The sadness in Timothy’s voice surprised Sarah. He rarely showed his feelings. “I felt that way—sad—when we left the Market. As if we were leaving all our friends behind,” she mused, thinking about Peter. She walked to the window. Why did feelings have to be so complicated? “Look, Timothy. It’s started to snow!”
Timothy sprinted to the window.
Tiny white-corn snow sputtered from the sky. The sprinkling left a tattered cover on the ground. It would take a long time to transform the gray landscape. But Sarah felt her heart lighten.
The light snow continued through most of the night, leaving a world coated with a fine white crust as if the ground, bushes, and trees had all been dusted with powdered sugar.
Jessica sighed and returned her gaze to the kitchen counter where she was working. Her mother had been busy most of the day preparing the house for Christmas. Not that they had ever made much fuss about holiday preparations before. Christmas was usually a simple celebration, just another day off but with presents. When she was younger, her father had hauled out the artificial Christmas tree every December. But in the last few years it had stayed in its dust-covered box in the basement.
Now that her aunt and uncle had decided to come for the holidays with Riley the Terrible, however, everything had changed. A squat tree from the grocery-store lot sat proudly by the grand piano. Her father was putting up strings of lights. Their threadbare old stockings had been replaced with bright, quilted ones.
Jessica sighed again. She was not in the mood for Christmas. She was not in the mood to entertain a demanding and undisciplined three-year-old cousin. More than anything she wanted to be part of Timothy and Sarah’s trip to Scotland. She gave one last vicious stir to the bowl of molasses-cookie dough. Somehow, Christmas cookies had become her assignment. She dropped large spoonfuls onto the greased cookie sheets and licked the sticky brown dough from her fingers.
Every adventure from the very first time she had found the mysterious note in the mail had involved all three of them. Together they had met the Greenman in the woods, had been given special gifts by Cerridwyn. Together they had visited the Travelers’ Market and fought against Balor and the evil powers of the Dark. Together they had been charged with finding the Lia Fáil, the missing Stone of Destiny, along with three other treasures. They had been a team. And now they weren’t. Jessica slipped the tray of cookies into the warm oven and brushed the curls from her eyes with a sticky hand. One more taste of the sweet dough. She twirled her index finger in the soft mess sticking to the bowl and licked it thoughtfully.
“The cookies smell fantastic! Come take a look at the tree.” Her mother bustled into the kitchen, a strand of tinsel glinting in her hair.
“Riley’s only three. I don’t think he’ll even notice how the tree looks,” Jessica muttered as she followed her mother into the family room.
“Oh, don’t be such a Scrooge.” Mrs. Church ruffled Jessica’s curls. “They should be here by suppertime, and I don’t want any long faces. It’s a long flight from Saint Louis. What’s eating you, anyway?”
Jessica looked at the fat little tree festooned with red and gold balls, twinkly lights, and tinsel. “It looks great, Mom. They’ll love it.” She gave her mother a hug. “I mean it, it really does.”
Mrs. Church beamed. “And I just know your cookies will be delicious.”
By the time her aunt, uncle, and Riley the Terrible arrived, Jessica felt almost cheerful. Cookies were piled high on bright red plates, carols from a new CD rang through the house, and her father had started a fire in the fireplace. Even though Christmas was still a week away, the Churches were ready.
But by Monday morning, Jessica had been more than ready to escape to school. Riley was worse than she’d remembered. He was so cute, with his wispy blond hair and round brown eyes, that he could get away with anything. He had been up much of last night fussing inconsolably. Now she rubbed her eyes. Her own head felt thick, filled with cotton from lack of sleep. Only two and a half days of school left before the break. Usually she couldn’t wait for the holidays, but now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be home. She imagined the Maxwells had spent the weekend packing, getting ready to leave on Wednesday. She’d had no time to check in with Timothy and Sarah since Riley arrived. And there had only been time for a hasty conversation with Timothy in science class that morning. He’d assured her the map was safe.
