"Three weeks," Ellen observed eventually.
"Three weeks 'til what?" Jenny asked, perplexed.
"Since," Maggie corrected.
"Since Fionna was murdered," Ellen explained.
"Oh." Jenny wasn't sure what else to say.
Ellen drank deeply from her wine glass. "I wonder how Will's doing?"
"I saw him the other day," Maggie offered, "just walking along. But I don't think he recognized me. I didn't stop him, though. I mean, what do you say?'
"There's nothing you can say," Kelly replied. Her glass was already empty.
They all nodded, and Maggie's thoughts returned to that dinner when she'd first met Fionna. "And Sean," she added. "It must be tough for him, too."
"I dare say he'll be all right," Ellen opined. "He's a tough skin."
"Yes and no," Kelly's face wore an expression Maggie had never seen on it before. "He puts on good show, but he's got a tender side too."
"Oh, that's right," Ellen nodded. "I'd forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" Maggie asked, justifiably.
Kelly smiled faintly. "I, well, I dated Sean a bit back when I first arrived from the States."
Maggie's mouth dropped open. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Kelly Anderson dating anyone. Although the gruff Sean FitzSimmons might have been a good match.
"Just a couple times," Kelly was quick to clarify. "That's his m.o. He says he lives in Belfast, but more often than not he's—he was—visiting his sister, meeting her girlfriends, chatting them up, asking them out for a pint. He can be quite the charmer."
He didn't ask me out for a pint, Maggie recalled. Not that she would've wanted to go, but she wouldn't have minded being asked.
"But he's basically a male chauvinist jerk," Kelly continued. "It took me three dates to figure that out. Besides he really wasn't my type. I prefer more ... educated men."
Maggie wasn't sure how they'd gotten from the anniversary of Fionna's death to Kelly's love life, but Kelly brought them back full circle.
"Even so, I'm sure he's shattered by this whole business. He adored Fionna. He was always so protective of her. That's why he disliked Will so much, I think."
The four women sat quietly for a moment.
"Poor Sean," Kelly said.
"Poor Will," Maggie echoed.
Then Ellen brought the true point home. "Poor Fionna."
* * *
Saturday morning arrived, and the four of them were soon tooling along Scotland's A9 highway toward Clava Cairns. 'Cairn' is a word borrowed from the Gaelic and is used to describe any number of above-ground gravesites which generally consist of piles of stones assembled to create small chambers for internment of bodies. The stones at Clava, probably the most famous of the Highland cairn sites, lie only a few miles south of Inverness. Maggie had heard of them, of course, but had only ever seen photographs of the stone piles among the thin trees which dotted the site. She was excited to the see the real thing.
Unfortunately, going on a Saturday—even early on a cold, misty, November Saturday—had meant a marked increase in tourists and to Maggie's disappointment they did not have the site to themselves. She could spot at least three other groups winding among the cairns, their brightly colored jackets standing out in sharp contrast to the gray stones, trees and sky. Nevertheless the site was more than large enough to allow them to explore mostly unmolested.
Maggie was surprised by the site's complexity. There were three large burial cairns, stretching in a line approximately northeast to southwest, with a smaller, less well preserved cairn also present. Each of the larger cairns was approximately 50-60 feet in diameter, its circumference being a ring of large 'kerb' stones, placed each next the other. Inside the kerb stones were piled the innumerable smaller stones of the cairn, under which the bodies had once been interred, although the burial chambers now lay exposed to the heavens. Then, each larger cairn was surrounded by its own rather stately ring of standing stones, several feet away and spaced far apart like the numbers on a clock face. Maggie didn't understand the exact significance of the placement of all these stones, but she had no doubt there was one.
"So when were these built?" she asked Ellen.
"Hmm, let's see." Ellen squished her face into a pensive expression. "I must have come here half a dozen times on school field trips. I remember the phrase 'Neolithic Period.' I think they date from around 3000 B.C."
"Wow," Maggie peered again at the ancient stones. "Does anyone know why they were built?"
