13. Plans for the Week-End
Maggie spent the next several days feverishly at work on her translation. Aside from meals and about an hour or so Saturday night spent chatting pleasantly with her aunt and uncle while they all half-watched some strange British television comedy, Maggie was a hermit in her room, crouched incessantly over the dark tome while scribbling notes and translations in notebook after notebook. By the time Monday rolled around, Maggie felt confident that she had fully cracked the fundamentals of the dialect and all that remained was the mundane task of translating the book word by word and cover to cover, first to Old Gaelic, then to Modern Gaelic, then finally to English. She hoped to have the translations done by early December—six weeks—so she could then spend the second semester writing her academia-shattering article not only verifying Prof. Hamilton's theorized dialect, but providing a complete translation of an entire text written in it. She might even throw the slightest bit of cultural analysis into the article, just to put everything in its proper perspective.
Along these last lines of thought, it was becoming increasingly clear that an intelligent translation of the book was going to require at least some basic understanding of ancient Celtic religious rituals. The tome appeared to be a collections of rites, prayers, spells, and the like, but some of the words obviously possessed very specific meanings which would be difficult, if not impossible, to understand without knowing the cultural context. Sort of like someone who's never heard of baseball trying to figure out what 'sacrifice fly' means. With all this in mind, Maggie awoke early that Monday morning intent on getting to the reading room bright and early to comb through whatever books they might have on ancient religious practices in Scotland. But she would not expect to find Seumas MacAuliffe's work.
Aunt Lucy was clearly glad to see Maggie's face as she walked into the kitchen before breakfast.
"Well good morning, lass," she rang out. "It's grand to see you walking about like normal people again. Your studying's going well, I take it?"
"Yes, quite well, thanks." Maggie smiled at the find sitting upstairs on her writing desk. "But I think I need to adjust my studying schedule. I'm not getting quite enough sleep." She rubbed her neck. "Do we have any coffee?"
Her aunt laughed. "Aye, lass, we do. It's already on the table. I haven't set you a place yet—didn't know whether you'd be joining us—but just grab the nearest cup and I'll bring out another."
Maggie quickly found both the coffee pot and a suitable cup. After a full drink of the still-too-hot liquid, she called back to her aunt, "Is Iain coming over for breakfast again?" Three places had already been set and there appeared to be more oatcakes than usual.
"Aye, he is." Lucy walked into the dining room, a steaming platter of sausages in one hand, a new cup and saucer in the other. "'Tis Monday but again."
Maggie found herself pleased by this. And also by the fact that she had taken the time to shower and put on make-up before coming down for breakfast. Soon the doorbell rang and Iain Grant stepped into the dining room where Maggie was nursing her coffee.
"Morning, Maggie." He seemed taller than before.
"Morning, Iain," she answered over her cup. "Good to see you again."
"Aye," he agreed, and then, after a moment's awkward hesitation, took the seat opposite her.
"Good morning, Iain." Aunt Lucy had returned again, this time with Maggie's plate and silverware. "Alex'll be down any moment."
"Alright then," Iain smiled back and Lucy disappeared again into the kitchen.
"So," Iain ventured with a smile.
"So," Maggie responded, adding a nod to her own smile.
After a moment, Iain tried, "So, what made you decide to study in Scotland? Was it Alex and Lucy?"
"Er, no, not exactly," Maggie replied, trying to figure out how she could explain her decision in fifty words or less. "I've always been interested in Scotland. I guess that would be my grandmother's influence. My mother's entire family was Scottish. In fact, my full name in Margaret NicInnes Devereaux. The 'NicInnes' is Gaelic for—"
"Daughter of Innes," Iain finished her sentence.
"Do you speak Gaelic?" Maggie asked, clearly surprised. Although she supposed shouldn't be that surprised at a Scot speaking Gaelic.
"No, but I do sell kilts to tourists," he laughed. "It's helpful to know the Gaelic names for the clans. Makes it seem even more authentic."