Jessica hunched into her coat and pulled the hood tight. The walk home from the bus stop was long and lonely. The sky was gray and thick. No more snow fell, but a white crust still covered the frigid earth. Her father had said it was too cold to snow, and Jessica, watching her breath puff into small white clouds, believed him. She shivered in through the front door, unprepared for the sight that greeted her. Riley sat in Mrs. Church’s lap, covered from head to toe with small red spots. His face was flushed and his eyes glazed.
“Riley has the chicken pox, and now his father’s feeling poorly. We can’t send them back home. I’m not sure what to do,” her mother fretted, holding a cold washcloth to the child’s forehead. “You’ve never had them, you know. And you’ve never been vaccinated. It would be best if there was somewhere else you could stay for a week or so. But at Christmastime!” Jessica thought her mother was about to cry. “The doctor said it’s extremely contagious.”
“Never mind, Mom. I’ve got an idea.” She dropped her backpack to the floor and told her mother about the Maxwells’ invitation.
“We can’t impose on anyone over the holidays,” her mother continued as if Jessica hadn’t said anything at all.
“Seriously, Mom. Listen, I have an invitation. I just didn’t think it would be good to be gone at Christmas. I suspect I could stay with the Maxwells starting today.”
EDINBURGH
F COURSE SHE’S welcome. Have her come over tonight. We’ve got a big place to stay in Edinburgh. Let me know about the ticket.” Mrs. Maxwell hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Timothy asked.
His mother smiled across the dinner table. “It looks like Jessica Church will be traveling with us to Scotland if her mother can get a ticket. She’ll stay with us tonight.”
“What?” Timothy swiveled his head between his mother and his sister.
“Her cousin just arrived and came down with chicken pox, and now it looks like his father isn’t feeling well, either. They think it’s best if Jessica has somewhere else to be for a week or so. What do you think?”
“That’s great!” Sarah sent Timothy a swift kick under the table.
“Timothy?” His mother raised her eyebrows.
“Great!” This was better than he could have hoped for. He took a bite of corn bread. Things were definitely beginning to look up. Perhaps Sarah was right—they were all meant to go together.
Timothy awoke in a sweat, covers tangled around his legs as if he’d battled Balor in his sleep. Something right on the edge of consciousness was pulling at him, making his heart pound. In a few hours they would be leaving. The map and crown were safely stowed in his backpack. Everything was packed. So what bothered him?
He sat up in bed and tried to sort out his worries. They were like the crumpled homework papers that ended up in the bottom of his backpack. He pictured removing each one and smoothing it flat for inspection.
Mr. Twig had come through his operation just fine. They’d talked to him on the phone yesterday. He had a new stent in his heart and would be going to celebrate Christmas with his sister on the coast. Jessica was really coming with them to Scotland. She was already sharing Sarah’s bedroom. So far, so good.
But two worries remained, the two he had tried to ignore all along by stuffing them under everything else that was going on in his life. No matter how carefully he smoothed them out, they still looked very bad. What if the creature that had searched their houses pursued them to Scotland? And the second worry was even worse. What if he, Timothy James Maxwell, future Filidh, failed at his very first task and was never able to decipher
the map?
Carefully stepping over his binder and the previous night’s bowl of popcorn, Timothy padded to the window. Outside, a white world glowed. Snow lay in thick and peaceful drifts over the sleeping town. A full moon shone like a bright new coin. If only he felt as peaceful. His worries crouched beside him, a lion ready to pounce. He was sure that if he had the Greenman’s leaf, it would be hot to the touch and glowing an angry red.
Brian McMorn, Mr. Maxwell’s colleague, was a tall man with thick black hair, prominent cheekbones, and a nose as sharp as an eagle’s beak. As promised, he met them at the airport, stepping forward briskly to shake hands with Timothy’s father, exclaiming as if he had just found a long-lost friend, “Finally, face-to-face—not just e-mail anymore. And this is your family! I’ve been waiting years to meet all of you.” His dark eyes darted to Timothy’s mother and then lingered over each of the three children. “Mrs. Maxwell.” He extended his hand and nodded. Then he looked at the children once again. “I’ve been mistaken. I thought you had only two children, Arthur.”
