He poured the whisky with the exaggerated care of the very drunk, taking the glasses one by one across the room to his guests. Brianna accepted hers with equal care, but declined a chair, instead leaning gracefully against the corner of the china cabinet.
Edgars plumped at last onto the rump-sprung sofa, ignoring the debris, and raised his glass.
“Cheers, mate,” he said briefly, and took a long, slurping gulp. “Wotcher say yer name is?” he demanded, emerging abruptly from his immersion. “Oh, Roger, right. Gilly never mentioned ye … but then, she wouldn’,” he added moodily. “Never knew nothin’ about her family, and she wasn’ sayin’. Think she was ashamed of ’em all … but you don’t look such a nelly,” he said, generously. “Yer lass is a looker, at least. Aye, that sounds right, eh? ‘Yer lass is a looker, at least!’ Hear ’at, eh?” He laughed uproariously, spraying whisky droplets.
“Yeah,” said Roger. “Thanks.” He took a small sip of his drink. Brianna, offended, turned her back on Edgars and affected to be examining the contents of the china closet through the bevel-cut glass doors.
There seemed no point in beating around the bush, Roger decided. Edgars wouldn’t recognize subtlety if it bit him on the bum at this point, and there seemed a substantial danger that he might pass out soon, at the rate he was going.
“D’you know where Gillian is?” he asked bluntly. Every time he said her name, it felt strange on his tongue. This time, he couldn’t help glancing up at the mantelpiece, where the photo smiled serenely on the debauch below.
Edgars shook his head, swinging it slowly back and forth over his glass like an ox over a corncrib. He was a short, heavyset man, about Roger’s age, perhaps, but looking older because of the heavy growth of unshaved beard and disheveled black hair.
“Nah,” he said. “Thought maybe you knew. It’ll be the Nats or the Roses, likely, but I’ve no kep’ up. I couldny say who, specially.”
“Nats?” Roger’s heart began to speed up. “You mean the Scottish Nationalists?”
Edgars’s eyelids were beginning to droop, but they blinked open once more.
“Oh, aye. Bloody Nats. ’S where I met Gilly, aye?”
“When was this, Mr. Edgars?”
Roger looked up in surprise at the soft voice from above. It wasn’t the photograph that had spoken, though, but Brianna, looking intently down at Greg Edgars. Roger couldn’t tell whether she was merely making conversation, or if she suspected something. Her face showed nothing beyond polite interest.
“Dunno … maybe two, three years gone. Fun at first, hm? Toss the bloody English out, join the Common Market on our own … beer in the pub and a cuddle i’ the back of the van comin’ home from rallies. Mmm.” Edgars shook his head again, dreamy-eyed at the vision. Then the smile faded from his face, and he frowned into his drink. “That’s before she went potty.”
“Potty?” Roger took another quick glance at the photo. Intense, yes. She looked that. But not barking mad, surely. Or could you tell, from a photo?
“Aye. Society o’ the White Rose. Charlie’s m’ darlin’. Will ye no come back again, and all that rot. Lot of jimmies dressed up in kilts and full rig, wi’ swords and all. All right if ye like it, o’ course,” he added, with a cockeyed attempt at objectivity. “But Gilly’d always take a thing too far. On and on about the Bonnie Prince, and wouldn’ it be a thing if he’d won the ’45? Blokes in the kitchen ’til all hours, drinking up the beer and arguing why he hadn’t. In the Gaelic, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Load o’ rubbish.” He drained his glass to emphasize this opinion.
Roger could feel Brianna’s eyes boring into the side of his neck like gimlets. He pulled at his collar to loosen it, though he wasn’t wearing a tie and his collar button was undone.
“I don’t suppose your wife’s also interested in standing stones, is she, Mr. Edgars?” Brianna wasn’t bothering a lot with the polite interest anymore; her voice was sharp enough to cut cheese. The effect was largely wasted on Edgars.
“Stones?” He seemed fuddled, and stuck a forefinger into one ear, screwing it in industriously, as though in hopes of improving his hearing.
