“Look, Trisha dear! These were your first shoes!”
Trisha rolled her eyes. “That’s great, Mom, but we’re looking for –”
“Oh, and here’s that photo album I thought we lost! Look, here’s when we brought you home from the hospital. Gavin, come see!”
“Mom, we really don’t have time for this,” Trisha sighed, but Hawk dutifully looked over her shoulder.
“See, this is her in her crib – isn’t she an angel? – and here’s her father trying to bottle-feed her. And look at her smile here.”
“She was a beautiful baby,” Hawk observed with a smile, his eyes straying to Trisha for a moment.
“Wasn’t she, though?” She turned the page to a full size photo of Trisha, no more than three months old, lying on her stomach in the middle of a fur rug and looking up at the camera with a surprised expression. She was stark naked.
“Oh my God, Mom, don’t show him that!” Trisha grabbed the album and closed it firmly, wondering if her ears would ever go back to their normal color. “He doesn’t want to see my bare butt!” A quick glance at his face told her that might not actually have been true and they both looked away awkwardly.
“Well, we can reminisce later, I suppose, but I’m glad we found this.” Her mother set the album back in the box and closed it up carefully, setting it beside the hearth.
“So was that it?” her father called from the attic. “My back’s starting to give out up here.”
“No, sorry, keep looking!” Trisha told him. He grumbled good-naturedly and made his way back to the stack.
The next box was different from the others, longer and narrower, with markings that indicated it used to hold file folders. Her mother took it from Hawk with a pleased expression.
“Oh, this looks familiar,” she said, setting it on the coffee table. “Let’s have a peek.”
The first thing they saw when she opened the box was a neatly folded length of plaid cloth, large green and blue squares criss-crossed with thin black, yellow, and red lines. “The Carmichael tartan,” she said proudly, lifting it out gently. “Of course, we’ll need to get you a Macmillan plaid when you get married, dear.”
“I wasn’t planning on having a Scottish wedding, Mom,” Trisha told her tersely.
“Well, let’s not be too hasty, there’s still time to decide. Where are your people from, Gavin?” Trisha looked heavenward for divine intervention but Hawk just smiled.
“England.”
“Oh.” Her mother looked disappointed as she set the plaid aside on the coffee table. “Let’s see, what else do we have here?” A layer of finely-woven white linen filled the top of the box and she lifted it out carefully, shaking it out gently and revealing it to be a long-sleeved dress with a low rounded neck. She held it against herself with a pleased smile. “I think it might still fit me,” she declared.
“So that’s your wedding dress?” Trisha asked her eagerly. It looked just like the one in the photograph.
“Oh, yes. My mother – your grandmother Evelyn – made it for me herself. She did all the embroidery too, can you see?” She lifted up the hems of the skirts, insisting that Trisha feel the intricate flowers and vines twisting all around, almost invisible against the fabric. Similar patterns on the sleeves and the bodice made the dress an astonishing work of art. The wedding photo didn’t do it justice at all.
“That’s amazing,” Trisha said despite herself. “She did all that herself?”
“Every inch of it.” She held it up against Trisha’s chest with a doubtful frown. “You’re a bit too big up top for this, dear,” she said, as if Trisha could do something about that, “and we’d have to see about adding extensions to the waist to bring the hem back down.” She tsked under her breath. “I wonder if Mrs. Bridges in town could do it. She might have to order in matching fabric, if we can find any.”
“That’s great, Mom, but there’s no rush, okay? We’re still looking for the cairngorm.” She pushed the dress back into her mother’s arms and dug through the rest of the box.
She found a satin-covered guestbook from the wedding, setting it aside after a cursory look inside, a set of pale blue paper napkins with her parents’ names and their wedding date printed on them, and a bent copy of the wedding invitation. Under that, she discovered a white satin pillow with ribbons attached, probably used by the ringbearer, and a bundle of dried flowers that had nearly disintegrated into dust. There were a few other knickknacks from the wedding, but no cairngorm. Trisha even turned the box upside-down and shook it, checking if the brooch somehow got stuck under the flaps, but nothing fell out except a smattering of dried petals.
