Love by the Stroke of Midnight

by Raven McAllan

  “Our moods?” Marcail said. “That makes sense.”

  “However, I don’t need to read your mind, or the sky and clouds to know you’re tense and worried,” Paden said. “I also to a certain extent worry what comes next. Or more, how you will react to what comes next.” He looked towards the castle, from where a small figure was heading their way, and inclined his head. “What comes next appears to be your sister. Are you ready for the third degree? She has no fondness for me.”

  “You worry her,” Marcail said as Bonnie waved and appeared to hurry. “She can’t sense why you’re here or what’s it got to do with me or the wider family. Bonnie likes to feel in control of her situation.”

  “She’s also pissed off your parents weren’t allowed to say anything, to any of you,” Paden said shrewdly. “For which I cannot blame her. I was with your father on this, but we were overruled by the powers that be. Sometimes I obey.” He laughed. “Not all the time, or we wouldn’t have had the night we did. Now then.” He gestured to Bonnie in a big sweeping wave. “Look happy or she’ll be nudging my mind, infiltrating yours and discovering aspects of her ability she didn’t know she had. We could do without that at the moment.”

  Marcail tended to agree with him. Bonnie on a mission was like a dog protecting its bone. Ferocious and single-minded—about any bee in her bonnet. Which as Marcail knew at that moment was Paden and why he was on the island. It was a pity she couldn’t contact Bonnie’s mind and tell her to back off.

  Paden smothered a chuckle with a cough as Bonnie got within hearing distance. “I heard that,” he said in a low voice.

  Marcail did her best not to smirk. “True though.” She matched his tone and looked up as her sister stood in front of them. “Hi, you, you’re up early.”

  Bonnie frowned. “I took you a birthday cup of coffee just before dawn, to see if you wanted to greet the day with me. You weren’t there.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Marcail agreed pleasantly, choosing to ignore Bonnie’s accusing tone. “But here I am now. Is anything happening before sunset then?” She always opened her presents as they as a family chose to honour the beginning of Samhain. From sunset on the 31st October—her birthday—to sunset the following day. Others did differently and chose noon to noon. Neither was wrong.

  “Apart from the fact it’s your birthday?” Bonnie said sarcastically. “And you’ll want to open your presents before Samhain begins? Not a thing.”

  “Then let’s go in and have that coffee.” Marcail bit back the snarky words she’d like to say, as in ‘and it’s not even ten o’clock yet’, and risked a quick, “Something’s got her knickers in a twist, I’d better try and find out what,” to Paden.

  “You go right on ahead, love. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  Paden sketched a wave. “I’ll leave you two lovely ladies to it. I’ll away to grab a shower and some breakfast and head to the mainland as requested by your dad.”

  “His leg playing up again?” Marcail said with a snigger. “It’s very selective.”

  “Who knows? I’ve just been requested to go over and pick something up, and I said of course. Adios, amigos.” He walked briskly in the direction of the kitchen door, leaving Marcail and Bonnie to follow him at a less punishing pace.

  “Bonnie, whatever else you think,” Marcail said slowly, “I think he’s on my side. He sounded as pissed off as I was that I was kept in the dark.”

  “So you say. Hold on, was?”

  “Still am then. Why are you so anti him?” What was Bonnie not telling her?

  “Because he’ll take you,” Bonnie burst out. “I can sense that, if nothing else.”

  “No one takes me anywhere or anyhow if I don’t want them to, you know that,” Marcail said softly and, she thought, with commendable patience. “Anything I do is because it’s what I want.” She sighed and gave her sister a hug. “Bonnie, I’m more than attracted to him. Somehow, I just took one look and knew however much I didn’t want to, and whatever else happens, he’s important. I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m as sure as I can be, it will include Paden.”

  “Thank our gods, and you, for that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Now she’d admitted it, Marcail decided she was happier, as if a great weight had lifted from her. If only Bonnie could accept it as well. “He matters, Bonnie.”

  Bonnie bit her lip. “I know, and that’s the problem. I’m losing you, and life is never going to be the same.”