“The prehistoric stone circles. Like the Clava Cairns,” Roger offered, naming one of the more famous local landmarks. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, with a mental sigh of resignation. Brianna was plainly never going to speak to him again, so he might as well find out what he could.
“Oh, those.” Edgars uttered a short laugh. “Aye, and every other bit o’ auld rubbish ye could name. That’s the last bit, and the worst. Down at that Institewt day an’ night, spendin’ all my money on courses … courses! Make a cat laugh, ay? Fairy tales, they teach ’em there. Ye’ll learn nothin’ useful in that place, lass, I told her. Whyna learn to type? Get a job, if she’s bored. ’S what I tell’t her. So she left,” he said morosely. “Not seen her in two weeks.” He stared into his wineglass as though surprised to find it empty.
“Have another?” he offered, reaching for the bottle, but Brianna shook her head decidedly.
“Thanks, no. We have to be going. Don’t we, Roger?”
Seeing the dangerous glint in her eye, Roger wasn’t at all sure that he wouldn’t be better off staying to split the rest of the bottle with Greg Edgars. Still, it was a long walk home, if he let Brianna take the car. He rose with a sigh, and shook Edgars’s hand in farewell. It was warm and surprisingly firm in its grip, if a trifle moist.
Edgars followed them to the door, clutching the bottle by the neck. He peered after them through the screen, suddenly calling down the walk, “If ye see Gilly, tell her to come home, eh?”
Roger turned and waved at the blurry figure in the lighted rectangle of the door.
“I’ll try,” he called, the words sticking in his throat.
They made it to the walk and half down the street toward the pub before she rounded on him.
“What in bloody hell are you up to?” she said. She sounded angry, but not hysterical. “You told me you haven’t any family in the Highlands, so what’s all this about cousins? Who is that woman in the picture?”
He looked round the darkened street for inspiration, but there was no help for it. He took a deep breath and took her by the arm.
“Geillis Duncan,” he said.
She stopped stock-still, and the shock of it jarred up his own arm. With great deliberation, she detached her elbow from his grip. The delicate tissue of the evening had torn down the middle.
“Don’t … touch … me,” she said through her teeth. “Is this something Mother thought up?”
Despite his resolve to be understanding, Roger felt himself growing angry in return.
“Look,” he said, “can you not think of anyone but yourself in this? I know it’s been a shock to you—God, how could it not be? And if you cannot bring yourself even to think about it … well, I’ll not push you to it. But there’s your mother to consider. And there’s me, as well.”
“You? What have you got to do with it?” It was too dark to see her face, but the surprise in her voice was evident.
He had not meant to complicate matters further by telling her of his involvement, but it was clearly too late for keeping secrets. And no doubt Claire had seen that, when she suggested his taking Brianna out this evening.
In a flash of revelation, he realized for the first time just what Claire had meant. She did have one means of proving her story to Brianna, beyond question. She had Gillian Edgars, who had—perhaps—not yet vanished to meet her fate as Geillis Duncan, tied to a flaming stake beneath the rowan trees of Leoch. The most stubborn cynic would be convinced, he supposed, by the sight of someone disappearing into the past before their eyes. No wonder Claire had wanted to find Gillian Edgars.
In a few words, he told Brianna his relationship with the would-be witch of Cranesmuir.
“And so it looks like being my life or hers,” he ended, shrugging, hideously conscious of how ridiculously melodramatic it sounded. “Claire—your mother—she left
it to me. But I thought I had to find her, at the least.”
Brianna had stopped walking to listen to him. The dim light from a corner shop caught the gleam of her eyes as she stared at him.
“You believe it, then?” she asked. There was no incredulity or scorn in her voice; she was altogether serious.
He sighed and reached for her arm again. She didn’t resist, but fell into step beside him.
“Yes,” he said. “I had to. You didn’t see your mother’s face, when she saw the words written inside her ring. That was real—real enough to break my heart.”
“You’d better tell me,” she said, after a short silence. “What words?”
By the time he had finished the story, they had reached the car-park behind the pub.