“Well?” her father called through the attic hatch. “Did you find it?”
“No,” Trisha told him despondently. “It’s not here. Unless it’s in a different box?” she asked hopefully.
“No, dear,” her mother said with a shake of her head. “All the wedding things would have been in here. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” Trisha stared down at the empty box, suddenly drained of all her excitement and energy. I was so sure it would be here, she thought numbly. Now what do we do? “I’m sorry,” she told Hawk. “We came all the way down here for nothing.”
“It’s all right, Trisha,” he said, although his body language betrayed his disappointment. “We’re no worse off than we were before.”
Her father clomped down the ladder, pausing to replace the hatch panel, and rejoined them. “So, what did we find?” he asked, clapping the dust from his hands as he peered into the box and then at the items scattered around the coffee table. “Oh, hey, I remember this.” He picked up the guestbook and flipped through the scrawled names inside. “Ha, Patrick Boyd, remember him, Donna? What did you ever see in him?”
“He was very charming,” her mother told him primly, taking the book from his hands and setting it back in the box, “and much better at knowing when his daughter’s upset.”
“Boyd doesn’t have a daughter,” her father frowned, and her mother inclined her head meaningfully in Trisha’s direction. He looked at Trisha with a frown and finally registered her expression. “Oh, hey, what’s wrong, honey?” he asked, instantly contrite.
“Nothing,” Trisha told him with a morose shake of her head. “The cairngorm’s not here. It must have been misplaced, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, hon. I guess your friend’s going to have to find a replacement somewhere else.” Trisha nodded silently. “Well, let’s get this packed away and see where we are.”
It didn’t take long to put everything except the flowers back in the box, although it took three of them to fold the wedding dress properly so that it wouldn’t get wrinkled. Trisha grabbed the folded plaid to place on top and then she paused with a puzzled frown. It seemed strangely unbalanced.
She weighed it in her hand and then slowly unfolded it. It was nearly ten feet long but only a foot wide, designed to be draped over her mother’s shoulder and fastened at her opposite hip. The cloth sagged between her hands and she flipped it over, gasping at what she found. In the middle of the plaid, someone had pinned a large silver brooch with a smoky brown crystal in the center.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is it.”
61
They all leaned in to gape at it, but Hawk was the one who unpinned the brooch and held it up in the light. The stone was large and polished, like a flattened ball nearly two inches across, and it glowed bright orange in the light of the fire. The brooch itself was a shallow dome of silver with a thick pin thrust through two notches underneath.
“Is that it?” Trisha asked him eagerly. “Is it ... special?” The sideways glance she gave her parents told him she meant “magic”.
“I don’t know,” he told her with a shake of his head. “We’ll have to let Lucas have a look, and maybe Nim too.”
“Nim?” Macmillan asked with a frown. “Who’s he?”
“She,” Hawk corrected him mildly. “She’s another friend, an expert in things li
ke this.” He ignored Trisha’s eyeroll. “They’ll be very interested in this, I’m sure.” He held it out to Trisha and then hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” she asked anxiously. He looked closely at the brooch and ran the tip of his finger around its rim.
“There are letters here around the edge, very faint.”
“There are? Where?” Trisha eagerly snatched it from his hand and peered at it. Everyone else moved closer to see, blocking her light, and she turned her back on them. “Are you sure? Those just look like scratches to me.”
“It is very old,” Donna agreed.
“They’re too regular for scratches.” She let him take the pin back and he held it up to the light again. “See here and here?”
“Those don’t look like letters,” Trisha told him doubtfully. “Maybe it’s just a decoration.”
“Those aren’t English characters,” he smiled. “They’re futhorc runes.”
“Runes? You mean like the Vikings?”
“They’re similar. The futhorc was used by the Anglo-Saxons up until, well, certain events occurred about a thousand years ago.”
