by Allie Mackay
“Oh, Marta!” Margo was going to swoon. “I’ve got to win.”
“I know.” Marta soothed now, her voice almost motherly. “And you will. Madame Zelda of Bulgaria feels it in her bones. And think about this.” She laughed again. “If the timing is right, your plane to Scotland could pass Dina Greed’s homeward-bound jet. Just imagine how much that would annoy her when she finds out.
“She’ll head right for Ye Olde Pagan Times to needle you with an account of her trip through the Highlands. Then Patience and I will smile and tell her too bad, she can’t see you that day.
“You’re touring Scotland. And”—Marta’s voice swelled with glee—“surely having a grand time.”
“Oh, Marta ...” Margo couldn’t speak.
Blood roared in her ears and her mouth had gone horribly dry. She tried to thank her friend for calling—she felt so guilty for being annoyed when the phone rang—but no words would come. Her throat had closed, and although she hadn’t cried in years, her eyes were watering. They stung badly and blurred her vision.
“Now you sleep, love.” Marta’s voice came as if from a distance. “I’ll see you in the shop later and we’ll think up a battle campaign. . . .”
Margo nodded mutely.
Then she flipped shut the phone. Her friend was right. She’d need a strategic plan for the raffle. And she hadn’t been lying to Marta when she’d said she had to win the vacation to Scotland.
She did have to win.
Losing would be unbearable.
Chapter 5
Margo saw the envelope the instant she approached her Luna Harmony station at Ye Olde Pagan Times. It was almost noon, but it could’ve been any hour inside the little shop. The real world rarely crossed the shop’s threshold. Margo knew instinctively that the note somehow transcended the ordinary. The air around the card almost shimmered. Margo’s pulse quickened as she stepped closer. Thick, cream-colored, and tied with a purple-and-green tartan ribbon, the beautifully hand-cast card shone from its hiding place in a cluster of blue and silver jars and bottles of Lunarian Organic beauty products.
Patience took pride in making the richly textured stationery and cards herself, using only recycled cotton and other natural materials.
They sold well.
This card bore Margo’s name in her employer’s bold, slanting script.
Intrigued, she peered at the envelope, ignoring the tinkle of chimes as someone stepped through the shop door. She heard Patience’s usual “How may I help you?” coming from where the older woman stood arranging bundles of sage-and-herb energy cleansers.
But Margo’s attention stayed on the card.
All morning—she hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after Marta’s call—she’d experienced a sense of something shifting in her favor. It was a feeling she recognized as a foreshadowing. A strange, unshakable promise that, very soon, her luck would change, turning good.
The sensation had been so strong. And it remained powerful, strengthening as the day wore on. Now, when she saw the plaid-beribboned card, her heart filled with the ridiculous hope that the envelope held Donald McVittie’s assurance that—somehow, someway—he’d make sure that she’d win his Scotland vacation raffle.
Donald liked her.
And he knew how much she loved Scotland.
He understood why she collected old maps and guidebooks of the Highlands. She’d once confessed to him how often she pored over the brittle pages, tracing special routes with her finger until the ink blurred and the place-names faded, becoming illegible.
Donald would nod sagely, his usually merry face turning solemn. He’d then tell her she felt the pull. The irresistible lure Scotland held for anyone who thrilled irresistible lure Scotland held for anyone who thrilled to misty, heather-covered hills, tartan, and the wild, heart-pumping skirl of pipes.
But unlike her, he knew those hills. He walked them at least twice a year, more often if he could justify getting away from A Dash o’ Plaid long enough to make the journey he fondly called a homecoming.
He always told Margo she’d get there someday.
Donald liked to make people happy.
He was also much too honest to cheat in the drawing.
Even for her.
Margo frowned, sliding her oversized handbag off her shoulder and stowing it behind her counter before she could tarnish her karma by wishing that Donald were a shady, unscrupulous character. A less-principled man who’d stoop to any means to see her leave the Scottish Festival as a grand-prize winner, the Glasgow air ticket and the tour itinerary clutched in her hand.
Just now, her palm itched as if such victory were already in her grasp. Her eyes scratched, too. But that was because she’d spent the morning scouring every Scottish research book in her personal library, searching for mentions of Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.
A half-mythical warlord, his name was legend and even struck dread into fearless Viking hearts. His sword, Vengeance, drenched the Highlands with the blood of his foes, the Norsemen. Down the centuries, bards made him such a hero that many believed his memory would live on until Scotland’s last peat fire turned cold and time itself faded.
Such quotes were all she could find.
The Internet proved even more pointless. She kept stumbling across repetitions of the scant snippets from her books. There weren’t facts anywhere. Just exaggerated, larger-than-life accounts that could only leave one to conclude that he hadn’t really existed.
Margo wanted to believe he’d been real.
If only she could get to Scotland, she might be able to prove it. She just needed a bit of luck and then—
“So are you going to open our card or not?” Ardelle Goodnight strode up to Margo’s Luna Harmony station, her strong voice carrying as she planted two heavily ringed hands on the counter’s edge. About Patience’s age—midfifties or somewhere thereabouts—Ardelle had a shock of thick gray hair and the kind of huge, shelflike bosom that made her resemble the figurehead on an old-time sailing ship.
She was a formidable woman, straight-spoken, with piercing blue eyes that didn’t miss a trick.
In medieval times, and if she’d been a man, she’d have been the warrior you’d have wanted fighting at your side.
Or—Margo blinked at her now—holding your back against the enemy.