Maggie laughed too, in spite of herself.
"Besides you already told me you could trace back to the Clan Innes. Interesting clan, that."
Maggie narrowed her eyes behind her glasses. "You're not going to try and sell me a kilt, are you?"
"No, ma'am." She could see a faint blush dab at his cheek. "I don't think a kilt would suit you overmuch."
Maggie laughed, her cheeks reddening too.
"Did I already tell you," Iain decided to move the conversation along a bit, "that MacTary's a sept of Innes?"
"Yes, you did. I think my grandmother's mother was a MacTary. That's how I'm related to Alex and Lucy. I guess the clans kinda stick together a bit, huh?"
"Well, yes and no," Iain said thoughtfully. "It's not like two people from the same clan are automatically cousins. In fact, they might not be related at all. Any given clan might have a dozen or more septs. Sometimes those are just smaller families that sought the protection of the stronger clan. If you're both an Innes and a MacTary, it doesn't necessarily mean that your family tree hasn't any branches, if you know what I'm saying."
Maggie laughed. "I do."
"So why exactly is it you have the name 'NicInnes' in there again?"
"Well," Maggie started, trying to picture the family tree she and her grandmother had assembled. "Every first daughter of every first daughter for thirteen generations has had that name stuck in there somewhere. So it's my middle name. My mother's name was Ellen NicInnes. Her mother was named Catherine NicInnes. And so on. All the way back to a woman named Brìghde Innes, who was born in 1600. She married a man named, er, something Gordon, I think. She gave her first daughter the middle name 'NicInnes' so that the Innes family name wouldn't be lost. And it's made its way all the way down to lil' ol' me. It's actually pretty cool when you think about it."
"Aye," Iain had to agree. "That it is."
They both smiled in silence for a bit, then Iain spoke up again, "Ye know, the Innes' ancestral lands are not very far from here. And the Castle of Park, one of the Gordons' castles, is close by as well."
"Really?" This interested her.
"Aye, you ought to go and visit. I think you'd enjoy it. And you know, I could—"
"Iain!" Alex belted out his employee's name as he burst into the dining room and slapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry I'm late down. How are you today, lad?"
"Quite well, Alex. Thank you." Iain turned his attention momentarily to his employer. "And how are you this morning?"
"Also quite well." Alex took his seat at the table. "Thank you for asking. And a good morning to you too, Maggie."
"Morning, Uncle Alex," she replied. "Iain was just telling me that the Innes lands aren't too far from here?"
"Aye." Alex raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "I suppose that's true."
"What's true?" Lucy had returned with the last of the breakfast trays and was finally ready to sit down herself.
"The Innes lands are nearby," Alex explained. "Sounds like our Maggie here might like to visit them."
"What a wonderful idea," Lucy beamed.
"And apparently," Iain rejoined the conversation, "one of her ancestors married a Gordon. I was just telling her that the Castle of Park is not too far away either."
"That's true as well," Alex confirmed, as he pulled a piece of toast onto his plate. "You know, Lucy," he turned to his spouse, "we should take our guest out to see her ancestral lands. And we could overnight at Park on the way back."
"A splendid idea," Lucy clasped her hands together in excitement. "It's a plan then. When shall we go?"
Ma
ggie looked at Iain for his input but his countenance had dropped somewhat and he avoided her gaze.
"Why not this week-end?" Alex offered. "We could get up early Saturday and be to Elgin by mid-morning. Spend the day there and in the area. Then make it to Park by nightfall and spend Sunday nosing about there. How's that sound, Maggie?"
"Um, fine," she turned to her uncle, then quickly back to Iain. "Can you come too, Iain? It was sort of your idea."
Iain forced a smile. "Och no. I'm afraid not. Someone'll have to mind the store if both Alex and Lucy are away."
"Oh," Maggie was sincerely disappointed. "That's too bad."
