Eventually, they came upon a small church—the village chapel, no doubt. It was only as tall as a two story house, with a short steeple rising from the pitched roof and its slate gray walls almost melting away against the thick, overcast, December sky. Maggie had first spied the church from down the street and had examined its outlines as they approached. When they finally came up to it, both she and Iain stopped and looked admiringly on the little house of worship, tucked so far away from the world on these rocky shores of the northwest Highlands. A small placard on the side of the church read, 'Noter Madre de la Mer.' Latin for 'Our Lady of the Sea.'
"Come on, let's go in," Maggie said grabbing a hold of Iain's elbow.
He hesitated. "Oh, are you Catholic?" he asked, surprise in his voice.
Maggie smiled a bemused smile. "No," she replied carefully. "Does that mean I can't go in?"
"No, I was just—" Iain paused, "—curious, I suppose."
"Well, stop being so curious," she chided sarcastically, "and let's see what it looks like inside."
The inside of the church was as rustically elegant as the outside. It was adorned with such beautiful statues, paintings and mouldings that one almost didn't notice that there was absolutely no stained glass. The sanctuary was decorated for Christmas and appeared empty except for a single nun, in full habit, busying herself with something near the altar. When the two visitors had entered, she had looked up, but then returned to her chore. Maggie and Iain stood and looked around the interior of the church, then took a seat in the last pew.
"Wow, this is really beautiful," Maggie whispered to Iain as she continued to gaze around the sanctuary.
"Aye, it is," Iain agreed, his eyes skimming the walls as well. "You should come to St. Machar's sometime. It's got a big old oak ceiling with the coats of arms of some 50 different popes, princes and the like."
"Is that in Aberdeen?" Maggie was still looking around.
"Aye, it's where I go."
"You're Catholic, then?" Maggie turned to look at his face.
Iain smiled but didn't look at Maggie. "Aye."
Maggie nodded and turned back to look around the chamber. To one side she observed a painted statue of the Virgin Mary, Christ Child in her arms, placed on a pedestal in an alcove. At the base of the pedestal was a table with what must have been two dozen small white candles, their flames flickering softly in the draft that circulated through the open room.
"What are all those?" she asked in a low voice.
Iain followed her pointing finger and spied the alcove. "Oh, those?" He looked at her, then nodded thoughtfully. "Those are candles."
"Thank you," Maggie whispered sarcastically. "I mean what are they for?"
"Oh, aye," Iain smiled. "Good question. Well, do you see underneath, on the second shelf of the table? There are some unlighted candles down there. If you want to pray that something might happen—a loved one recovering from an illness, say—then you can light one of the candles to symbolize the prayer."
"Wow," Maggie whispered. "I guess that's kind of cool."
"Aye, well, thank you," Iain's voice held friendly sarcasm.
"No, I mean," Maggie stammered. "We never did that growing up. I think it's kind of neat." Then after a moment's reflection, she added, "I like candles."
Unsure exactly how to respond, Iain ultimately decided that no response was necessary just then and returned his attention to the altar. Two more nuns had joined the first.
Maggie stood up.
"Where are you going?" Iain asked in a hushed tone.
"The candles. I'm going to make a wish."
Iain rolled his eyes slightly. "You don't 'make a wish.' It's a prayer."
An embarrassed frown cramped Maggie's mouth. "Sorry," she winced, then stepped quietly toward the alcove.
Maggie looked up at the statue. It was old and the edges of the features had rounded with time. Still she found the experience strangely conflicting, unsure if she liked the way the figure watched her from its pedestal. Shaking her head to dislodge such thoughts, she bent down and retrieved a candle. Its wax was set directly into a glass cup about the size of her palm. There was a large candle at the feet of the Madonna, and Maggie concluded that this was where she was supposed to light her own candle from. Tipping her candle so that the wicks could meet, she lit hers then held it in front of her. She really wanted to speak the levitation spell, raising the candle into the air as she had done that night. But she resisted the urge. Iain would likely not have approved.
