"Yes." This time she didn't try to interject her own question. He was speaking too quickly.
"In fact you're studying Old Gaelic, are you not?"
"Why, yes." Maggie was surprised, almost pleasantly so. Why had no one at the college had any idea who she was, but this well-dressed stranger seemed to be perfectly aware of almost everything she was doing?
"In fact, you're searching for a lost dialect of Old Gaelic, correct?"
Okay, forget the 'almost.' This guy knows everything. But this is too much.
"Alright, Spanky. Just hold it right there." She extended a still scraped palm to emphasize the point. She wasn't sure where the 'Spanky' had come from, but she liked it and it seemed to have thrown him off his game, at least momentarily. She pressed her advantage. "Before I endure any more of your cross-examination, why don't you answer a couple of my questions?"
"Devan Sinclair."
This anticipation of her first question startled her for a moment. Not too hard to guess I'd ask his name, she assured herself.
"I own a bookshop down on Mearns Street."
Maggie wasn't convinced that this was going to be her next question, but she accepted the information. She wasn't sure where Mearns Street was. Her face must have betrayed her.
"It's a bit off the beaten path still," he smiled. "Down near the docks. Off Regent Quay."
With that added information she was able to approximate where it was, based on her previous stroll with her aunt. If she recalled correctly, that was on the edge of the more dangerous part of the waterfront.
"I specialize in unique and difficult to find volumes."
Maggie's face greeted this information with a blank stare.
"Specifically, I deal in books on the occult."
Now Maggie's face showed a reaction. Her eyebrows raised significantly and before she could stop herself her eyes darted instinctively to her backpack, then back at this Devan Sinclair person.
"Miss Devereaux," he leaned delicately onto the table. "It is my understanding that you have come into the possession of a certain text."
Her eyes widened the slightest bit before she could control it. She was certain he had noticed.
"I think you know the one I mean," he went on. "The one with the interesting black leather cover. I would like to purchase this book from you."
Now that surprised Maggie. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that. Her surprise must once again have shown on her face.
"I will pay very generously for it," he added simply. Maggie had no doubt he would.
He awaited her reply. She didn't know what to say. As she tried to recall the specifics of their whirlwind conversation, she was fairly certain she had not actually admitted to having any such book. Clearly he was referring to the library book she had in her backpack, but how could he know about that? She'd only had it for less than a day. Maybe he didn't really know, but was just guessing.
Pretty damn good guess, she thought.
Still, if this Sinclair guy had the brashness to accost her in this café—this café which she had only stumbled upon by chance?
Okay, this is getting too weird. This guy doesn't get any more info from me. And he certainly doesn't get the book.
"Well, here's how I see it," she began. "You're looking for a book you think I have, right?"
Devan Sinclair nodded patiently.
"And I'm a student here at the university, right?"
Again a silent nod.
"Well, then," she leaned back confidently. "It would stand to reason that any such book—and I'm not saying I have it—but if I did, any such book would most likely have come from the university library. And if that's the case, I wouldn't have the right to sell it to you anyway."
She crossed her arms triumphantly.
He looked at her for a moment, clearly puzzled. There were obvious faults in her logic, but when his lips parted, he said simply, "Maggie, it is not a library book."
Her shoulders dropped but she didn't say anything. Sinclair also didn't say anything for a moment as thoughts raced hidden behind his dark eyes.
"I admit I'm disappointed," he said finally, rising from his chair. "But not surprised."
Maggie guessed that he was rarely surprised by anything.
"But please consider my offer," he encouraged. "It will remain open indefinitely."
He reached into his inside coat pocket. "My card."
Maggie took the black business card with the silver lettering. 'Tales of the Occult Bookshop. Devan Sinclair, Proprietor.'
"Do stop by the shop sometime," he urged as he gathered himself up to leave. "We have many interesting old texts. I'm sure you'll find some pertaining to your studies." Then with the slightest of bows, "Good day."
