by L. L. Muir
“So that’s where it was!” Percy had searched that wall a dozen times hoping to find the tunnel entrance.
Percy took up the torch again, then seated it just inside the tunnel before dragging Jules inside and pulling the door shut again. Though Jules struggled, he was able to keep a hold on her wrist while he closed the door.
Wickham waved his hand again and they were suddenly on the other side of the wall, about ten feet inside the tunnel itself.
Percy sneered. “Those Muirs came sneaking up the corridor while I searched for the entrance to yer enchanted tomb. They had to have come from somewhere, and I knew if I waited long enough, they’d lead me to their secret. Let’s hope the torch lasts long enough to reach the other end, aye?”
The real Percy stood next to a silent Wickham until his desperate self passed, then they fell into step behind them. They hadn’t gone another ten feet before the filthy hand released her arm and fell away.
“Why are we here,” that Percy asked, though he kept walking with the torch held high.
Jules’ head turned sharply, looked closely at his expression. Then finally, she said, “We’re looking for the end of the tunnel.”
Percy whispered to Wickham. “He’s forgotten already?”
“Aye. And he’ll forget much more.”
Twenty paces later, the man asked again. “Why are we here?”
“We’re looking for the end of the tunnel.”
The next time he asked, Percy realized his other self had shrunk in size. His kilt hung well below his knees and he was no longer as tall as his captive.
“Who are ye,” the lad asked.
Jules put her arm around his shoulder. “My name is Juliet. And you are Percy.”
“That’s right,” he said. Then not a minute later, “Who are you?”
The question and all it revealed sent a shiver through Percy and he had to stop for a moment, bend over, and let the truth settle in his stomach. Wickham waited for him. When they started walking again, they moved a little slower, neither one of them in a hurry to eavesdrop.
Soon, spikes of daylight pierced the foliage that covered the entrance. Juliet pushed branches out of the way while the laddie beside her held tight to his great kilt that threatened to fall to the ground. After a bit of maneuvering, the pair stood in the sunshine, their hands clutched tight enough to turn their knuckles white.
“Do you know your name,” Jules asked the lad.
He nodded. “Percy. Percy Gordon. Son of Mary Aiken, but she’s dead.”
“And your family?”
“A sister and seven brothers, most of them mean as the devil’s dog.”
She put her arm around his wee shoulders. “Well, don’t you worry about them. I have a much happier place to take you… A very, very happy place.”
Percy wiped at a trail of tears on his cheek, and whispered, “She was Santa Claus all along…”
Chapter Eleven
Between one heartbeat and the next, Wickham took Percy to the top of the hill where they had a clear but distant view of what followed afterward. A lump in Percy’s throat threatened to choke him completely when Quinn, Monty, and James Ferguson came barreling onto the scene, on horseback no less.
Instant family. Add water, stir.
Percy watched carefully when Quinn welcomed his younger self in spite of the fact that he’d threatened Jules’ life less than an hour before.
Wickham cleared his throat. “Quinn’s a fine man, aye?”
“Oh, aye. A laddie couldn’t ask for better. For a kinder father.”
“It was a mean life they meant to spare ye from, that’s clear.”
Percy nodded.
“And now that ye’ve seen it, I am ready to answer yer question.” He waited for him to pull his attention away from the others and look him in the eye. “Ye asked if I could restore what the tunnel took away. I can. But do not take such a decision lightly. The years and the memories come as a package. Ye cannot choose to have one back and not the other. Nor can I give ye only the pleasant memories. Ye’ll have to accept the hard ones as well, and the pain that comes with them.
“Remember, lad, what pain can do to some men.”
Percy finally understood what Wickham was trying to say. “Ye’re saying I must choose which Percy I wish to be.”
“I am. Exactly that.”
“But will I also keep the memories I have now, of Jules and Quinn? Of the family—and all this?” He gestured all around him, but meant the entire day they’d spent in the past.
Wickham’s brows rose. “There’s the rub, lad. I can leave these memories as well. But that is much to fit into one lad’s head, is it not?”
Percy held out his arms. “I am Percy Gordon. I was loved by only a few, but now I am loved by many. I choose to remember them all—and all that goes with it. I think the twenty-year-old me was not nearly as bad a man as The Gordon hoped. What he did, he did for William’s sake. And if the memories prove otherwise, well, I hope my newer memories can temper them.”
Wickham nodded approvingly. “Wise words from a fourteen-year-old laddie.”
“Oh, I think the older version is in here somewhere. Time to let him out, I think.”
“It will be a shock to yer parents, I think. But they have endured many such—”
“I am not going back.”
Wickham bit his lips together and waited for more.
“If I remember right, Jules will take the younger me away soon, aye?”
The man nodded.
“So in a wee while, there will be no Percy here. If ye restore me to my older self, complete with memories, I can go home again, as if I’d never gone through that tunnel.”
“I don’t understand. Why would ye want to return to that life?”
Percy paused to compose himself, determined not to become emotional. Saying his farewells had been hard enough, that morning. He didn’t care to go through it all again.