“Really? So what does it say?” Trisha nearly bounced with anticipation. He hated to put a damper on her enthusiasm.
“I don’t know,” he told her, and her face fell.
“Why not? You recognize the letters.”
“I recognize Japanese too,” he said wryly, “but I don’t speak it. Maybe Nim will be able to read it,” he added, before her spirit was completely crushed.
“Yes!” She perked right back up again. “She’s in New York now, right? That’s only a four hour drive.” She tried to push him towards the door.
“Trisha, honey,” Macmillan said patiently, “it’s pitch black outside and your car’s up to its hubcaps in snow.”
“But –”
“And your friend in New York will be fast asleep by the time you get there. There’s plenty of time tomorrow after you all get a good night’s sleep. Okay?”
“I guess,” she sighed. Watching her emotions over the last few minutes was like riding a roller coaster.
“All right, that’s settled,” Donna said with some satisfaction. “Let’s all sit and relax, shall we? Does anyone want any more coffee?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Hawk said, and the others demurred as well.
Macmillan glanced at the fireplace appraisingly. The logs were just glowing coals now and the stack of firewood on the hearth was down to the bottom layer. “I meant to bring some more in before you got here. This won’t last the night. I’ll fetch some more.”
“I’ll help,” Hawk offered. He followed Macmillan out the door but paused on the porch, taken aback at how much colder it had gotten since they arrived. He was surprised his breath didn’t freeze and shatter.
Macmillan strode past the carport covering his pickup, his axe once more resting on his shoulder. A jumble of logs lay just beyond, dusted with snow, some of them cut into two-foot segments with a chain saw. He picked one of them up with a grunt and stood it up on the top of a stump that had been leveled off at knee height. He shuffled his feet to get a firm footing and then drove the axe down with the ease of long practice, splitting the log in half with a loud thock and embedding the axe head in the stump. He rubbed his bare hands together and blew on them as Hawk came up beside them.
“Forgot my gloves,” he said apologetically. “I’ll be right back. You can pick up the ones I cut earlier if you’re feeling energetic.” A dozen rough-hewn wedges lay all around the stump, glistening with ice.
Hawk nodded as Macmillan hurried back to the house, but instead he levered the axe out of the stump and set one of the halves Macmillan just cut on top. He held the axe out at arm’s length to assess the distance and then brought it back behind his head and down again with a smooth motion, sending a narrow slice spinning off to the side. He repositioned the remaining piece and repeated the movement, adding another wedge to the collection. It was the sort of mindless physical activity he enjoyed but rarely had time for, getting his muscles into a rhythm and letting his thoughts drift aimlessly.
He paused when Macmillan returned, but Trisha’s father just nodded his appreciation and collected an armload of wood. Hawk continued his labors, stopping only to doff his Providence sweater, and followed his thoughts wherever they took him.
So we found the cairngorm. That’s the end of Lucas’s Quest, isn’t it? Everything in his pictures is accounted for. Trisha, the brooch, Savard, me. And Chantal and Lionel. Where are they now? How did Trisha end up with them and why did they just leave her alone at that mansion? Was it just a trap? It was a pretty piss-poor one if it was. They can’t still be in Boston, they know we know they’re there, unless Savard is too hurt to be moved. Nim should have killed him when she had the chance. At least she convinced Trisha to believe us somehow. That outfit Nim was wearing last night, though. Christ. I wonder if she has any selfies on her phone like Trisha’s. He had to stop and rearrange things in his pants, glancing over his shoulder to make sure her father wasn’t there. She shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all this, he thought grimly, resuming his relentless attack on the firewood. She’s too innocent, too – too good. She needs to just go back to Boston and forget about all this. Forget about me. Whoever ends up with her will be a lucky guy. He stopped and set the axe head on the ground, leaning on the handle and scowling at nothing. Fuck.
62
Trisha perched on the arm of the loveseat, tilting the cairngorm back and forth, fascinated by how the stone filled with light at certain angles, almost as if it was illuminated from within. Her mother puttered around, clearing away the coffee cups, looking very pleased for some reason.
