—connecting easily with strangers, translating the story of the booth into something accessible without diluting its depth.

Daniel worked the espresso machine with the fluidity of long experience, every motion purposeful, instinctive—the rhythm of someone who knew his craft down to the heartbeat. But even as he pulled shots and answered questions, his eyes never strayed far from his daughters or the faces in the crowd. His interactions with customers were warm, engaging—but Nathan, watching from a few paces away, saw the subtle signs of strain: the way Daniel’s jaw tightened when certain questions circled too close to guarded truths, the flicker of unease when a stranger lingered too long at the wrong part of the table.

"Your booth has such a distinct energy," remarked a woman who’d been quietly observing from just beyond the main foot traffic, her accent marked with the lilting cadence of northern Colombia—Santa Marta, perhaps, or the foothills near the Sierra Nevada. She was elegantly understated: linen blouse, dark hair braided with care, fingers stained faintly with what looked like plant dye. Her presence was calm, intentional—the kind of stillness that suggested she was not merely browsing, but studying.

"It reminds me of some family-run cafés in the highlands near Valledupar. They worked with… unusual cultivation methods. Quiet partnerships. Soil with history."

The pause before "history" lingered like a fingerprint pressed into soft wax.

Daniel’s movements at the espresso machine faltered for half a beat. Barely noticeable—but Nathan noticed. So did Isla, whose hand stilled briefly on the till before resuming.

"We try to honour traditional approaches," Daniel replied carefully, masking the shift in energy with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "But yes—the coffee world is full of… stories."

The woman’s gaze drifted toward the booth’s corner display, where the Campbell greenhouse plants sat in discreet elegance. Her expression was not curiosity but recognition. "Those are not ornamental," she said softly. "Not truly. I've seen similar specimens in the Quimbaya archives. Old genetics. Before the consolidation programmes."

She didn’t explain further, and Daniel didn’t ask. The silence between them said enough.

"Just decorative," he said anyway—because the script demanded it. "Part of the display theme."

Her smile was slow, amused but not unkind. "Of course."

She accepted the offered sample cup with both hands, as if it were more ritual than refreshment, then took a measured sip. "Very clean profile. Structured. A base note I haven’t tasted in years."

Daniel offered nothing, waiting.

"I once worked with the Fundación Laurisilva," she added casually, naming an obscure ecological research group from southern Colombia—one that had vanished from public record in the early 2000s after several members were absorbed into a classified botanical preservation initiative. "We had partners. In the Azores, in Samarkand… and further east. Some of them used to speak of soil that remembered. Of seeds that wouldn’t grow until they were spoken to by name."

Daniel’s hand clenched briefly around the tamper.

She took another sip, savouring the moment. "You’ve done well. Not many can maintain this balance for long."

A flicker of warmth softened her gaze, but there was something underneath—respect, perhaps, or warning. Then, with a nod toward Rowan and Maeve, she added, "Legacy can be heavy. But sometimes, it sings."

She set the empty cup down and melted back into the crowd, no further questions, no card exchanged. Just a faint trace of citrus and tobacco in her wake.

Daniel exhaled slowly. The air felt heavier somehow.

Nathan approached quietly, not intruding but near enough to speak low without drawing attention.
"She wasn’t a tourist," he said.

Daniel didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the path beyond the stall, where the woman had disappeared into the crowd. There was no tension in his posture now—only thoughtfulness, and something else: a quiet wonder.

"She saw more than she said," Daniel murmured. "I think… she’s lived with secrets too."

Nathan tilted his head, just slightly. "Not all families hide them the same way. Some hide in silence. Others behind tradition. Others behind plants."

Daniel exhaled, a sound almost like a laugh, though there was no humour in it. "She reminded me of my mum. Moira doesn’t just protect knowledge. She carries it. And that woman... she had the same weight in her voice."

Nathan’s expression softened, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

"I keep thinking we’re on the edge of something," Daniel continued, quieter now. "And every time I think I understand the boundaries—what we’re guarding, what we’re preserving—something shifts. Another thread appears. Someone like her walks into the booth, and suddenly I’m aware we’re not the only ones trying to keep something safe."