"Religious reasons, I'd guess," Ellen replied. "I suppose you have to put your dead somewhere. This was probably where the most important members of the society ended up."
"Hmm," Maggie looked around. Jenny and Kelly had each separated off to examine the site individually. "What about these outer stones? They look kind of like Stonehenge."
Ellen laughed a little. "Aye, I suppose they do." Then she added, "I think I just read something about the alignment of these stones, actually."
She walked over to the nearest cairn, but pointed to the next one over as well. "See how each burial chamber lines up with the standing stone directly in front of it?"
Maggie confirmed that both cairns had a standing stone placed directly in line with the alignment of the exposed burial chamber. "Yup."
"And if you look, both of these burial chambers are parallel to each other," Ellen continued. "They're lined up the same on the compass."
A quick glance at the two large burial cairns and this too was confirmed.
"Well, anyway," Ellen continued, "I think people used to think this was just a burial site. But as you say, it looks a bit like Stonehenge, and they know Stonehenge was used as an observatory."
She paused, again trying to remember the details. She was taking her role as host and tourguide seriously.
"Okay, now I remember." A finger shot into the air. "They just ran an experiment a couple of years ago. Some people had noticed that the line from the burial chamber to the standing stone directly in front of it was roughly to the southwest of the center of the burial chamber. And in the winter, the sun sets in the southwest. So some archeologists wondered whether it wasn't lined up for the sunset on the winter solstice."
"Cool," Maggie observed. "And is it?"
"Aye, I believe so. They couldn't do it on the actual solstice because there are pagan ceremonies held here still, believe it or not." She shook her head at the thought. "But I think they laid down inside the burial chamber with a tarp over the top on the nights before and after the solstice, and they pretty much confirmed the light would shine directly into the chamber at sunset on the winter solstice."
Maggie shook her head. "Wow. How did the people back then know?" she asked admiringly.
Ellen mirrored her expression. "Aye, it is pretty amazing. But I think they probably understood the world a lot better than we want to give them credit for." She gazed approvingly around the site. "In fact, they probably understood things we can't even imagine anymore."
Maggie too looked around the site, and considered all the things she had seen and learned since she had arrived in Scotland some eleven weeks earlier. "You know," she replied, "I think you're probably right."
24. Du Café
The following Tuesday found Maggie at work diligently yet comfortably in an Aberdeen coffee shop rather far from the university. She had spotted it on one of her bike rides and had chosen it for her study location that day precisely because of its distance from the campus. Although it was populated with a steady stream of business people who regarded her entrenched presence in one of the café's corners with a mixture of curiosity and irritation, the café allowed Maggie to toil away in relative anonymity without locking herself away from all human contact.
The visit to Clava Cairns had rejuvenated her desire to proceed with her studies and translate the Dark Book. She had arrived home Sunday afternoon and visited pleasantly enough with her aunt and uncle, telling them all about her trip, before spending the remainder of the evening w
orking on the translation of the dialect into standard Old Gaelic. But she had stayed up too late, and found herself genuinely disappointed when she woke up late and had missed breakfast. Monday morning breakfast with Iain.
In her disappointment, she had worked even harder that day on her translation and by Tuesday morning had almost completed the last of it. Although not quite finished, she had decided to heed the adage 'A change is as good as a rest,' and proceeded to the second stage of her project: translating from Old Gaelic to Modern Gaelic. She probably could have skipped this step on her way to an English translation, but she felt it would help deepen her understanding of the text, and she would end up doing it anyway, the Old Gaelic words evoking their Gaelic descendants in Maggie's mind well before the English counterparts could be located in her synapses. Another advantage of this subsequent stage was that she could work with the notebook full of the standard Old Gaelic translation on one side, a fresh notebook for the Modern Gaelic on the other, dictionaries in the middle—and the Dark Book tucked safely out of sight in her backpack.