  “Bons, you’ll never lose me,” Marcail said earnestly. “And life is never the same. It always changes as we change. You know that.”

  Bonnie nodded and visibly shook her introspective mood off. “Yeah, sorry, I’m in a weird mood. Anyway, happy birthday and let’s hope it’s a good one. Come on, we better get inside before Dad decides we’ve fallen off a cliff or done a runner. I wonder why he’s asked Paden to go over to the village for him?”

  “His bad leg,” Marcail said with pseudo-innocence.

  They both burst out laughing.

  * * * *

  Marcail didn’t feel much like laughing a couple of hours later, as she, her mum, her dad and Bonnie gathered in the kitchen and began to carve their neeps—turnips.

  Ruari, handed the vegetables round, then glanced at the clock. “One hour each and go. Baird’s going to bring his with him. I’ve told him we trust him to follow the rules.”

  “Do we?” Marcail asked with a snigger. “Really?”

  “Probably not,” her mum said. “But at least he should bring one to be lit at the appropriate time.”

  “What about Paden?”

  “He can judge them.”

  “Well, we all know who will win then, don’t we?” Bonnie said with a scowl. “Not worth bothering.”

  “Bonnie, enough already,” Ruari said with a finality that made Bonnie firm her lips and look down to her turnip. “If you can’t say anything pleasant don’t say anything at all.”

  After that reprimand Bonnie was subdued, with her eyes cloudy and a preoccupied manner. Twice her mum asked her if she was all right, and she’d answered with an abstracted, “Fine.”

  Marcail sent her a swift glance of query, but it was ignored. She mentally shrugged and got on with the tricky job of carving teeth into a very hard vegetable. Not easy, and she lost track of how many times her turnip became toothless. It made more flesh to cook for the pie if nothing else.

  While their dad went to answer the phone and their mum to get some apples out of the pantry so she could make their traditional apple cake, Marcail took the paring knife from her sister. “If you carve any more off that turnip your lantern will need to be held together with sticky tape,” she said. “There’s more cut out than left.”

  “As long as she’s not using me as her model.”

  “Who knows?”

  Bonnie half-smiled. “At least it means there will be plenty of it for supper. Do you remember the year Dad forgot to get the turnips in, and we all did a different fruit? Disaster, and orange with crofter’s pie instead of neeps is a big no thanks.”

  Marcail laughed. She well remembered that. “When I was wee, I wouldn’t eat crofter’s pie as I thought it had Old Mrs McNee in it, as she was the only crofter I knew. Mum had to explain it was minced-up meat covered with neeps and tatties and cooked in the oven. Even then I was sceptical.” She smiled as she remembered those long-ago days, and her childhood misconceptions. “Then we got the fruit stuff. Urgh. At least we’ll not be subjecting Paden to that debacle.”

  Bonnie’s expression darkened, and Marcail had had enough. She dropped her knife, slammed her hands onto the long, scrubbed, wooden kitchen table and made everything on it jump and rattle.

  “That’s it, no more. You might not like him, no one says you have to, but I do, and you will be civil.”

  Bonnie pursed her lips.

  Marcail sighed. “This is so not like you, Bonnie. Why?”

  “Don’t let me come between you and your sister, ma
ghaol.”

  “I won’t let her come between us though.”

  Marcail waited as Bonnie bit her lip.

  “I don’t know, and it’s worrying me. It seems all our traditions are being changed, and for what?”

  “I wish I knew, but I don’t,” Marcail said. “But taking it out on Paden is so not on. Why not be narked with Dad, or Mum? Or Baird because he’s not here?”

  “He’s teaching.”

  “So?” Marcail was on a roll and ready to show how she thought Bonnie was wrong. “You can still blame him. That’s irrational. Or me because it seems something is to happen to me? That’s equally illogical and absurd.”

  Bonnie stared at her, gave a loud sob, turned on her heel and almost ran out of the room.

  Well, that went well. However, Marcail accepted it had had to be said. Whether Bonnie did or not was up to her.

  “Well, you have set the cat amongst the pigeons haven’t you, Marcail Morven?”