Nathan’s gaze moved briefly to the plants, then to the small flickering tension across the festival crowd.

"No," he said. "You’re not."

They stood in silence for a moment longer, surrounded by the rhythm of the festival—cups clinking, laughter rising, sunlight warming the edges of the tent.

Daniel returned to the machine, adjusting the settings with thoughtful care, not because they needed it but because his hands needed purpose.

"We protect what we understand," he said, almost absently. "But maybe part of that is learning what we don’t."

Nathan gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. "And remembering we’re not the only ones who’ve had to choose what to keep hidden."

The words were casual—too casual. But something in the phrasing, in the way Nathan said we, made Daniel glance at him more closely.

A flicker of something unspoken passed between them. Not accusation. Not revelation. Just the quiet hum of awareness, like catching a familiar tune half-heard beneath the noise of a crowd.

But Nathan had already turned, drifting back to his usual place at the edge of the stall, his posture loose, his presence unremarkable to anyone not paying attention.

Daniel was paying attention now.

He watched the crowd a little longer, the aroma of coffee and festival smoke swirling around him. The woman’s presence still echoed faintly—like a footprint in dew, already fading but impossible to ignore.

And for the first time, Daniel didn’t just feel curiosity about the secrets his family protected.

He felt the edges of other secrets, too. Ones he hadn’t been told. Ones walking beside him.

Not just a mystery. A responsibility.

And possibly—something far more dangerous.

Kelly worked steadily through the morning rush, her quiet efficiency providing crucial support as she restocked supplies and maintained order behind the scenes. Her years at the Leaf & Bean had given her an intuitive understanding of its rhythms and requirements, allowing her to anticipate needs before they became urgent.

"The response has been incredible," she murmured to Daniel as she passed him fresh cups, her voice pitched low beneath the festival's cheerful din. "Though we're drawing more than just coffee enthusiasts."

Her woodcarver's hands arranged cups with precise, economical movements, but her eyes—observant and thoughtful—tracked the academic who had questioned Maeve earlier as he made another circuit past their booth.

Daniel nodded almost imperceptibly, accepting both the cups and the warning they came with. "Keep an eye on our special stock. I don't want us running low too early." The instruction served dual purposes—practical inventory management and heightened vigilance around their most sensitive offerings.

Near the centre of their display, the festival-exclusive blend drew particular attention, its position suggesting both importance and invitation. Its sleek black packaging seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a visual gravity that drew the eye naturally, while the silver Campbell family crest—the intertwined leaf and bean—caught occasional sun flashes that made it seem almost animated. The design managed to be both distinctive and discreet, revealing artistry while concealing deeper significance.

"This is the one everyone's talking about," a man in a carefully casual blazer commented, lifting one of the bags with the deliberate nonchalance of someone trying to appear less interested than they truly were. "I heard it has quite unique properties."

"It's a special roast," Isla stepped in smoothly, her clipboard momentarily set aside as she moved to intercept the question. "Festival exclusive. Very limited quantities." Her tone conveyed exclusivity rather than secrecy, transforming potential suspicion into marketing advantage with practiced ease.

The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, which remained coolly assessing beneath the pretence of customer interest. "Limited quantities often indicate... special ingredients." The emphasis was subtle but unmistakable, pushing gently against the boundaries of polite commercial exchange.

Before Isla could respond, Maeve appeared with a fresh tray of samples, her timing so perfect it suggested either extraordinary luck or a silent communication system developed through years of sibling coordination.

"Who'd like to try our Vanilla Bean Latte? It's got the most incredible subtle notes of Madagascar vanilla! We infuse it ourselves using actual vanilla pods." Her enthusiastic interruption created a natural break in the increasingly tense exchange.

The deliberate distraction worked. The crowd's attention shifted to the new offerings, drawn by Maeve's artistic presentation and genuine enthusiasm. The man drifted away, though Nathan noticed how he lingered within earshot, his positioning allowing him to observe while appearing to examine neighbouring stalls. Another face to remember, another potential concern to monitor.