This enabled her to pursue her work in more public settings such as the café, without risking the book being seen by anyone. She still did not want Macintyre to know of its existence. She had not yet divulged its existence to Ellen or Kelly. Even her aunt and uncle were ignorant of the treasure she kept hidden in their upstairs bedroom. And then there was that bookseller.
"Devan Sinclair."
Maggie looked up with a start at the dapper bookshop owner who had suddenly appeared over her table. As usual, he was dressed head and shoulders above his contemporaries in the coffee shop, not a blond hair out of place and mustache-less goatee perfectly trimmed. A regular Scottish GQ.
"Do you remember me, Miss Devereaux?"
His smile pulled pleasantly at his face, but also drew attention to the scar running down the length of the left cheek. Maggie had forgotten about the scar and peered at it with detached interest, noting that its broad, mottled path suggested a burn rather than a clean slice. Then, suddenly realizing how rude she was being, she fumbled for a reply, his sudden appearance reminding her of their first encounter when his shadow had darkened her book at the Duff Street Cafe.
"Of course. Have you—Have you come to buy some more imaginary books from me?"
She immediately regretted the quip. Their last conversation, at Sinclair's bookshop, had been quite pleasant and they seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement not to discuss the book they both knew she had, but which she refused to admit to.
Sinclair's smile remained but the warmth drained from it.
"No, actually. I hadn't. But since you mention it—"
He bathed Maggie in a penetratingly appraising gaze.
"I can see that your activities with the book have exceeded purely academic pursuits." He leaned forward onto the table, close enough for Maggie to smell his cologne, incongruously pleasant as he scolded her. "Do not continue down that path, Maggie. You don't understand what you're playing at."
He stood upright again and his hand went unconsciously to the scar she had been staring at. "It will consume you."
His eyes locked onto Maggie's for a moment. She could see some earnestly felt emotion hiding in them, but she couldn't identify it before he broke off the gaze and turned sharply toward the door, his impeccable overcoat swirling around his form.
As he exited into the cold November afternoon, Maggie had to ask herself, What the hell was that all about?
25. The Date
St. Andrew's Day, November 30th, was still over a week away. That meant two more Thursdays before the day honoring Scotland's patron saint. Two more Thursday mornings for a pair of woolens store owners to meet with their store manager to discuss preparations for the increased sales hoped to be realized from tourists who might celebrate the day with the purchase of a kilt or tam or shawl. Two more Thursday mornings Iain Grant might breakfast at the MacTary's home.
This had not escaped Maggie's notice.
So that Thursday, she did not sleep late. Rather, she awoke earlier than usual and took extra care with her morning toilette. Following a long, hot, relaxing shower, she broke out her seldom-used curling iron and gave her thick straight hair just the slightest wave and extra body—nothing too noticeable. She pulled on her favorite sweater and her most flattering jeans. Her make-up was just a little more prominent that its usual natural look. And most importantly, she had succeeded in locating, at the bottom of a still half-unpacked toiletries bag, the contact lenses she kept just in case, for such contingencies as swimming or lost glasses. And so when Maggie Devereaux came down for breakfast that morning, the bookish school-girl had been ever so subtly replaced by a vision of a radiant young woman descending the staircase, wavy auburn tresses curling around her elegantly made up face, and nothing blocking the view of her big, beautiful caramel-colored eyes.
This did not escape Iain's notice.
"Good morning, Maggie," he said with as much enthusiasm as this standard greeting would allow. "You look... grand."
"Thanks, Iain," Maggie smiled. "How nice of you to say so." She decided to take the obvious surprise in Iain's voice as a compliment. Then waiting just the right amount of time, she added, "You look good, too."
Iain instinctively looked down at his nice enough but not particularly special ensemble. "Er, thanks."
Just then Lucy and Alex walked into the dining room, each with a tray of breakfast goodies.
"Good morning, Maggie." Aunt Lucy smiled approvingly at her niece. "You look nice this morning. Doesn't she, Alex?"
"Hmm? Oh yes, very nice." Alex barely looked at his niece, concentrating instead on finding space on the table for his tray of oatcakes and marmalade.