“I love my Emmie,” he said, “as a real brother would. And I loved my Betha just as well. But while Emmie has plenty of family to watch over her, Betha has nothing. Without William, without me, I fear for her. And if I’ve learned anything from the Rosses and Muirs, it is that family comes first. Family is all.”
Just when he was sure the man would try to convince him otherwise, Wickham nodded. “I understand. It will not be easy for ye, but with yer memory restored, at least ye will be able to take care of yerself here.”
“‘Tis where God put me, aye?”
“Ye should steer clear of Muirs, then, if ye wish to stay.”
Both of them laughed, and when the laughter was spent, Wickham faced him, put his hands to either side of Percy’s head and gave him a pained smile. “Godspeed, Percy Gordon.”
Wickham appeared on the hillside behind Castle Ross that night. He might have popped up at the front door of the manor house, but he’d wanted a brisk walk to prepare himself. Bringing bad news to someone’s door was not something he did often, and he dreaded doing it now.
The October night had just enough chill to make him nice and alert. Beneath his boots, the leaves crunched and wee branches snapped. Winter, he suspected, would be a long and cold one this year.
Of course, he could peek ahead and see if that would truly be the case, instead of wondering, but he’d made a promise to himself and to God, that if he was able to save his beloved Ivy, to live out their lives together, he would never touch the future when he could help it.
Besides, what was the fun of living if ye kenned how it would all turn out?
He owed God a debt for using the tunnel to get his Ivy back, so he’d done his best to only use his “talents” for good. And to look into the future to satisfy his own impatience would prove him ungrateful.
And so, for the weather...and the rest of the future, he would wait and see like everyone else. He just hoped Quinn and Jules would understand the protocol.
The path down the hill from the castle to the manor was too short by half and he arriv
ed on the doorstep before he was quite ready. But it was just as well. Ivy and his laddies would be happy to see him home so soon when he’d been prepared to be gone for days.
He knocked on the door for fear of waking Emmie. He lifted his hand to knock again when the entry windows lit up, then the porch itself. Quinn opened the inner door and greeted him with a smile that quickly fled when he realized Wickham was alone. He paused for a moment to take a few deep breaths before opening the outer glass door.
“Wickham,” he said.
“Quinn.”
“Come in. I’ll get Jules and put the kettle on.”
“Brilliant.”
Quinn waved him through to the back of the house where they found Jules sitting at the kitchen table staring at a laptop. She looked up with a smile. When she realized who’d come calling, she jumped to her feet and gave him a quick hug. Her hands clutched at his shoulders however when she, too, realized he was alone.
Wickham was quick to grab her, to keep her from collapsing to the floor. Quinn pulled her around to face him, then gathered her into his embrace.
Thinking to give them some space, Wickham ducked into the kitchen to put the kettle on himself. By the time the water was hot and he’d set a tray, the worst of the shock was over.
Jules and Quinn followed him into the great room. The couple cuddled their cups while they listened to details of the day.
“It was a strange thing, to see him grown. I had been aware of what the tunnel took from him, but still...” Hoping to ease their worry, he added, “A tall heathy laddie, he was. Able to take care of himself, to be sure. And I was impressed that he thought his duty lay in caring for his other sister. I am certain he will do well.”
“Mumma?” Emmie padded into the room, frowned at Wickham, then hurried to her mother. “What’s wrong?”
Jules shook her head. “We were just visiting, honey. You need to go back to bed.”
The lassie looked at her father. “Where’s Percy?” She turned to Wickham. “You lost him.”
Since he couldn’t have said it better himself, he nodded. The lass was canny. No use arguing with this one. She reminded him a great deal of Soncerae, even though he hadn’t known of his niece when she was Emmie’s age.
Emmie came to stand between his feet, then reached up and laid a hand against his cheek. “Don’t be sad. Percy will find his way home.”
Quinn got to his feet. “I’m sure he will, love. Now, I’ll tuck ye in again, shall I?”
She took hold of her father’s finger and let him lead her from the room. Jules grabbed Wickham’s arm as soon as they were out of earshot. “Do you think she knows something?”
He pretended not to know what she was asking. “What do ye mean?”
“Emmie. Do you think she means that Percy will come back? Sometimes...she just seems to know things.” She lifted her shoulders and grimaced. “She’s got Muir blood, you know?”
Wickham laughed. “But she was a single birth.”
“So was Soni.”
“But Soni is the daughter of a witch, who was the daughter of a witch. Yer mother was not a witch.”
Jules nodded and sank back into the couch. “I’m probably just wishful thinking—not that she’ll be saddled with the responsibility, but that she would be right about Percy.”
Wickham shook his head. “A child’s coping mechanism, I’m sure.” He, too, had wondered about Emmie many times, but since the responsibility usually didn’t develop until puberty, he’d always chalked it up to his own imagination. He might be wrong. But even if Jules and Jillian had been gifted with a touch of talent, their mother hadn’t been. And rules were rules. Weren’t they?
Monty and Jillian’s twins, however, were another matter. They might seem normal and well-mannered even, but once Ewan and Seumas hit puberty, the family would discover what Nature had in store for the laddies. Already, Ewan had an uncanny gift for knowing just what his brother was up to, even if Seamus was outside with his animals. Wickham was surprised Jillian hadn’t yet noticed.
