Love by the Stroke of Midnight

by Raven McAllan

“From me,” Paden said. “A beginning, if you like.”

  Marcail’s pulse sped up at the quiet intensity in his tone. She took the paper off, opened the box and stared. A tiny, silver tree of life. Less than an inch in size, it was perfectly crafted, and gave her goosebumps. In Celtic culture it was said to represent the afterlife and connection between the earth and heaven. “It’s exquisite,” she said when she could find her voice. “Will you pin it on for me?”

  “It will be my honour and my pleasure.” Paden leaned forwards and pinned the brooch to the front of her shirt. “The rest will, I hope, follow later,” he whispered, only loud enough for her to hear. “There now, how’s that?”

  “Perfect, thank you.” Uncaring of her interested—in her father’s case, suspicious—glances from the others, she kissed him. “I have been so fortunate today.” So far. She was still waiting to discover why Paden was with them.

  “Soon, not long now.”

  “Good.” She kissed the rest of the family in turn. “Thank you, all of you, my presents are lovely. In fact…” She grinned at her dad. “Rather nice.”

  He laughed. “Go on with you. I’ll give you nice. Right, folks, it’s time to ask Paden to judge the neep carving so we can put the tea lights in. Baird, where’s yours?”

  Baird rolled his eyes. “On the table with the rest so it’s totally impartial judging by Paden.”

  Paden rubbed his hands together. “I’ve not sensed, peeked or cheated, I’m not impaired by whisky, and as requested, I’ll judge on first sight and aesthetic appearance.” He bowed as they all clapped. Marcail giggled. The light-hearted attitudes of them all was welcome after so much deep introspection she’d seen around.

  “Now, let me see…” Very slowly he walked around the circular table, where each turnip could be seen from every angle. Marcail could make a guess at whose was which. She knew Bonnie’s of course, and her own, but she guessed the one half-finished with only very crude apertures in it was her dad’s—he didn’t have the patience to carve elegantly—the one with lots of fiddly little cut-outs was her mum’s, which left the one with jaggy teeth and not much else as Baird’s.

  Paden studied each neep with intensity until at last he straightened. “That one.” He pointed to Bonnie’s carving. “It works in every way for me. Plenty of ways to let the light shine through, and lots of neep carved out to eat. That’s a win-win.”

  Marcail whistled and clapped, as Bonnie appeared stunned. “Yay, go you, Bons.”

  “Mine?” Bonnie said slowly. “You sure?”

  “Very sure,” Paden replied. “I crown you Champion Samhain Neep Carver.”

  Ruari clapped his hands. “Thank you, Paden. Bonnie, well done. Let’s get a move on. Time to don our glad rags. See you all back down here by half past four at the latest.” He made shooing motions. “Scoot.”

  Marcail headed up the main stairs, hand in hand with Paden as Baird disappeared in the opposite direction and Bonnie went out to walk to her cottage. “When does this big reveal or whatever happen?”

  “After our meal,” Paden said. “Once we’ve honoured those we remember. Then…” He paused as they reached the landing. “It’s in the hands of the spirits. And you.”

  Reassuring—not.

  “Thanks, I think.” Marcail gestured to her door. “What about throwing nuts on the fire, lighting the turnip lanterns and so on. Will you take part?”

  “Of course,” Paden said. “And hope my nut smoulders, not spits, and we have a smooth relationship.”

  Marcail blushed. He was so sure they would be together. “If we have one.”

  “I can only pray we do,” he said soberly. “And that it will be shown to us sooner rather than later.”

  “That sounds ominous,” Marcail said.

  “Not ominous. Just inevitable.”

  Clear as mud again.

  “Sorry, but it is as it is.”

  It was fair enough, she supposed. Marcail indicated her room. “Are you coming in?”

  Paden shook his head. “No, this is your parents’ house and that would be disrespectful, even if we only talked.” He paused and pulled her into his arms. “Which we wouldn’t.”

  “I suspect not.” There wasn’t a lot of suspect about it, it was almost certain they wouldn’t. Even as they were she could sense the tension in him, and every one of her nerves were on edge. Sexual tension bar nothing. “I’ll see you later. No later than half past.”