"Special occasion today?" Lucy cocked an eyebrow.
Maggie smiled. "Not really." She locked eyes with Iain. "It's Thursday."
Pulling out the chair directly opposite their guest, Maggie sat down without breaking her gaze. "You don't usually join us for breakfast on Thursdays, do you, Iain?"
"Er, no," Iain threw a hurried glance at Alex, "but St. Andrew's day is next Saturday, so we, you know, need to meet. And such. I was here last Thursday, too."
"Were you? Yes, that's right. I'd forgotten that," Maggie lied. "So what's so special about St. Andrew's day?" Then before anyone could reply, she hurried to add, "I mean for business. I know why it would be important, you know generally. For Scots, I mean. I know he's the patron saint of Scotland. I'm not stupid, but, you know—"
She was losing it. She took a breath.
"But why the extra meetings, I guess I'm asking?"
Alex decided to field this one, after all it was his and Lucy's shop. "Well, for the tourists, they think it's like St. Patrick's Day back over in New York or such. So they want to buy all kinds of things they might not otherwise buy. Hats, scarves, ties, what have you. And for that gent who just isn't sure if he should spend that several hundred quid on that kilt, well, for him, the day might just be the nudge he needs to open his wallet. Especially if we can get him into the store with a few extra signs and half off any merchandise with the St. Andrew's cross on it."
Maggie nodded vigorously and made a pleasant "Hmm" noise as if interested in this discussion of marketing, which in truth she was not.
"So is it not like St. Patrick's Day, then?" She was more drawn to the social aspects of the explanation than the economic.
"No," Lucy was the one who replied this time. "It's mostly celebrated quietly enough at home. With friends and family. And a nice dinner."
"Kind of like Burns Night?" She remembered this uniquely Scottish January holiday from dinners of haggis prepared by her grandmother every year.
"Something like that," Lucy smiled.
Maggie turned to Iain. "Will you be having dinner with your family, Iain?"
He had better get this hint, she thought.
"Er, no. My family's all back in Glasgow mostly." He looked to his employers. "And of course I have to work that day. I—I just
planned to spend the evening alone."
Maggie waited a moment more, but then had to turn to her aunt. "We're not doing anything special, are we, Aunt Lucy?"
"No, child," she smiled knowingly. "We're not. Not anything special that you young folk would be interested in." Then, grabbing her husband under his arm, "Come now, Alex, I need your help in the kitchen."
"But," he protested, "I thought we'd already fetched all the food."
"Come along," and she pulled him from the room.
Maggie turned back to face Iain, who was still standing across the table. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at the table in a manner she really hoped was coquettish.
After a moment, Iain finally ventured, "If you'd like, I mean, if you're not busy—ah, of course you're not busy—Lucy just said so—oh, but maybe you are. I mean, you're a beautiful young wo— Oh, I didn't mean that. No, wait. I did. I mean, you are. I mean—" He stopped and took a deep breath. "Would you like to have dinner with me on St. Andrew's Day?"
She smiled broadly. "I'd love too."
Iain smiled back.
Lucy and Alex did not come back from the kitchen.
Iain kept smiling and let out a nervous little laugh.
Maggie smiled again. Then she looked away.
Still no Alex or Lucy.
The next nine days could be quite awkward, Maggie realized, as they waited for their date to come. Apparently also realizing this, Iain made a sound somewhere between a sigh and the word "Well" and then asked, "Have you been to see the amusement park yet?"
"Amusement park?" She was initially taken aback by the question, but then remembered reading something about an amusement park in one of the guidebooks about Aberdeen. She hadn't run across it yet though.
"Aye, Aberdeen's got it's very own amusement park. Like Copenhagen. Or Vienna."
"Okay," Maggie smiled. She elected not to add, 'Or Disneyland.'
"You've not been to see it then?"
"Er, no." It was a strange topic of conversation, but she liked it and couldn't help but giggle.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 21