He walked quickly past her chair but as she turned to look after him she was blinded again by the afternoon sun, this time reflecting off the café windows. When she looked again he was gone.
Wow, she thought. What just happened?
She wondered why he had been so eager to get his hands on the book. In truth, she didn't know more about it than four of the title's six words. But this Sinclair fellow certainly seemed to think it was important, whatever secrets it held. And what did he mean it wasn't a library book? How would he know? She had found it in the library. Of course it was a library book.
Wasn't it?
As she pondered these questions and more, she found herself becoming quite irritated at the man's intrusion into her peaceful afternoon. Just then, the waitress brought her plate of breads and cheeses.
"Oh, thank you." Then embarrassed, she asked in her American accent, "I can't remember, do I pay now or after I'm finished?"
"Don't worry about it, love," the waitress replied. "Your gentleman friend already took care of it. Said he'd see you at the bookshop."
Maggie's eyes narrowed. I'll be damned if he will.
"Anything else then?"
Maggie nodded and pointed at her half empty beer glass. "I think I'll be needing another one of those."
* * *
Maggie had finished her meal and was nursing the last half of her second pint, lost in thought. The sun had hidden itself behind some newly arrived clouds and a cool breeze played with her auburn hair. She paid little attention to the wind however. Her concentration was so focused on dissecting the conversation with Devan Sinclair that she at first didn't even notice the sound of her own name being called.
"—gie! Maggie!"
Maggie turned with a start to see Ellen Walker standing by the railing which separated the seating area from the street. She was smiling and waving. Behind her was Kelly Anderson who was doing neither.
"I see you've discovered The Duff Street Cafe," Ellen observed.
"Oh, is that what this is called?" Maggie replied. "I hadn't even thought to notice." Then a little belatedly, added, "Care to join me?"
"We would be delighted," Ellen enthused, although Kelly's face displayed anything but delight.
In no time, Ellen and Kelly had pulled up to the small table and had each ordered a pint to go along with Maggie's half-full glass.
"So how did you find the café?" Ellen asked. "This is a favorite spot for locals, but it's hard to find unless you know where it is."
Maggie decided not to relate the story of the mysterious feline tour guide and instead settled for, "I was just walking around, exploring, and stumbled across it."
Noticing that Kelly was looking around impatiently at nothing in particular, Maggie tried to include her in the conversation as well.
"Did you know about this café too, Kelly?"
Kelly turned, almost startled at actually being addressed. "Well, yes. But then I've been her longer than you, haven't I?"
"I suppose so," Maggie replied simply, wondering why it was that Kelly seemed to dislike her so much.
"So have you got to see much of Aberdeen yet?" Ellen asked as the waitress set down their drinks.
"A fair amount," Maggie nodded as she set her own be
er aside for a moment. A pint and a half of Scottish beer was not without its effects. Best to let the others catch up. "I'm staying with my aunt and uncle, you know, and so I've kind of been sightseeing with my aunt. And shopping."
"Ah, the best kind of sightseeing," Ellen agreed. Kelly made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
"Oh!" Maggie slapped the table. "And we went to the Mòd last week in Ballater!"
Ellen's eyes widened in appreciation. Even Kelly seemed to show some interest.
"Oh, how was it?" Ellen asked. "What did you see? Anything good? I usually go, but wasn't able to make it this year."
So Maggie described the various language and music and art and sport competitions she and her aunt had seen, from the poetry recitations to the shinty matches.
"Oh, the Mòd is so much fun," Ellen said wistfully. She bumped Kelly's arm. "We should have gone this year."
"Well, we went to Braemar," Kelly offered. She seemed to be warming up a bit, perhaps due to the already half-finished pint of bitter. "That was fun."
"Yes, that's true," Ellen agreed. "Did you go to that, Maggie?"