“I won’t hold you hostage any longer,” Jules said. “I know you’d like to get home.” She swallowed hard. “But if you don’t mind, I won’t walk you to the door. I’ve said all the goodbye’s I can handle for a while.”
Chapter Twelve
Percy woke on an unfamiliar cot. Blankets hung all around, covering the walls and windows but for pernicious fingers of sunlight peeking through holes here and there.
Daytime, then.
He assumed he’d drunk heavily for a week…in a puddle of cold mud. Or mayhap he’d been stretched on the rack, his bones ached so.
Part by part, he stretched his body to see if there might be a wound somewhere. And while he stretched, a dream came creeping back into his head like water slipping through the cracks. Then it exploded like a barrel of spirits hit with a powerfully-swung ax! He closed his eyes and held his head, to keep it from exploding as well. Moans echoed around him in spite of the blankets, and he realized he was the source of them all.
Pain. Lots of pain. Lots of words, images. Tide after tide of emotions.
William! Oh, William! Mother!
He rolled onto his belly and sobbed the air from his lungs. Emmie’s smiling face pushed the other images away.
“Best not to lie to a sister,” she said. “I’ll be right here, pet.”
“No need to choose which Percy ye wish to be,” said a different voice in his head. “There is only one Percy now.”
“Only one Percy now,” he repeated. “Only one Percy now.”
The face of Emmie was still there, but consigned to a memory. Jules and Quinn would remain a part of him as well, but he had to set those thoughts aside. It was time to think of Betha now.
He stood, held his arms out to catch his balance, then noted how much farther apart his hands were and far away his feet seemed. His hand found the stubble on his chin, his jaw. He ran his fingers through his long hair. His denim jacket was gone, and too small for him now in any case. Air stirred around his knees; his pants had been replaced by his old kilt.
What would The Gordon say if he suddenly started wearing shirts?
He sat back on the bed and put his head in his hands. So many details to get straight. What he needed was a drink.
A blanket whipped out of the way and a woman with long straight hair held out a small crock. “Wine,” she said.
He took it. The blanket fell back into place.
“No hurry,” she called. “Stay as long as ye need.”
He’d seen her before, standing in the room below Isobelle Ross’ tomb. There had been two of them. More Muirs, obviously. Wickham had warned him…
He downed the wine, set the crockery on the floor, and stood again. “I must go. And thank ye.”
“Anything,” she said, when he pushed the blanket away and strode to the door. “For family…”
Had it been only five days since he’d left Gordon Keep? And had anyone missed him?
He approached the tanner, Aulay Gordon, whose vocation proved to be a mite smelly and required him to work beyond the clan’s noses from time to time. The man stood inside a large wagon full of barrels, stirring with a stick and examining what floated inside them like an old woman cooking half a dozen different soups at the same time.
The man’s sight was questionable, so Percy pulled his plaid into a hood that covered his head and blocked half his face. “What kind of day is it, old man, inside the keep?”
“A sad day for The Gordon,” Aulay said, then spit over the edge of the wagon.
It was disturbing to think the man might be sampling his dyes, but Percy concentrated on the task at hand. “Sad, ye say? What is amiss?”
“He’s lost a son, he has. The laird who started with eight is down to six.”
Percy bore down against the dread threatening to turn his stomach. Could he have been gone long enough that his father thought him dead? And if he walked back into the keep, would he be welcomed, or would he be accused of ris
ing from the dead?
He accepted the unlikely prospect that his father would be pleased to see him. No matter how he might have wanted the man’s attention before, he was almost over wanting it now. Almost.
With his need to get Betha away from her violent family as quickly and smoothly as possible, he had to think clearly. He had to learn all he could before he walked back through those doors. He had to be one step ahead of his clan.
Across the road his eye was caught by the swing of a lass’ hips. She carried a large basket, and with one hand pinning the thing against her side, it only exaggerated the sway of her skirts as she strode purposefully away from the gates of the curtain wall.
Perhaps she would have the information he needed, and he could escape the smells coming from the wagon, and the man inside it.
Aulay chuckled as he raced away, as if Percy was not the first to run from him. But Percy didn’t look back, so eager was he to catch the lass before she got too far.
When she was within half a dozen feet, he called out. “Might I carry yer basket for ye?” His tongue fell easily back into Gaelic, as if he’d never spoken anything else.
The girl flipped her long hair over one shoulder to look back at him. Though her tresses were dark and brown, the sun made it shine like gold where it curled. With a sly smile, she scrutinized him from foot to chin, but when she reached the latter, her eyes widened. She turned away, grabbed her basket with both hands, and tried to leave him in the dust.
Did she think him a ghost? Why would she do such a—
He realized that instead of watching her skirts, he should have been studying her face, for he would have realized sooner who she was.
Shona Marr.
Her name had haunted him from the time he was fifteen, though the face that had gone with it did more to make his heart race than he thought possible. As a lassie, she’d had closely set eyes, a wide mouth, and a long thin nose covered in freckles. Her hair had been lighter, and a ball of spun wool. And still he’d thought her the most beautiful lass in the world.