"Ah, well, it's all right, Maggie," Iain said, his smile returning. "It's probably just as well. Remember, I'm no Innes. I'm a Grant. And anyway the Grants have not always got along very well with the Gordons."
Alex and Lucy both laughed.
"Now that," Alex pointed at his manager but looked at his niece, "is a true statement. Although," he looked again at Iain, "I doubt they'd bar you from the castle, lad."
"Well, you never know." He turned a sly smile to Maggie. "And I'd hate to be put in a position of having to defend the honor of my clan against the wee schoolgirl selling the tickets at the front gate."
"That would be awkward," Maggie agreed. "You having to explain to the constable how she'd forcibly removed you from the premises and all."
"Aye," Iain laughed. "That would be awkward indeed."
"Well, all right," Alex took back control of the conversation. "This week-end then. We'll leave bright and early Saturday morn. So don't you stay up too late studying Friday night, eh, Maggie? The books can survive two days without you, can't they?"
"Yes," Maggie conceded. "They can."
Then, as Alex turned to asked his wife to pass him the plate of oatcakes, Maggie looked up at Iain and offered quietly, "Some other time?"
Iain smiled. "Definitely."
14. The Bookshop
Maggie closed the cover to Mr. Andrew Chisholm's 'A Survey of the Religious Practices of the Ancient Celtic Peoples,' and set her glasses down on the cover. Running her fingers through her thick brown hair, she let out a low sigh which signaled that emotion somewhere between the intensity of frustration and the melancholy of disappointment. She leaned back in the hard, wooden reading room chair and looked over at the stained glass window nearest her. She considered her progress of the past week.
She had spent the last four days examining every book she could find in three different university libraries concerning the topic of ancient Scottish religious practices, her aim to understand the context in which the Dark Book had been written. Her days thus spent in university reading rooms, her evenings had been filled with continued translation of the leather-bound text, becoming more familiar with the various rites and spells contained between its covers. Now it was Friday afternoon, she was leaving for Elgin first thing in the morning, and she felt that irritation which arises when progress has not stopped altogether, but is nevertheless slower than one had hoped.
To be sure, she knew far more about ancient Celtic religious rites than she had ever wanted to know. But she was finding, as she translated her black book, that it described realms of religious activity which most traditional books on the subject seemed to gloss over, if not outright ignore. For the leather text appeared to concern itself quite fully with the darker side of religion: the occult, the arcane, the demonic. Indeed, the pages seemed to hold a certain awe before the dark forces the rites and spells were meant to harness, one note explaining, '
So she now knew a great deal about religious practices other than those contained in the book she was researching. And she was at a loss as to how to gain information about the practices she was encountering in the dark tome's pages. The simple answer, of course, was to find books from a different source. A source oriented toward the more arcane aspects of religious and spirituals rites. A source dealing in books on the occult. In short, an occult bookshop.
Maggie pulled Devan Sinclair's card from the backpack pocket she had shoved it into the afternoon at the café.
'Tales of the Occult Bookshop. Devan Sinclair, Proprietor,' she repeated in her head. I wonder...
As she debated this option, Maggie glanced pensively around the reading room. She was letting her gaze fall absently from student to student when she unexpectedly saw Fionna FitzSimmons standing near a bookshelf. As if feeling Maggie's gaze, Fionna turned and the two made eye contact. Maggie smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Fionna waved too and hurried over to Maggie's table.
"Why hello there, Maggie," she whispered in her light Irish brogue. "How are you? I haven't seen you since our dinner at the pub. That was, what, nearly three weeks ago, eh?"
"I'm fine thanks," Maggie replied in an equally low voice as Fionna sat down next to her. "And yes it's been three weeks already. Three and a half, I think."
"Three and a half weeks since my brother embarrassed me," Fionna said covering her face in half-faux mortification. "I really do apologize again."
"Oh, no need to apologize," Maggie pushed the very idea away. "I had a good time. It was interesting."