She closed her eyes and whispered, "I wish that I find out what happened here eighteen years ago." That didn't seem sacrilegious. After all, she was trying to help prevent another murder and that was a good thing. Still, she already felt strange making the wish—'prayer,' she corrected herself—and so was doubly startled when she heard the voice behind her.
"No need to use a candle for that, my child." Maggie spun around to see a nun staring her kindly in the eye. "I can tell you well enough."
"Oh!" Maggie's voice rang embarrassingly off the walls. She lowered it again, "You startled me."
"I'm sorry," the nun's smile dispatched a series of deep wrinkles to envelope her face, adding to those which permanently hovered around her eyes and mouth. She must have been at least sixty years old. Her face was kind, with a wisened expression. The rest of her was covered by her black habit. "I'm Sister Màiri."
"I'm Maggie," she whispered in reply. "Er, Maggie Devereaux." Etiquette seemed to dictate that she divulge her last name as well. It was different for nuns somehow.
"You needn't whisper so low, Maggie," Sister Màiri smiled and pointed upwards. "He hears either way."
Maggie smiled. She liked Sister Màiri already.
"So what would you know?" The nun gestured toward the nearby pews. As they sat down, Maggie noticed Iain smiling at her. He's getting used to this, she thought.
"Well, I—" Maggie's mind started to reach for some sort of plausible cover story, but then she thought better of it. Catholic or no, it was probably not a good idea to lie to a nun. Still, she was not going to be mentioning anything about magic spell books. "I learned about the murders that happened here twenty years ago. Eighteen." She could hear Dòmhnall's voice as she corrected herself. "And I was talking earlier with two gentleman who were telling me about them. I—I just want to know what happened."
"Well," Sister Màiri smiled gently, "I've lived her my entire life. I remember those unfortunate murders. The devil can be found everywhere, even out here at the ends of the Earth. I'm not sure exactly why it's troubling you so, but if I can answer any of your questions, I certainly will do."
"Well, how many victims were there?"
"Five lost their lives. Four young girls and one young boy."
"Do you know who they were?" This seemed especially important to Maggie for some reason.
Sister Màiri blew out a quiet sigh. "Well, now. It's been some time. But I think I remember. They were each buried here in the churchyard." The nun folded her hands and looked up in concentration. If Maggie hadn't known she was trying to remember the names of murder victims from two decades ago, she would have thought she was praying.
"There was Iseabeil Matheson," she started.
Maggie remembered the name from the conversation at the pub.
"Heather Drummond. And Muriel MacKenzie."
Another name from the pub: 'the MacKenzie's little girl.'
"And Heather Sinclair. And the young lad's name was Jared something—Jared Blake, I believe."
Maggie's mind screamed at the name. Could it be?
She wasn't sure how to ask the question though, so she asked another instead. "And it was never solved?"
"I'm afraid not. They just stopped. Eventually things returned to normal again." The sister paused, then added, "Except for the families, of course."
"Of course."
"I'm afraid that's all I really can tell you. Maybe I wasn't that helpful after all?"
"Oh, no," Maggie assured her.
"You were very helpful." Maggie paused before venturing, "Is there anywhere else I could find out some information about this?"
"Well, let me think," Sister Màiri put a hand to her cheek. "The library might have old newspaper articles on file, I suppose." She looked Maggie in the eye. "Why is it you're so interested in those terrible murders?"
Maggie frowned. How could she explain? "Well, I'm living in Aberdeen now. And we've had a series of similar murders. Two—" the sentence stuck in her throat, which actually surprised her. "—Two of my friends were killed. I thought, maybe, I don't know. Maybe there's some clue here that could help stop the murders in Aberdeen."
Sister Màiri nodded and smiled. "A noble purpose," she lauded, "but I think you may be doing this for other reasons as well. Even if you don't realize it yet. Be careful, my child."
And with this, the nun patted Maggie on the shoulder and took her leave, walking back toward the altar where her sisters still busied themselves.
Maggie watched after her, wondering over this cryptic warning. She didn't hear Iain step up behind her.
"Ready to go?" he whispered.