  Marcail spun around to see the white-haired lady—me, my once-upon-a-time self—rocking gently in the old chair that sat by the Aga. Next to where her dad had said in days gone by the stove would have been. The warmest place in the house.

  The lady smiled. “I see I’ve not become any more careful with my tongue these days. Always could flay a besom when need be.”

  Marcail blinked. “Ah…?”

  “You youngsters, to not even know your own language. Tear a strip, tell them what you think, you know, not stand for any nonsense. Agh, I dinna think wee Bonnie is a besom. She’s troubled, and who can blame her.” The woman tilted her head to one side. “That’s your ma coming back. Be kind. You’ve not long to wait now.”

  Not long was still too long, Marcail decided as the woman vanished. She’d be a-gibbering by nightfall.

  “I’ll not let you.”

  That was something to be thankful for at any rate.

  * * * *

  In between pouring glasses of champagne, Ruari kept glancing at his watch and muttering under his breath. More than once his wife touched his shoulder in a recognisable gesture of reassurance.

  “Where’s Paden?” Marcail asked at last, in a ‘doesn’t really matter but just wondering’ way. Or she hoped it was. “And Baird? He’s got no excuse, it’s not a school day.”

  “Paden has gone to do something for me,” her dad said uninformatively as he handed glasses around. “And you know as well as I do, Baird will come when he can.” His tone didn’t invite any more questions. “Meanwhile, we’ll drink to your health, Marcail Morven Drummond, and wish you wealth, health and happiness and all your heart desires. To join with our spirit guides to bless you, take care of you and show you your path in life. To give you strength and determination to do as you should and to ensure your life is enriched.”

  A clap of thunder made all of them jump.

  “Is that a sign you’ve said enough, Pa?” Marcail asked, using the nickname Ruari hated. “Time for me to open my presents?”

  Her dad appeared discomforted. “Don’t call me Pa,” he said in an automatic way. “Drink your fizz and hold your horses. Don’t rush your fences.”

  “Oh glory, he’s in one of his horsey-saying moods,” Bonnie murmured to Marcail, who bit back a snigger. “What next, stop chomping at the bit?”

  Marcail rolled her eyes. “Probably or, don’t bet on the wrong horse, or don’t change horse midstream,” she said under her breath.

  “What are you two muttering about?” Ruari demanded. “It’s rude to whisper in company.”

  “Nice fizz, Dad,” Marcail said hastily. “Nice treat.”

  “Nasty word,” Ruari said snippily. “Nice. It’s overused and trite.”

  “Sorry.” Marcail had forgotten the word was one of her dad’s bugbears. “It’s got a smooth and dry taste and I’m sure the nose has mango and apricots.”

  Her dad shook his head in mock sorrow. Or she hoped it was mock. “Ingrate. Don’t over-egg it, merely say it’s a very pleasant champagne.”

  “Darn it.” Marcail threw her hands up in the air in pseudo-annoyance and spoiled the gesture by giggling. “And there I’ve been reading up tasting notes, just to impress you.”

  Ruari laughed, his good temper seemingly restored. “No need, love, just enjoy it.”

  Marcail nodded and looked towards the table, where she could see a large wicker basket. “Is it not present-opening time? It’s not long till Samhain, and we’ll want it over and done by then, surely?”

  Her dad frowned. “As soon as Paden gets back. If it’s too late you can open them after we’ve welcomed those passed over into our lives once more.”

  Yet more changes.

  “No need, we’re here.”

  Marcail swung round to see who’d spoken.

  “Baird. When did you arrive?”

  Chapter Seven

  “This minute. Paden came across for me.” Baird held out his arms, and Marcail went into them for a hug.

  “And me.”

  Oh how she wished.

  “You got brought over?” That was something out of the ordinary. Baird usually travelled to the island in his canoe. She opened her mouth to ask why, and out of the corner of her eye saw her dad frown and shake his head.

  “Brilliant,” she said instead. “We can get started early then. More time for me to savour my presents.”