Fionna rolled her eyes at this characterization.
"Is your brother still in town?" This seemed a nicer way to discuss Sean.
"That he is. The work down on the docks pays quite well, and he's no wife or kids back in Ireland, so he's in no hurry to get back." She rolled her eyes again. "And besides that, I don't think he minds keeping a bit of a watch over his little sister. Particularly with that dashing young Englishman receiving so much of my attention." A smile exploded onto her face.
"That'd be Will, right?" Maggie was trying to remember everyone's name.
"Right. I'm afraid he and Sean don't get on too well. Sean doesn't care overmuch for the English, in case you hadn't gathered that already. But it's really just that he wants to watch out for me." She traded her tentative smile for a pensive frown. "Only I don't think he's given much thought to how I feel about Will."
"Yeah," Maggie agreed, not sure what else to say. Latching onto the memory of the dinner, she diverted the conversation slightly. "So have you seen Ellen or Kelly lately?"
"Well, I don't see Kelly much actually. She's more Ellen's friend. Ellen's very friendly."
Maggie had to agree with that.
"But I did see Ellen the other day. She mentioned you're going to Inverness with them?"
"Yes. Are you coming?"
Fionna frowned slightly. "I'm not sure yet. I was supposed to go away for the week-end with Will. Ordinarily I might move it, but—Well, we've got some important things to discuss, Will and I. So we'll see if I make it to Inverness."
Maggie wasn't sure where to go from there. Inquiring into what she and Will needed to discuss was obviously not appropriate. Her conversational dilemma was solved when Fionna changed the subject for her.
"So what are you reading?" Her voice was still hushed in the quiet of the reading room.
"Oh these?" Maggie put a casual hand on the several library books stacked before her. The book of true interest, the Dark Book, remained tucked safely out of view in her backpack. "Oh, I'm just trying to get familiar with the old religious customs of the Celts. It kind of pertains to where my research is going. Or at least where I think it's going."
"Really?" Fionna reached for Mr. Chisholm
's book, showing the interest one student usually shows for another's work, sincere but not too probing. "How's it going so far?"
"Not bad. But slower that I'd anticipated."
Fionna laughed quietly. "That's always the way."
"Isn't it though?" Maggie let out a small laugh as well. "And my advisor is Prof. Macintyre. I met with him last week and let's just say he wasn't very impressed with my complete lack of progress then. I've got another status meeting with him on Monday and I'm hoping to have more I can tell him, but it's already almost four and I'm going away this weekend with my aunt and uncle, so I don't know how much I'll get done bef—"
Maggie noticed that Fionna's expression had changed, becoming rather serious. Maggie cocked her head and looked at Fionna questioningly.
After a moment Fionna whispered, "Oh, that's right. You're studying under Prof. Macintyre."
Maggie suddenly remembered the thinly veiled concern both Fionna and Ellen had shown at dinner that night when they first discovered who Maggie's advisor was. She was about to answer a cautious 'Yes,' when Fionna leaned in close.
"Look," she whispered especially softly so that even Maggie had trouble hearing her. The Irish woman glanced quickly around the reading room before saying, "You know Kelly's studying under him. Well, so did that poor dead girl, Annette. And Ellen and I have each had a class or two with him. If you're going to study under Craig Macintyre, there are some things you really need to know." Her tone, even in whispers, was deathly serious.
"Okay," Maggie invited her to say more.
"No." Another glance around the room. "Not here." Then, looking at her watch and frowning, Fionna said, "I've a seminar in five minutes, then I have to go to, well, to an appointment at five. Can you meet me at the King Street Pub at, say, six o'clock?"
"Yeah, sure," Maggie quickly agreed. Whatever it was, it seemed important. Moreover, this display had validated her general dislike of Macintyre. She was eager to find out what Fionna had to say.
"All right then," Fionna whispered as she stood up. "I'll see you tonight a six." She smiled. "I'm really glad I ran into you."
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 12