"Um, no. No, I didn't"
"Oh, see," Ellen grabbed Maggie's forearm gently. "Now that you really should have gone to. It's not as high-brow as the Mòd maybe, but there's quite a few burly lads in short kilts, eh, Kelly?"
"Uh, right," Kelly agreed reluctantly to the nudge in her ribs.
"How come you didn't go, Maggie?" Ellen asked raising her beer to her lips. "I'd have expected you to."
"Actually, I hadn't gotten to Scotland yet." Then after a moment she decided to just go ahead and explain. "My grandmother was pretty sick. I—um—well, actually, she passed away. The funeral was the same day I flew out."
"Oh," Kelly said.
"Oh," Ellen agreed. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Oh gosh, don't worry about it." Maggie dismissed their concern with a wave of one hand as her other reached again for her glass. "You didn't know. And it's not like you killed her. She had a long, rich life. I miss her, but I can talk about it."
Nobody said anything for a minute or two, the Ellen blurted out, "Have you been to Inverness yet?"
Kelly leveled a glare at Ellen which combined disbelief with disapproval. Ellen ignored it.
"No, not yet," Maggie said. "But I plan to. 'Capital of the Highlands' and all that."
Ellen smiled weakly. "Something like that. Look, I'm actually from Inverness and a small group of us are heading up there for a long weekend. We're going to stay with a friend of mine from school." Ellen continued to ignore Kelly's glare and asked Maggie, "Would you like to come along too?"
"Sure." Maggie's reply was immediate. "Sounds like fun. When is it?"
Kelly began moping into her beer.
"Two weeks from this Friday. The first weekend in November. Nothing special, just visiting the home town. Maybe we'll do some sight-seeing. Clava Cairns and such. Things like that."
"Sounds great," Maggie beamed. "Who else is going?"
"Right now, just you, me and Kelly," Ellen replied. "Fionna may come too. She's not sure yet. And a friend named Sarah Bell may come along as well."
"Oh, well, I hope Fionna can come," Maggie said. She didn't know Sarah Bell, but figured she was probably nice too.
"Me too," agreed Ellen. "It's kind of a girls only trip. She and Will already had plans, but she's going to see if she can move those."
Kelly rolled her eyes. "She worries about him too much."
"Well, anyway, I hope she can come," Maggie ignored Kelly's comment.
"Aye," Ellen replied as she finished off the last of her pint. "It'd be a real shame if she couldn't make it."
Looking down at her empty glass and confirming that Kelly's was empty too, Ellen stood up. "Well, we'd better get going. We've got a seminar at two o'clock. Don't want to be late."
"No," Kelly agreed, obviously pleased at the prospect of leaving.
"Are you heading into campus too?" Ellen asked, looking at Maggie's backpack.
Maggie looked down at it as well. She thought about what it contained and her conversation with Devan Sinclair.
"No, I just came from there," she lied. "I'm on my way home now. I've—I've got some reading to do. Sometimes I can concentrate better at home."
"All right then." Ellen dropped a few banknotes on the table. "I'll call you about Inverness if I don't see you."
"Great." Maggie waved as they exited the café and turned toward campus. She too left some money for her second beer, then headed back the way she had come. Her thoughts returned to the dark book and the mysterious Devan Sinclair. She needed to find out more about this book before she did anything else. It would be a long night of translating.
The wind blew cold across the back of her neck and she hugged herself against the chill. She looked up at the sky. The dark clouds were rolling by fast. She'd be lucky to make it home before the rain started.
12. Confirmation
By the next morning, Maggie had enjoyed only three hours of fitful sleep, filled with restless dreams of Old Gaelic words and phrases. Nevertheless, the studying had borne fruit. If she had not completely cracked the dialect, she had at least made a few hairline fractures in it, and she was confident, as she rode her bike into campus that morning, that it was just a matter of time before she would be able to start translating the book wholesale.