"Eh? Oh." Maggie turned and looked up at Iain. "Yeah, sure. Let's go."
Outside, Maggie squinted as her eyes readjusted to the daylight. The rain had turned again to mist, fogging up Maggie's glasses. She had long gotten used to seeing through wet lenses.
"Anyone else you'd like to interrogate today?" Iain asked with a warm smile.
"Yes," was Maggie's simple reply and she turned back toward the center of town.
"Where are we going?" Iain called after her.
"The library."
* * *
The sign was in both Gaelic and English:
Leabharlann Gleainn Inbhir - Glenninver Library
Dùinte na Di-Dòmhnaich – Closed Sundays
"Damn," Maggie muttered.
"Oh, that's too bad." Iain's voice held no sarcasm; he was genuinely disappointed for her. "Maybe we can come back some time."
Maggie stared at the sign, deep in thought, her arms crossed and her toe tapping.
"Can you stay until tomorrow?" she asked at last.
Iain looked dumbstruck. "What? What are you talking about? No. I can't stay. I have to work. Tomorrow's Monday. We have to get back tonight."
Maggie didn't reply. Her brow was still creased in thought.
Finally she said, "Okay you go on ahead. But will you help me find a hotel room first?"
"What?!" Iain was incredulous. "You're not coming back with me?"
"Iain," she said in a tone that approached, but didn't quite reach, that reserved for explaining the painfully obvious to the painfully stupid. "I can't. But it's okay. I'll take a train back tomorrow afternoon."
"A train?" Iain looked around exaggeratedly. "What train? There's not even a train station in this village."
"Oh, of course there is," she dismissed the suggestion with an impatient wave of her hand. "And if not, I'm sure I can take a bus up to, uh, well, to whatever the nearest town with a train station is."
"Maggie," Iain's tone approached, but didn't quite reach, that reserved for coaxing the painfully stubborn from doing the painfully ill-advised.
"Iain, I'm staying," Maggie's voice was firm. "Now, are you going to help me find a hotel room or not?"
Iain crossed his arms and stared at her, weighing his options. He hadn't known her that long, but he was getting to know her pretty well.
"There's no use trying to talk you out of it, is there?"
Maggie smiled. "No."
"All right then. I'll help you find a room at an inn. But," he raised a finger in emphasis, "I'm staying with you 'til after dinner." He threw a glance across their surroundings. There must be a good restaurant in this town someplace."
Maggie's smile broadened. "Sounds good to me."
* * *
Dinner had been nice. Fresh fish with a view of the sea. By now Iain was on his way back to Aberdeen. It was a long drive and he had to be at the MacTary's early the next day for breakfast.
He had helped Maggie find a room at the local inn. Halfway between a bed and breakfast and a standard hotel, the Glenninver Inn (a.k.a., An Taigh-Òsda Gleainn Inbhir) boasted a total of four rooms, none of which were occupied on a Sunday night in December. The proprietor, a Mrs. Murdoch, had therefore only charged Maggie for the cheapest room while giving her the key to their best—a sort of penthouse tucked under the roof of the old building, complete with its own small bath. It was on the third floor.
The steps to the room hugged one side of the building, winding back and forth and creaking with each of Maggie's steps. She climbed valiantly up the narrow staircase, stopping at the second story landing long enough to look out a dusty, curtainless window into the black, rainy night. Having thus caught her wind, she continued upwards. After about five more steps, she passed a small door, built into the inside wall and leading seemingly to nowhere. She tried the small metal handle, but it was locked. With a puzzled "hmm," she climbed on, reminding herself to ask Mrs. Murdoch in the morning what it was that the miniature door hid.
At the top of the stairs she had expected to be greeted by a hallway or at least a small landing, however she was surprised to find that the steps ended directly in front of a door—a door she assumed must be to her room. With each creak of the wooden boards she had realized just how tired she had become. The day had been filled with fresh air and long drives, two things that tended to make her very sleepy. So it was with relief that she turned the rickety metal lock with the old-fashioned skeleton key Mrs. Murdoch had provided, and tumbled into her room.