Mr. Maxwell chuckled. “Just Timothy and Sarah are mine. This is their friend, Jessica Church.”
Mr. McMorn made a stiff little bow from his waist, but not before Timothy noticed him look pensively at Jessica and raise one eyebrow. He also noticed that McMorn had almost no accent.
“Let’s be on the road, shall we? Night comes early this time of year.” Mr. McMorn took Timothy’s father by the arm and talked about arrangements for the climate conference while they wheeled their baggage behind them.
Timothy yawned. It had been no use trying to sleep on the plane. No matter which way he turned, it had been impossible to get comfortable. And they had left the house so impossibly early, 4:00 A.M., changed planes once, and been in flight ever since. He had no idea what time it was, here or at home. He reached into his pocket and, after peeling off a residue of lint, popped his last piece of gum into his mouth.
People hurried toward departure gates, strolled through airport shops, or sat slumped in plastic chairs, reading while waiting for their flights. Anyone here could be after the map. He tightened his hold on his backpack. Without the Greenman’s leaf, he felt completely vulnerable.
Jessica rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She hadn’t had any trouble sleeping at all, Timothy noticed with envy. In fact, she looked as if she had just awoken from a refreshing nap while the rest of them slogged along behind his father and Mr. McMorn.
“I’m starving. Do you suppose this airport’s food is as bad as ours at home?” Jessica looked hungrily at the shops they passed offering scones and pasties.
“I just want to get some sleep.” Sarah yawned. “I read they eat haggis here. It’s a sheep stomach stuffed with . . .”
Timothy felt his stomach roil. To distract himself he checked the crowds for signs of Scottishness. It was a theory he had seen on public television: People from a particular country would develop facial traits based on their language. The way they spoke would move the muscles of their face in ways that produced national characteristics. He really wasn’t sure what he expected a Scots facial type to be, but he was sure he’d know it when he saw it. But the people in the Edinburgh airport looked just as diverse as the people at home. It was going to be more difficult to identify a true Scotsman than he’d thought. There wasn’t even a kilt among them, and Timothy felt vaguely disappointed. What little he knew of Scotland came from Braveheart and seeing a performance of Macbeth with his family. Kilts had figured prominently in both.
Despite his tiredness, despite the worry that they might not be safe, even here in Scotland, a smile spread across Timothy’s face. It would take more than a night without sleep to dampen the start of this new adventure. They were nearer to the Telling Stone; he could feel it.
For such a tall man, Mr. McMorn’s car was surprisingly small. Timothy wondered how they would all manage to fit. They were just able to jigsaw the luggage into the trunk, or boot, as McMorn called it.
“This may be a bit tricky. I was only expecting four. But we’ll manage by cozying up. Arthur, you’re up front with me, and maybe”—he looked at the three children thoughtfully—“your son will squeeze between us. That will allow the girls in the back some comfort.”
Timothy eyed the front seats. They were designed to hold two comfortably. Perhaps he and his father were meant to share one seat, but that was optimistic, and he resigned himself to straddling the parking brake with his backpack in his lap.
Even though he knew people in Scotland drove on the left side of the road, it was startling to see the steering wheel on the opposite side of the car. He slid in, and McMorn folded his tall body into the driver’s seat, while his father, who was a bit heavier, squished in on Timothy’s other side. There was something about Mr. McMorn that made Timothy uncomfortable, although he seemed pleasant enough. He caught a whiff of aftershave or hair tonic, sweet and sharp. It made him want to sneeze.
The road from the airport wound through fields and farmland under a leaden sky. Timothy’s eyelids drooped, but he forced them back open, not willing to miss a single sight. “How close to the coast are we?” his mother asked from the backseat.
“Just ten kilometers to the Firth of Forth. Six miles, that would be. We get a stiff breeze from the sea in the winter months. I’m afraid you haven’t come at the pleasantest time of year for sightseeing.” He veered sharply left, and Timothy gazed over a deep green field flecked with white sheep. “Unless you’re interested in myths, that is. Then December’s a fine time to come. We’re full of traditions like Hogmanay—New Year’s Eve—and First-Footing. And Edinburgh’s magical at Christmastime, especially the Old Town.”