As the day progressed, the festival's energy seemed to intensify rather than wane, the combination of unusual food, spring sunshine, and Edinburgh's historic setting creating an atmosphere that kept visitors engaged and excited. The castle's shadow had begun its slow creep across the grounds, measuring the day's passage in blocks of cooling shade, and the crowds showed no sign of thinning. If anything, word of mouth had increased attendance as the day progressed, creating waves of interest that washed through the festival grounds.

The Campbell booth remained a hub of activity, each family member playing their part in what seemed, on the surface, to be a perfect display of artisanal coffee culture. Rowan's voice carried across the space as she regaled another group with carefully edited stories about the café's history, her natural storytelling ability making even approved versions of family lore sound fascinating. Maeve's artistic touches continued to draw admiring comments from both customers and fellow vendors, while Isla's efficient management kept everything running with a precision that allowed for high volume without sacrificing quality or attention to detail.

Calum McKenzie appeared briefly near their booth, his presence causing a subtle shift in Daniel's posture as he registered the fellow roaster's arrival. Their exchanged nods carried professional courtesy, but Nathan caught the measuring assessment that passed between them—two craftsmen acknowledging each other's work while remaining acutely aware of boundaries and competitive edges.

"Quite the crowd you've drawn," Calum observed, his Highland accent more pronounced in the festival setting, as though proximity to Edinburgh Castle had strengthened his Scottish identity. "Your special blend seems to be the talk of the event."

"We've had a good response," Daniel acknowledged, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "Your booth looks impressive as well. That new Ethiopian roast is generating quite a buzz."

The exchange was perfectly civil, yet Nathan sensed undercurrents—not hostility exactly, but careful positioning, like chess players in the opening moves of a complex game. Calum's gaze drifted briefly to the decorative plants, his expression suggesting appreciation but perhaps something more—recognition, assessment, measurement.

"Festival's good for all of us," Calum said finally, raising his cup in a small salute before moving on. "Brings attention to the craft." The ambiguity of 'attention' lingered after his departure, a word that could be either blessing or warning depending on context.

Daniel moved to check their stock levels as the morning deepened, his hand brushing against the pocket where he kept the key to their special supplies—a gesture that had become more frequent as the day progressed and their unique blends sold in quantities that exceeded even optimistic projections.

"How are we doing?" he asked Nathan quietly, the question encompassing more than mere inventory concerns.

"Good turnout," Nathan replied, his tone casual but his meaning clear to someone who had come to understand his careful understatement. "Lots of... interested parties." His gaze briefly indicated several points around the booth where observers who seemed more focused on the Campbell operation than casual browsing would warrant had positioned themselves throughout the day.

A brief shadow passed over Daniel's face before his professional smile returned, the momentary glimpse of concern quickly masked by the practiced warmth that had helped build the Leaf & Bean's reputation for hospitality.

He'd known the festival would bring attention, but the reality of it—the subtle probing questions, the too-careful observers, the growing visibility of everything they'd kept quietly contained in Morningside—seemed to weigh heavier with each passing hour.

The festival had brought success beyond their projections—sales exceeding targets, connections with potential wholesale clients, visibility that would translate to increased foot traffic at the café itself. Yet that very success carried with it a sense of exposure that centuries of Campbell tradition had carefully avoided. The question hung unspoken in the air: had they reached a tipping point where commercial success might compromise deeper legacies?

The late morning sun caught the castle's ancient stones, turning them to burnished gold against the deepening blue of the spring sky. The historic fortress stood as a reminder of Scotland's complex past—of invasions repelled, of sieges weathered, of secrets kept within stone walls that had witnessed centuries of human drama. Below, the festival continued its lively dance of vendors and visitors, each stall contributing to the tapestry of Edinburgh's artisanal community. The Campbell booth remained busy, their reputation drawing steady streams of customers eager to sample their unique offerings.