The chamber was rather large, with hardwood floors covered by oriental rugs, and lace curtains in the paint-cracked windows. A large, soft-looking bed occupied one wall, while two overstuffed chairs in a bright green and blue tartan occupied the opposite corner, next to the door to the bathroom. Several houseplants in need of watering were also scattered about the room. Safely inside, Maggie locked the door behind her. She was unimpressed by the weak 'click' the latch offered as proof of its security. Maggie thought the ancient lock might stop a stiff breeze, maybe even a small bird, but probably little else.
She stripped down to her T-shirt and underwear and climbed into bed. It was one of those hotel beds that would be too soft to sleep on every night, but was kind of fun to sink into for just one evening's rest. The spellbook accompanied her to the bed and she rested it firmly on the covers bunched up over her lap. She flipped through the pages, realizing absently that she had not used the magic all day, despite her momentary temptation at the church. She wondered what the nun would have done if she'd found Maggie levitating candles in front of the Virgin Mary. She couldn't help but laugh a little at the thought, but felt bad about it too.
Glancing over to the bedside table, she spied a small glass jar filled with various dried leaves and the like. Some sort of pot pourri. With a minimal raise of her left hand, she muttered the well learned spell, "
Soon a book, one of the houseplants, and Maggie's purse joined the jar as they danced on puppet strings around the room. Energized by the magic, she turned to the divining spell. Maybe she could find out something about the inn, or its previous guests. She wondered who had slept in the bed before her, who had sat in those chairs. But then she remembered her pendant, with the black stain blotting out the '..TR..' in 'BE TRAIST.' She knew she shouldn't risk damaging any of Mrs. Murdoch's things, at least not until she got that transmutation spell down. Reluctantly, like a school child setting down a comic book to pick up a math text, she flipped to the transmutation spell at the back of the spellbook.
It was even longer than she had remembered. But she was comfortable in bed, letting her sleepiness slowly build, and she didn't have anything else to do. Using the levitation spell again, she floated her backpack over to the bed and extracted her Old Gaelic-Modern Gaelic dictionary. Time to get busy.
Her effor
ts at remembering the proper translation for 'eòlas' were interrupted by a tapping at her window. Now, she knew she was on the third floor. She knew that no one was out there. She knew that people didn't just float in the air and knock on the windows of scared American students. But she also knew that houseplants and books and jars of pot pourri didn't float around rooms either. So she was open to any possibility. The tapping recurred.
Maggie felt a strange combination of emotions flood her veins. On the one hand, she was terrified at the thought of someone trying to get into her room late at night when she was all alone. On the other hand, the sense of impending—well, battle, for lack of a better word—gave her an unexpected rush.
Okay, she thought confidently, let's see who's out there.
She threw the covers back, shimmied off the bed and sidled up the window, her back to the wall.
Her right hand twitched in readiness at her side.
Then she jumped to the window, threw the curtains open and found herself staring face to face with—nothing. There was no one there. Just an oncoming storm that was hidden by her reflection in the glass. Then to her surprise, she heard the tapping again and saw as the tip of a tree branch emerged from the blackness to tap against the window, blown by the wind of the black storm.
Maggie smiled, just a little disappointed, and headed back to the warmth of the bed. On the way she pulled her lipstick out of her purse.
Sitting down again on the bed, this time cross-legged with the book off to one side, she twisted the burgundy lipstick all the way up and set it on the bed in front of her. She had wanted to set it standing up, but the soft bed wouldn't have it. She held her left hand out over the lipstick while she traced the letters of the transmutation spell with her right.
Her lips spoke the transmutation spell, clumsily at first but with increasing eloquence. It appeared to actually be a series of spells, each to be spoken in turn, as the 'evil forces' upon which so many of the spells called were to break down the bonds which held the object together. These bonds broken, the resultant scattering of particles then needed to be captured like loose cattle, and subjugated to the wishes of the spellcaster. This was the tricky part. Trying to put the square peg of the existing substance into the round hole of the desired substance. Not surprisingly, when Maggie finished, she still had a tube of burgundy lipstick.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 29