Sitting upright on the old-fashioned, European-style red and white bicycle, complete with white book basket on the rear fender, she reflected on what she had accomplished. She had remembered from her high school German classes that there were often patterns which repeated themselves as words traveled from one language to the next. German words which started with 't' often had English cognates with 'd' as their initial letter. Similarly, the English letter combination '-ght,' as in 'right' and 'might' and 'night,' was found in German as '-cht.' Knowing this, and building on the few mutations she had hypothesized when encountered by the book's title page, she had been able to make at least some small inroads into the dialect, beginning to recognize at least a few words which had mutated in a predictable pattern from the standard Old Gaelic.
She had then been able to return to the title and finish its translation. The last word had continued to give her trouble until she had been able to step back and realize that its root was not Gaelic, but Latin. It was a borrowed word. This accomplished she had looked down at the handwritten title page and understood its words for the first time:
'THE DARK BOOK OF RITES AND DAMNATION'
It sounded ominous enough that Maggie was willing to believe that maybe it wasn't a library book after all.
Maggie was so lost in thought that she almost didn't realize she'd arrived at the college. Locking her bike at the large bicycle lot at the edge of campus, she headed directly for the historic collections reading room, the Dark Book hidden safely in her backpack. Once she reached the building, she hurried inside and walked straight to the information desk. It was time to clear up all this nonsense. As she reached the desk, however, she was surprised and disappointed to be greeted by someone other than the nice old librarian who had helped her twice before.
"Oh, you're not—" she started, then caught herself.
The woman looked at her expectantly. She was approximately the same age as the other woman, but several inches shorter and thin as a rail.
"I mean: Hello," she tried again.
"Hello," the woman replied, cocking an amused eye at Maggie.
"I was wondering," Maggie continued, "if you could tell me whether a particular book is in the university's library collections?"
"Of course," was the reply. "Do you have the title and author?"
Maggie winced. "I have the title, but I'm afraid I don't know the author."
"Well," the woman stepped over to a waiting computer terminal. "We may still be able to find it if the title is unique enough. What's the title?"
Oh, it's unique, Maggie thought.
"Uh, well," she felt
a trifle silly. "It's actually called 'The Dark Book of Rites and Damnation.'"
The petite librarian looked up from her screen, eyebrow raised. "That is unique," she laughed. "Let's see what we can find."
"It's for some research I'm doing," Maggie felt compelled to explain.
The librarian just nodded and offered a friendly, "Mm-hmm."
After a few moments, the librarian reported, "Sorry, miss. It's not in the library's holdings."
"Does that include the ancient book collection?"
"Yes," she replied. "Every last volume the university has, no matter where it's housed."
Maggie frowned and thought for a moment. "The title's actually originally in Gaelic—well, Old Gaelic really. Would that matter?"
"It might," the woman admitted. "Do you have the Gaelic title?"
"Yes, it's—"
"Write it down, please," the woman smiled. "I don't speak Gaelic."
Maggie smiled, too, slightly embarrassed, and complied with the request. She actually wrote three titles: first, the letter by letter title she'd found on the first page; second, a translation into standard Old Gaelic; and third, a translation into Modern Scottish Gaelic. She did her best with the word for 'damnation.' "Here you go. Can you try all three?"
The woman let out that little sigh people let out when they don't really want to do something but then remember it's their job. "Of course."
A few minutes later, the librarian confirmed that no such titles existed anywhere in the university's holdings, regardless of who the author might be.
"Would you like me to check with another university? Perhaps Edinburgh or Glasgow?"
"Oh. No. That's all right," Maggie replied, somewhat distracted by this turn of events. "And you're certain that it's not a part of any of the university's collections?"
The librarian patted her computer monitor affectionately and smiled. "Quite certain, miss. Your 'Dark Book' is not a library book."
Maggie thanked the woman and walked back outside into the cool autumn morning. Somehow the fact that Sinclair had been right about the book didn't surprise her. And as she walked back to her bicycle she felt in turn confused, intrigued, excited—and worried.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 11