“Well …” Brianna said hesitantly. “If …” She stopped again, looking into his eyes. She was standing near enough for him to feel the warmth of her breasts, close to his chest, but he didn’t reach for her. The kirk of St. Kilda was a long way off, and neither of them wanted to remember the grave beneath the yew trees, where the names of her parents were written in stone.
“I don’t know, Roger,” she said, shaking her head. The neon sign over the pub’s back door made purple glints in her hair. “I just can’t … I can’t think about it yet. But …” Words failed her, but she lifted a hand and touched his cheek, light as the brush of the evening wind. “I’ll think of you,” she whispered.
* * *
When you come right down to it, committing burglary with a key is not really a difficult proposition. The chance that either Mrs. Andrews or Dr. McEwan was going to come back and cop me in the act were vanishingly small. Even if they had, all I would have to do is say that I’d come back to look for a lost pocketbook, and found the door open. I was out of practice, but deception had at one point been second nature to me. Lying was like riding a bicycle, I thought; you don’t forget how.
So it wasn’t the act of getting hold of Gillian Edgars’s notebook that made my heart race and my breath sound loud in my own ears. It was the book itself.
As Master Raymond had told me in Paris, the power and the danger of magic lie in the people who believe it. From the glimpse I had had of the contents earlier, the actual information written in this cardboard notebook was an extraordinary mishmash of fact, speculation, and flat-out fantasy that could be of importance only to the writer. But I felt an almost physical revulsion at touching it. Knowing who had written it, I knew it for what it likely was: a grimoire, a magician’s book of secrets.
Still, if there existed any clue to Geillis Duncan’s whereabouts and intentions, it would be here. Suppressing a shudder at the touch of the slick cover, I tucked it under my coat, holding it in place with my elbow for the trip down the stairs.
Safely out on the street, still I kept the book under my elbow, the cover growing clammy with perspiration as I walked. I felt as though I were transporting a bomb, something which must be handled with scrupulous carefulness, in order to prevent an explosion.
I walked for some time, finally turning into the front garden of a small Italian restaurant with a terrace near the river. The night was chilly, but a small electric fire made the terrace tables warm enough for use; I chose one and ordered a glass of Chianti. I sipped at it for some time, the notebook lying on the paper placemat in front of me, in the concealing shadow of a basket of garlic bread.
It was late April. Only a few days until May Day—the Feast of Beltane. That was when I had made my own impromptu voyage into the past. I supposed it was possible that there was something about the date—or just the general time of year? It had been mid-April when I returned—that made that eerie passage possible. Or maybe not; maybe the time of year had nothing to do with it. I ordered another glass of wine.
It could be that only certain people had the ability to penetrate a barrier that was solid to everyone else—something in the genetic makeup? Who knew? Jamie had not been able to enter it, though I could. And Geillis Duncan obviously had—or would. Or wouldn’t, depending. I thought of young Roger Wakefield, and felt mildly queasy. I thought perhaps I had better have some food to go with the wine.
The visit to the Institute had convinced me that wherever Gillian/Geillis was, she had not yet made her own fateful passage. Anyone who had studied the legends of the Highlands would know that the Feast of Beltane was approaching; surely anyone planning such an expedition would undertake it then? But I had no idea where she might be, if she wasn’t at home; in hiding? Performing some peculiar rite of preparation, picked up from Fiona’s group of neo-Druids? The notebook might hold a clue, but God only knew.
God only also knew what my own motives were in this; I had thought I did, but was no longer sure. Had I involved Roger in the search for Geillis because it seemed the only way of convincing Brianna? And yet—even if we found her in time, my own purpose would be served only if Gillian succeeded in going back. And thus, in dying by fire.
When Geillis Duncan had been condemned as a witch, Jamie had said to me, “Dinna grieve for her, Sassenach; she’s a wicked woman.” And whether she had been wicked or mad, it had made little difference at the time. Should I not have left well enough alone, and left her to find her own fate? Still, I thought, she had once saved my life. In spite of what she was—would be—did I owe it to her to try to save her life? And thus perhaps doom Roger? What right did I have to meddle any further?