The door opened, letting in a blast of chilly air along with her father carting a load of split wood. He tried to pull it closed behind him but it didn’t quite latch and it slowly swung open again as he knelt by the fireplace and dumped his burden on the hearth. He set the last pieces of the previous cord into the fireplace, arranging them on the coals so that they would catch quickly and then stacked the new wood so that it would dry faster from the heat of the fire.
He obviously hadn’t noticed the door was still open, rendering his efforts with the fire moot, and Trisha got up with a sigh to close it. The thock of an axe splitting wood outside stayed her hand as she tried to figure out who could possibly be out there, until she remembered that Hawk had gone out with her father.
She stepped out onto the porch and watched him work, illuminated only by the bare bulb in the carport. His back was to her and she watched play of muscles under his sweater as he smoothly raised the axe and brought it down again, over and over. She remembered the star tattoo on his back – a pentangle, she reminded herself – and her ears warmed again despite the frosty winter air.
She quietly closed the door and stepped down from the porch, tucking the cairngorm into the front pocket of her hoodie. The snowflakes were a lot smaller now, drifting like tiny stars against the dark backdrop of the surrounding trees, and she started walking along the driveway like she always did when she came down for Christmas. There was something peaceful about being out all alone in the forest on a cold winter’s night. The snow muffled everything, even her footsteps, making it easier to hear her own thoughts.
We did it, she smiled. We found Lucas’s cairngorm. I wonder what it does. Maybe the runes are important. Maybe it’s a message from Merlin or a spell to free him from wherever he is or something. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. But then what? The Quest is over now. Hawk will stay in New York and I’ll go back to Boston and – what? Go back to the hospital? I love my work, but I won’t see him again. Them. I won’t see them again.
She glanced back over her shoulder. She’d gone a fair distance up the driveway and Hawk was just visible at the edge of the trees. His sweater was off now and he was leaning on the axe. He’s probably overheated, she told herself. That’s hard work. I’m surprised Dad can still do it at his age. She continued up the road, her
mood somber now.
Come to think of it, Hawk’s even older. A thousand years older, I guess. He doesn’t want to get involved with anyone. It’s like Nim said. Everyone you get involved with dies, sooner or later. It must be pretty lonely. I hope he’ll be okay. She rubbed her hands together, trying to generate some warmth, and then stuffed them in her hoodie pocket. Her fingers touched the cairngorm and she brought it out, holding it in the flat of her hand. All this trouble for this. I hope it’s worth it.
Something glimmered at the edge of the stone, a tiny orange glow. For a moment, she thought it was just a reflection of the porch light behind her, but her hands were in shadow and the gleam was on the wrong side anyway. She cupped the cairngorm between her hands, peering in between her fingers, and the glow was still there.
“What in the world?” she murmured. She twisted left and right, trying to figure out where the light was coming from, but it stayed in the same position no matter which way she turned, pointing along the driveway like a compass. Her heart gave a thump of excitement and she hurried ahead eagerly, wondering where it was leading her.
The glow remained steady as she followed the curve of the driveway, now pointing off into the woods somewhere. She hurried towards Eagle Drive, stumbling a bit over the icy ruts hidden under the snow, and then stopped abruptly, blinking in surprise. A snow-covered SUV sat directly across the driveway, leaving only a narrow space on either side.
“Hello?” she called doubtfully. She looked around for the owner but it was far too dark to make out anything other than vague shapes. Maybe he had a problem with the vehicle and pulled off the road while he dealt with it. She would have expected the SUV to still be running, though, to provide heat and light if nothing else.
Maybe he’s out of gas, she thought, coming closer. You’d think he would have come down to the house for help, though. She peered in through the driver’s window but the front seats were empty. Something large and dark lay along the back seat, though, and she quickly reached for the rear door, concerned that perhaps the driver had fallen unconscious inside.
Gawain (Knights of Excalibur Book 1) Page 31