  “Who says you’ve got any?” Baird said. “Maybe you’re too old for presents now?”

  “Ha, in your dreams. I will never be too old for pressies.” Marcail nodded towards the basket on the table. “That’s got my name on it.”

  “It’s as well I didn’t buck the trend then. Happy birthday, love.” Baird handed Marcail a slim package just as the old grandfather clock in the hall began a series of groans and wheezes, which signalled it was about to chime. “Just in time.” Baird accepted the glass of champagne his father handed him and held it high. “To Marcail, to wish her all that is right, proper and good.”

  Marcail smiled as the others—except Paden—joined in with the salutation. He raised his glass and merely said, “To Marcail.”

  “My salutation will be private, ma ghaol, and hopefully be all we both desire.”

  Now she was impatient to hear what Paden had to say to her. Before she had time to think properly, she heard him in her mind. “Not until we’ve eaten tonight, sadly. Then we will know if…”

  “If?”

  Silence.

  “If, dammit?”

  “Marcail, are you ready to open your presents?” Her mum looked at her quizzically. She glanced around to see everyone staring at her expectantly. All except Paden, who smirked.

  “You’ve had one, eh?”

  “Stop it now. I need to be with it.”

  “Of course,” she said in a composed manner, and sat down in what the family called ‘the birthday chair’. A big old armchair, which family history said had belonged to one of their ancestors who was supposed to be watching over them all. No one said who it was, or why he or she had decided they needed watching. All that had ever been said was it wasn’t Morven.

  “Definitely not Morven.” Paden perched on her chair arm, swinging one leg and resting his arm along the top of the back, his fingers almost touching the nape of her neck, as the others sat around in a semicircle. “She watches in other ways.”

  Marcail ignored his words. They told her nothing new and she had other things to think about. To whit, to not let herself lean back and invite his caress. Not the time or the place.

  Instead she recollected how lucky she was.

  “Right then, here we go.” She picked up the first parcel and shook it. A ritual for each of them with their first present on a birthday or at Christmas. Their mum had decreed only the first or they’d spend all day opening presents, especially at Christmas, when they took turns.

  “It doesn’t rattle sing or squawk,” she said. “Or smell. It’s squashy.” She pulled one piece of sticky tape off, slowly, carefully, as if it were gold-dusted. “St
ill no clink, jangle or pong. So it’s not blue cheese, bath bombs or pound coins.” She grinned and pulled off another piece of tape. “It doesn’t…ooft.”

  Bonnie put her hand over Marcail’s mouth. Also tradition. “Enough already, stop milking it. We’ve only got until sunset and we need to be washed, dressed and tidy by then.” Some years it had been a close-run thing.

  Marcail nodded and Bonnie removed her hand. “Okay, I’m on to it.” She took the rest of the tape off and peeled back the cheesy ‘happy baa day’ paper away from the contents.

  A cardboard box. She lifted the flap, revealed the contents and gasped. “Bonnie, you gem, it’s gorgeous.”

  Carefully Marcail lifted the plaid and held it high. “You wove this, didn’t you?”

  “Yep, so ignore any mistakes you can see, or not see, even. I’ll just say they’re there so it’s not perfect and can’t offend anyone with its perfection. Evil eyes and gods and so on.”

  “Fair enough. I love it.” Marcail put it gently to one side and took another parcel out of the basket. This one did rattle, and she found earrings from her parents, plus some cash. Baird had brought her book tokens and a voucher for her favourite clothes shop, plus a packet marked ‘open tomorrow’.

  “Why tomorrow?” Marcail asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “So you can concentrate on today. I know you. You open a box of choc— Damn, now you know what’s in it.”

  “Aww, thank you. I will save it, especially if it’s my favourite?”

  Baird grinned. “Would I dare buy anything else? But it’s not for today or…”

  “You won’t eat your dinner,” her family chorused.

  “You rotters. I would.” She laughed. “And feel sick after.”

  “Any more presents in there?” Paden asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.

  Marcail peered into the depths of the basket. “Just one.” A tiny box, wrapped in plain brown paper, with no gift tag.