  “May I come for you? To escort you?” Paden asked with quiet diffidence. “Be the partner I wish to be?”

  “I’d like that,” Marcail said honestly. “I’d like it very much.”

  “Then until just before half past,” Paden said with a grin. “I won’t dare make it any earlier. Unless you need me to do up zips, fasten buttons, bras…”

  “I’ll pass,” Marcail said dryly. “As I’m not sure fastening would be your inclination.”

  “I’m damned sure it wouldn’t,” Paden said with frankness. “Oh, how the body wants one thing, and your heritage insists it’s not getting it.” He handed her a small gift bag she hadn’t noticed before. “To keep the jitters at bay.”

  * * * *

  Marcail waited until she was sure no one was around, grabbed her tote with everything she thought she’d need, and once more used the back stairs to reach the kitchen.

  She opened the door cautiously and checked the room was empty before going in and swiftly emptying the bag on the table. The family took turns to make the yearly soul cakes, small round buns full of spices and dried fruits handed out on All Hallows’ Eve in mediaeval times and maybe still, were in some places. Her family always had them. She bet with everything that was going on, they all thought she’d forgotten about the cakes. She hadn’t, she just hadn’t had the time to make them. Marcail set to work.

  “Smells good.”

  She turned around. No Bonnie or her mum, just her earlier self once more in the rocking chair. “You do keep popping up,” she said, not fazed this time by the apparition. “Why now?”

  “It’s time.”

  She was already mighty fed up of that comment. Marcail nodded. “Okay.”

  The old woman laughed. “I haven’t changed much over the generations.”

  Marcail turned to take the cakes out of the oven and put them on a baking tray. When she turned back the chair was empty. She shrugged—she was definitely becoming used to such things now. A quick glance at the clock told her she’d have to get a move on, or she’d be late to welcome in Samhain, which was not acceptable. She washed up and, with the cakes, headed for her bedroom. It was time to hurry.

  A quick shower did nothing to help calm the nerves she’d had on and off all day, although the tiny bottle of gin, can of tonic and the ice cubes in an insulated pack, along with three chocolates and a mini bar of shortbread did. The bottle had a label on it saying ‘Marcail’s Birthday Booze’, the tonic ditto, and the ice cube bag a sign saying ‘reusable’. She loved it.

  Her dress was warm, velvet and long. She pinned her brooch to it, put her new earrings in and Bonnie’s plaid around her shoulders. She’d have loved to have worn her fur-lined boots but her mum would have objected, so she contented herself with thermal tights and leather ankle boots.

  Just before twenty-five past four, there was a knock on the door. Marcail picked up her bag with an assortment of nuts for the fire-throwing tradition and also the soul cakes she’d made when she’d snuck downstairs. They were now in a box she’d brought with her just for that reason. She headed to meet Paden.

  And stopped dead when she saw him. “Wow.”

  “Have I scrubbed up well?” he asked with a grin.

  “I’ll say.” Marcail let herself take a long, leisurely look at his kilt-clad body. “More than. Go on, give us a twirl.”

  He obliged and turned round in a circle so his kilt spun out around him. Sadly, not quite high enough for her to see… Do not go there, not now. “Why is it a bloke in a kilt is so much more of a turn-on than, sa
y, a guy in a tux?” she asked.

  “The thought of whether he’s a true Scotsman or not?” Paden asked as he took her bag from her and held out his other hand to her. “Do you really need to ask that of me?”

  “You’re probably right, and I guess not.”

  “Hurry up, you two, Dad’s doing his ‘what’s keeping everyone, it’s almost time’ act,” Baird called from the ground floor. “He’s about to upset Mum, and then what a lovely Samhain we’ll have.”

  He was also in a kilt, and although he looked good, and he was her brother to boot, Marcail decided Paden knocked spots of him. Which, as she had more than sibling affection for Paden, was not a fair comparison.

  “On our way.” They descended to the hall hand in hand and accompanied Baird into the lounge.

  Ruari was resplendent in a kilt of the family tartan, Margaret in a long plaid skirt, and Bonnie in deep maroon velvet.

