The ladder looked even bigger from down here. In moments like these, I thoroughly regretted my life choices. Learn a traditional craft, they said. Restore our heritage, they said. Get to explore interesting places full of history, they said. But nobody had mentioned the ladders, the vertigo, the wobbles.

“You okay?” Keiran asked. My apprentice didn’t mind ladders. I was pretty sure he was half monkey the way he climbed them at breakneck speed. I was the opposite. I took one rung at a time, clinging to the metal, every muscle tensed, my breathing all over the place.

“Aye. It’s just higher up than I remembered.”

He joined me in looking up at the grotesque perched high on the castle wall. Most of the other statues and gargoyles were slightly lower, seeming to grow out of the stone walls, but this one had a place of honour at the very top. It had stood the test of time remarkably well, as far as I could see from down here. But Historic Scotland had tasked me to make sure that there weren’t any hidden cracks and, if I did find any, to repair them. It’s what I specialised in. If only they’d built the gargoyles on the ground where I could reach them without the need for ladders.

“Remember who built them?” I asked Keiran. Might as well turn this into a history lesson. He was my first apprentice and I would make sure he got the best training possible. Very few teenagers nowadays decided to learn traditional crafts like stonemasonry. Keiran was a bit quiet for my taste, but he had talent and motivation.

“Michael Auberge, a French guy.”

“Michel,” I corrected. “And who commissioned him?”

Keiran rolled his eyes. “James V. His father had begun the palace, but died before he could complete it. But then James V died as well and his wife had to finish what he’d started.”

“Indeed. Mary of Guise, mother of Mary Queen of Scots. And do you know who James’ chief stonemason was?”

I was stalling for time. The longer I could prolong this history lesson, the longer I could stay on solid ground.

“James Nicholson, I think. But it was the French masons who mostly worked on the gargoyles. Are we going to climb the ladder or not?”

Keiran had realised what I was doing. There was no way around it. I couldn’t inspect the grotesque from down here. For a moment, I was tempted to quiz Keiran on the difference between gargoyles and grotesques – the former have a built-in water spout, the latter are decorative – but I resisted.

I readjusted my tool belt and gripped the ladder tight, the metal cold against my skin. It was fairly warm today, for a morning in late September, but it would be colder up on the walls where there was no protection from the wind. The castle would be closed until noon so we could do our job without distractions, but that was only another three hours, so I had to get this party started.

“Hold the ladder for me,” I told Keiran. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

He looked like he was about to argue, but then nodded.

I climbed slowly, one step at a time, keeping my body close to the ladder. It was sturdier than it had looked, but it still moved slightly every time I shifted my weight. I focused on my breathing. In. Pause. Out. In. Pause. Out.

I kept my gaze fixed on the ladder, taking in every bit of dirt and rust. Looking down was a mistake I’d learnt not to make. And looking up would only show me how much further I had to climb.

The higher I got, the worse I felt. ‘The shakes have got shakes’, that’s what my mentor used to say. He’d not been a fan of ladders either. We’d bonded over that; the one thing that had connected us in a male-dominated world where I’d stood out from the start. I wondered if he was enjoying his retirement, or whether he was still carving statues in his back garden. Last time I’d seen him, his wife had been busy persuading him to get rid of at least half of the unfinished pieces that were taking up space in their garage. I smiled. I missed him. Now I was the mentor and had my own apprentice. I didn’t feel quite ready enough for such a responsibility.

Sunlight blinded me. I was almost at the top. The courtyard below was drenched in shade, but up here, it almost felt like it was still summer. Only a few more rungs. The end was in sight. I dared looking up. There he was, towering above me, the grotesque known as the Guardian. He was not only the biggest, but also the most expertly made statue in all of Stirling Castle. I’d never seen this one up-close myself, but I’d studied pictures and sketches to prepare for the job.

The masons must have spent weeks if not months perfecting it. The detail was spectacular. It was far more lifelike than the grotesques I usually worked on. Maybe Michel Auberge had believed in demons and monsters to reach this level of realism. The stone was so smooth that I couldn’t see any chisel marks. No imperfections anywhere. No mistakes. I’d carved my own gargoyle as my masterpiece and even after weeks of working on it, days where I did nothing but sand and polish the stone, it hadn’t looked anywhere near as perfect as the Guardian.

He was monstrous, yet strangely pleasing to the eye. Many gargoyles were purposely ugly, with huge mouths, bulging eyes, misshapen claws. This one had perfect proportions, and the face… High cheekbones, two small fangs peeking out between open lips – how had Auberge managed to create lips that had the same tiny little lines I looked at in the mirror every morning – wide eyebrows over piercing eyes, and above, two horns curling back like a goat’s. Not that he had anything in common with a goat. He was way more gorgeous.

Could I call a grotesque gorgeous? Keiran was down below, I was up here by myself, so I decided that yes, I could. Nobody had to know that I found a five-hundred-year-old statue attractive.

His wings were a thing of beauty. Leathery like that of a bat, extended as if he was about to take flight. For the thousandth time, I admired the stonemason’s artistry. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Guardian suddenly flapped his wings and took off. He was crouched slightly, with one hand on the ledge, although something that had always bothered me about him was that his hand was flat, his fingers in the air, not curved around the edge. Maybe Auberge had planned him to be placed in different position when he’d carved the hand. We’d never know.

Up close, there was little evidence that he’d stood here for centuries. A bit of moss around the feet – Auberge had deviated from the trend by giving him shoes rather than leaving the feet bare – and at the edges of the wings, a spiders web here and there, but no cracks that I could see. This was going to be a quick job. A few examinations, taking pictures from all angles, then a report. That would take the longest. Maybe I’d get Keiran to write it, he had to learn how to do the boring aspects of being a stonemason in today’s age. I bet Michel Auberge didn’t have to write reports for King James V.

“How’s it looking?” Keiran shouted from down below. Speak of the devil.

“He’s in peak condition!” I yelled back. “I won’t need you up here. Keep holding the ladder!”

He was too far down to see if he looked disappointed – and I refused to look down anyway. My vertigo had lessened a bit while I’d been distracted, but now that I’d thought of it, it returned at full force. I grabbed the metal rungs a bit tighter. The wall where the Guardian stood was narrow, but it would be better than balancing on the ladder. I reached for the final rung, my fingers brushing the edge of the statue’s hand – and a deep groan came from the stone.

I blinked. I was imagining things. Maybe the wind. Had to be.

I took another step up the ladder when the stone shook. The statue shivered, and then the fingers of the hand that had been flat for centuries curled around the wall. I froze. Stared. Blinked again. Leant back to see what trick of the light had made me think that stone could move and-

My foot slipped.

For a moment, time slowed down. Gravity pulled on me. My legs dangled. All weight was suddenly on the one hand that was still wrapped around the ladder rung. The air was squeezed out of my lungs as I screamed.

And the Guardian looked at me. The head turned, slowly, with a sound of stone grating against stone.

I did the worst thing I could have done.

I let go.