When Mr. McMorn mentioned myths, Timothy felt his skin prickle. He wanted to exchange a look with Sarah and Jessica, but he was crammed too tightly between the two men. The parking brake was wearing a hole in his hip.
“What’s First-Footing?” he asked.
“An ancient tradition.” McMorn flicked on the wipers as rain began to splatter the windshield. “On New Year’s Day the first person across the threshold should be a tall, dark-haired man to bring good luck to the household. Makes me a popular fellow.” His laugh was dry. “Of course, there are folks no one wants as a First-Footer: a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle; women, especially redheaded ones; grave diggers; or thieves. Even ministers bring ill luck.”
“So what happens if one of them comes first?” Sarah leaned forward, her blond hair brushing Timothy’s neck.
“Well, you can’t turn them away—it wouldn’t be hospitable. So, to prevent twelve months of bad luck, old-timers throw salt into the fire. Others put up crosses made of rowan wood.”
Sarah flicked Timothy on the back of the head.
“Sounds like the Scots are a superstitious people,” Timothy’s father said.
“Aye, we are, but most superstition is grounded in truth. Norman invaders were fair-haired, so a black-haired man was safe. Did I mention, First-Footers should always bring a gift—a bottle of good whisky, a lump of coal, and shortbread or buns.”
“Why a lump of coal?” Jessica’s voice was muffled from somewhere in the backseat. “That doesn’t sound like much of a gift to me.”
“To keep the house warm all year.”
The rain became a torrent. The wipers fanned furiously.
“We’ve ordered up some true Scottish weather to welcome you.”
Through the flooded windshield, Timothy watched fields give way to tall stone buildings on narrow streets. Sarah sank back into her seat, and Timothy shifted his sore hip, trying to get comfortable.
“We’re almost there now. You’ve a flat on Frederick Street. One of my colleagues is off for the holidays and offered to lend you her place. We thought it would be better than a B and B for a family. You can cook meals.”
“That’s so kind.” Then Mrs. Maxwell gasped. The gray flood was pierced by thousands of lights.
“Fairyland,” Sarah breathed.
Buildings and tr
ees twinkled with tiny white lights that reflected in the rain. In the center of it all, a brightly lit Ferris wheel towered over the surrounding city. Beyond the wheel blazed an enormous Christmas tree.
“I said it was magical. The tree was a gift from the people of Norway. It’s on the castle mound. There’s a German Christmas Market and an outdoor skating rink. Not a bad place to spend the holidays.”
Perhaps Mr. McMorn would be able to help them, thought Timothy. He knew the local traditions. They sped through narrow streets, and he began to drift into sleep. He must have dozed, for the next thing he knew, the car had pulled to a stop, and Mr. McMorn was opening the passenger door, holding an umbrella for his mother and the girls.
Timothy inched his way out of the car, feeling as if the parking brake had worn a permanent groove in his hip. Rain pelted his face, and the stinging cold shocked him fully awake.
Rain poured down his neck and squished in his sneakers as he looked up at a wall of gray and red buildings. Edinburgh seemed to be a city carved out of stone.
“Hurry up, Tim, and grab your stuff.” His father, a suitcase under each arm, hustled up the stairs, following McMorn and the women. Timothy grabbed his duffel along with his backpack and sloshed toward the flat.
It was a tall, narrow house with steep stairs running right up from the front door. Timothy stood dripping in the entryway, unsure where to go.
“Up here,” his mother called out, and Timothy followed her voice up the polished wood staircase and into a small sitting room.
“Since it’s up a flight of stairs,” his mother said, beaming, “we’ll have good views of the city.”
Timothy looked out the three tall windows that faced the street and saw nothing but sheets of rain.
Mr. McMorn had turned on the gas fireplace, and Sarah dried in front of it while Jessica unlaced her soggy shoes.
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