  “Aren’t we all posh?” Marcail said as she handed the box of cakes to her mum. “I didn’t forget.” She chose not to admit when she’d made them. “Something smells good.”

  “Dinner, of course,” Margaret said. “I’ve just had the Aga door open to check it’s all well. It is.”

  “It’s time,” Ruari said softly. “Let’s go and greet the sunset and welcome in Samhain.” He lit the lanterns and passed one to each of them. Somewhere, somehow, there was now one for Paden.

  “My creativity when you went to bake. Yes, I sensed you, no I didn’t interfere. You had a visitor anyway, didn’t you?”

  “Let’s go.” Ruari led the way outside to the long western-facing terrace where the sun was just about to slide below the horizon.

  “Blessed be. Welcome to Samhain.” It was time to start their remembrance and giving thanks, along with some traditions and family customs.

  As ever, Marcail repeated the words and bent her head to add her own words of thanks and prayers. These few moments were private, the rest of the day was celebrated as a family.

  “Except when we talk, that will be private also.”

  Marcail decided she would probably be glad of that when the time came. After all, if she decided she needed to throw a hissy fit or have a breakdown she’d rather not let her family see it.

  “Don’t blame you, ma ghaol, but I’m hoping you won’t do either.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Shall we go and eat?” her dad said as they all stood up straight and took one last lingering look to the west where the sun had now completely gone and only a few thin rays shone up into the skies, dancing with the lengthening shadows. He glanced from Marcail to Paden. “I’ve a feeling a couple of the party want to move on swiftly.”

  “Not until the time is right,” Paden said. “But I’ll happily go into the warm.”

  * * * *

  The meal was perfect in every way. The place left empty, for the ancestors, the food, drink and chat all went seamlessly. Only Marcail appeared to get ever more tense. When it was time to share the soul cakes and give thanks for their home, food and family, a coal fell in the grate and she jumped, almost dropping the plate she was about to give to Paden. He took it from her and put his hand over hers in a comforting gesture. “Not long now, stay strong.”

  It was easier said than done.

  Marcail’s nerves were on edge, her skin felt too tight for her skeleton, and every noise, however soft, grated. She was, she acknowledged, a quivering wreck, and she still had to have a dram—she hated whisky—peel an apple—she never got the peel off in one go, which was what was best—and throw her nut on the fire—it always hissed and spat, which meant any relationship in the coming year would be fiery and argumentative. That was the last thing she wanted.

  Why couldn’t they just go and talk now? There was no answer to that, either out loud or in her mind. She took the apple her mum handed her, broke the peel three quarters of the way through as ever, ate the fruit absent-mindedly as Bonnie took the knife and got her peel off in one long strip. “At least I can do that right,” she said and crossed her eyes. “I’ll throw it over my shoulder at midnight.” If it landed in the shape of a letter, it was supposed to signify the initial of your love. As Marcail had never managed to do one long peel, she couldn’t say if there was any truth in it or not.

  “Good luck.” She handed the nuts out.

  Her mum’s and dad’s spat, which made them both laugh. They’d be the first to admit they could argue over trivia for ages. Bonnie’s sizzled a bit and disappeared.

  “That figures. Just like my love life, fizzles out before it gets started. Go on, Baird, you next.”

  Baird scowled. “I’ll pass.”

  “You will not,” his mum said. “It’s tradition.”

  He stood up and threw his nut onto the fire with such force it hit the back of the grate and burst into flames. “Sod tradition.” He stalked out of the room.

  Marcail stared at his retreating figure in amazement. Baird was usually the most unlikely of them to say or do anything like that. Paden squeezed her hand. “Let him be, he also has his problems.”

  “Us next,” he said lightly. “Come on, ma ghaol, let’s see what the year has in store.”

  “Together?” Marcail asked.

  “Together,” he confirmed. “One…two…three…” They flung their nuts onto the fire and waited.

  Watched until the nuts slowly burnt to ashes.

  “Well, wow,” Marcail said slowly. “Is that a good omen, or what?”