It isna a matter of right, Sassenach, I heard Jamie’s voice saying, with a tinge of impatience. It’s a question of duty. Of honor.
“Honor, is it?” I said aloud. “And what’s that?” The waiter with my plate of tortellini Portofino looked startled.
“Eh?” he said.
“Never mind,” I said, too distracted to care much what he thought of me. “Perhaps you’d better bring the rest of the bottle.”
I finished my meal surrounded by ghosts. Finally, fortified by food and wine, I pushed my empty plate aside, and opened Gillian Edgars’s gray notebook.
49
BLESSED ARE THOSE …
There’s no place darker than a Highland road in the middle of a moonless night. I could see the flash of passing headlights now and then, silhouetting Roger’s head and shoulders in a sudden flare of light. They were hunched forward, as though in defense against oncoming danger. Bree sat hunched as well, curled into the corner of the seat beside me. We were all three self-contained, insulated from each other, sealed in small, individual pockets of silence, inside the larger silence of the car and its rushing flight.
My fists curled in the pockets of my coat, idly scooping up coins and small bits of debris; shredded tissue, a pencil stub, a tiny rubber ball left on the floor of my office by a small patient. My thumb circled and identified the milled edge of an American quarter, the broad embossed face of an English penny, and the serrated edge of a key—the key to Gillian Edgars’s carrel, which I had neglected to return to the Institute.
I had tried again to call Greg Edgars, just before we left the old manse. The phone had rung again and again without answer.
I stared at the dark glass of the window beside me, seeing neither my own faint reflection nor the massy shapes of stone walls and scattered trees that rushed by in the night. Instead, I saw the row of books, arranged on the carrel’s single shelf in a line as neat as a row of apothecary’s jars. And below, the notebook filled with fine cursive script, laying out in strict order conclusion and delusion, mingling myth and science, drawing from learned men and legends, all of it based on the power of dreams. To any casual observer, it could be either a muddle of half-thought-out nonsense or, at best, the outline for a clever-silly novel. Only to me did it have the look of a careful, deliberate plan.
In a parody of the scientific method, the first section of the book was titled “Observations.” It contained disjointed references, tidy drawings, and carefully numbered tables. “The position of sun and moon on the Feast of Beltane” was one, with a list of more than two hundred paired figures laid ou
t beneath. Similar tables existed for Hogmanay and Midsummer’s Day, and another for Samhainn, the Feast of All Hallows. The ancient feasts of fire and sun, and Beltane’s sun would rise tomorrow.
The central section of the notebook was titled “Speculations.” That was accurate, at least, I reflected wryly. One page had borne this entry, in neat, slanting script: “The Druids burnt sacrificial victims in wicker cages shaped like men, but individuals were killed by strangling, and the throat slit to drain the body of blood. Was it fire or blood that was the necessary element?” The coldblooded curiosity of the question brought Geillis Duncan’s face before me clearly—not the wide-eyed, straight-haired student whose portrait adorned the Institute, but the secretive, half-smiling fiscal’s wife, ten years older, versed in the uses of drugs and the body, who lured men to her purposes, and killed without passion to achieve her ends.
And the last few pages of the book, neatly labeled “Conclusions,” which had led us to this dark journey, on the eve of the Feast of Beltane. I curled my fingers around the key, wishing with all my heart that Greg Edgars had answered his phone.
* * *
Roger slowed, turning onto the bumpy dirt lane that led past the base of the hill called Craigh na Dun.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. He hadn’t spoken in so long that the statement came out gruffly, sounding belligerent.
“Well, of course not,” Brianna said impatiently. “You can’t see the stone circle from here.”
Roger grunted in reply, and slowed the car still more. Obviously, Brianna’s nerves were stretched, but so were his own. Only Claire seemed calm, unaffected by the growing air of tension in the car.
“She’s here,” Claire said suddenly. Roger slammed on the brakes so abruptly that both Claire and her daughter pitched forward, thumping into the back of the seat in front of them.
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