  Paden turned to her, his eyes watchful. “Shall we go and find out?” He waited until Marcail nodded before he turned and bowed to Ruari. “By your leave?”

  Ruari glanced from one to the other and inclined his head. “Given freely. Go with love, peace and the knowledge that whatever you do will be with the guidance and blessing of our ancestors. Think carefully, take care and remember what happens now will not only shape your future, but that of those still to come.”

  * * * *

  Paden held Marcail tightly to him as he hurried her out of the room and down a dimly lit, narrow corridor. Almost as if he were scared she might change her mind.

  “Hey, let me breathe,” she protested. “I’m not going anywhere except with you. I’d prefer not to trip or be unable to talk if I need to.”

  “What?” Paden looked at her with a total lack of comprehension and without slackening his speed.

  “Are we in a rush? My legs aren’t as long as yours, and I’m having trouble keeping pace with you.” Marcail did her best not to snap, to keep her tone light and unruffled. Totally opposite to how she felt.

  “Argh, sorry.” Paden slowed to a more temperate pace. “I’m at the point now where I’m the one shit scared and want to say what I have to with plenty of time to explain. It has to be completed by midnight. That’s only an hour or so.”

  “If this is too much, and not acceptable, I will be… It does…”

  “Be? Does?”

  Marcail waited for a second or two with no reply. “What does?”

  “You’ll see in a second, and here we are.” He opened the door to a room Marcail hadn’t known existed. In fact, she couldn’t remember seeing the corridor before either.

  Strange.

  “It’s not strange, mo ghaol, just not seen until now. You need to be in your thirtieth year. Twenty-nine years of age. As you are. Please come in.”

  He sounded so formal. Marcail’s heart missed a beat. She nodded and walked into…her what?

  “Your future, whatever you chose. This is the beginning.”

  “Just keep out of my mind for now, eh?” Marcail spoke out loud and fixed Paden with what she hoped was a gimlet stare. “If whatever this is, is so important, I want to hear it all vocalised, not internally. Then I want time to absorb it and come to a considered and informed decision on the information imparted.” She paused and thought over what she’d said. “Blimey, what do I sound like? Up myself or what?”

  Paden followed her inside and shut the door behind him. “You sound like
my lady,” he said quietly. “My love, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. The gorgeous person I want to be my wife.”

  “So soon?” she asked. She was definitely interested, attracted and open to suggestions of how they proceeded, but that was a lot to assimilate.

  “More likely so late,” he said cryptically. “Nevertheless, when you’re ready. If you ever are.” Paden took hold of Marcail’s hand and pressed her palm to his heart. “Do you trust me, ma ghaol?”

  “Of course I do,” Marcail responded promptly and honestly. She had no need to think about her answer. “With my life.”

  She was certain she felt his heartbeat speed up under her hand.

  “I mean it, Paden. With my life.”

  “Then will you sit with me? Hold me as I hold you and let me show you what could be?”

  She nodded. “Of course, but how?”

  “Like this. In our minds.” He settled her onto a long comfy settee and sat beside her, his hand over her heart as hers was still over his. “I’m going to hold you close to my heart, and ask you to close your eyes, open your mind and see what I’m going to show you.”

  “Thought transference?”

  “A wee peep into what the future could be.”

  “As long as my future is with you, I’m on,” Marcail said.

  “Then I pray what you see doesn’t change your mind.”

  Chapter Eight

  The room was different, that was for sure. The body next to hers, whose arm was flung over her, felt strangely familiar. Marcail turned onto her side and ignored the grunt and muttered, “Give over, woman, stop wriggling and stay still.”

  She was hungry, curious, and wondered why she was so warm, to say nothing of needing to go to the loo. There was no way she could comply with his diktat. “Bathroom.” She poked the nearest bit of body. A flat stomach. “Please, move.”

  Paden rolled over and opened one eye. “Door on the left.” He lifted his arm, stretched towards her as she got out of bed and patted her bum. “Nice ass.”

  Marcail grinned and wiggled it. “Thank you, kind sir, yours isn’t so bad either. I’d love to see it as you head for the kitchen and make me coffee and something to eat.”