Ardelle couldn’t stand Dina Greed.
That alone made her Margo’s hero.
“I thought the card was from Patience.” Margo reached for it now, not surprised when the shop seemed to recede, then snap back into place, the instant her fingers touched the textured envelope.
The card held powerful energy.
And that could mean only one thing.
“Patience spelled the card.” Margo’s fingers tingled just from holding it. “And she’s the one who wrote my name on the envelope.”
“The card holds the good wishes of us all.” Ardelle looked triumphant as Patience and Marta stepped up to flank her. “Donald’s well-wishes are in there, too.” She reached across the counter to tap the envelope.
“Open it and you’ll see.”
Margo glanced at her. “Donald’s?”
The other three women nodded, smug as coconspirators.
“He might be too fair-minded to tuck your raffle ticket up his sleeve, but”—Patience echoed Margo’s own sentiments—“he isn’t above helping you tilt the odds in your favor.” She smiled, her gaze flicking to the card. “Donald would love to see you win.”
“Oh, God.” Margo’s throat began to thicken. She had an idea what her friends had done. “There’s only one way I’d have a decent chance of winning and that’s if I bought a slew of raffle tickets.” The three women’s grins said they agreed.
“Don’t tell me you did something I can’t allow.” Margo began to untie the envelope’s tartan ribbon.
Her fingers shook so badly, she couldn’t undo the knot.
Her friends’ smiles grew brighter. “We only did what you’d do for us. If”—Marta spok
e for them all—“the tables were turned and our own dreams were about to go up for auction, as it were.”
“We know what Scotland means to you.” Patience plucked the card from Margo’s hands and deftly removed the ribbon. She gave the card back to Margo. “It isn’t much. Pin money, really.”
“There’s no such thing.” Margo’s vision was blurring.
Pin money added up and paid monthly bills.
Margo knew the value of dimes and nickels. She even respected pennies, which she collected in jars.
And her friends knew that twenty dollars’ worth of raffle tickets was all she could afford. Even that amount would pinch her. Ever cautious and frugal, she used tea bags twice. She boiled her tap water rather than buying bottled water from the grocery. She brought a packed lunch to Ye Olde Pagan Times and ate out only when a newspaper offered discount coupons for a restaurant. And rather than go to a gym, she walked and rode her bicycle whenever she could, saving gas money along with whittling her waistline.
She never splurged.
Her family called her discipline walking. Someday she planned to write a book on living thrifty.
Yet...
She ripped open the envelope. Dollar bills fluttered onto the counter, some dropping onto the floor. Tens, twenties, and singles, there seemed no end to the stream of money that spilled into her hands. Some notes whirled into the air, fluttering about like green-winged butterflies, the sight making her breath catch and her heart pound.
Each dollar told her how much she was loved. And made Scotland seem more a reality than ever before in her aching-to-get-there life.
She stepped back from her counter, one hand pressed to her chest.
Margo swallowed. The hand she’d clapped to her breast trembled as several of the airborne dollars settled on her shoulders. One landed on her shoe.
Her friends were grinning. Ardelle—who would’ve believed it?—blinked hard and then dashed a tear from her fearsome face.
She recovered quickly, lifting an iron gray brow.
“We surprised you, h’mmm?”
“You—” Margo couldn’t get words past the thickness in her throat.
“Good heavens, what have you done?” Margo found her voice. She looked from Ardelle to the other two women, and then back to Ardelle. They had stunned her. And she was torn between hugging and scolding them.
“I can’t accept this.” She started scooping up dollars, stuffing them back into the envelope. “It’s too much and—”
“It’s two hundred and fifty dollars.” Marta snatched the envelope from Margo’s hands and slapped it onto the counter. “Fifty each from us and a hundred from Donald, and we won’t take back a dime.”
“I’m not touching it.” Margo held up her hands, palms outward. “And”—she braced herself to make a confession that still astounded her—“you couldn’t have known, but I emptied my stash of mad money before leaving for work. I’ll be using that cash for raffle tickets.
“It’s enough.” She lowered her hands and folded her arms, hoping to deter objections. “I’ll have a fair chance of winning the raffle.”
She hoped.
Her emergency fund—kept in a long-emptied tin of Maisie’s Hand-Baked Oatcakes, an import from Scotland—hadn’t offered a tidy sum. She’d counted enough crumpled one-, five-, and ten-dollar notes to make ninety-six dollars. She’d then scrounged smallchange from the bottom of her purse to gain a round hundred.
That was a lot of money for a girl on a shoestring budget.
But she’d hoped for a bit more.
Three hundred and fifty might buy her a good chance at winning the trip to Scotland.
Still. . .
“Read the note.” Marta slipped a card from inside the envelope and handed it to Margo. “Our wishes will bring you luck. Patience”—she flashed a glance at their employer—“spoke a blessing over them.” Margo took the card, opening it. She read the words aloud. “‘All your life, you’ve loved a special place hewn of rock, wind, and the sea. Now the time has come for you to go there. You’ll walk the hills with a spring in your step and thrill to the cold wind in your hair. The scent of heather and peat will delight your senses. Cloud shadows on the moors will rush to greet you and the whole of that wild landscape will embrace you as one of its own.’” Margo’s resistance crumbled more on each word. She glanced up, meeting her friends’ gazes before reading the last few lines. “‘Be welcomed by loch, bog, and wood. Show wonder to each shimmer of mist. Watch, listen, and absorb, until your heart is filled and you know you’re home. It is there you belong. So mote it be.’”
“We all pitched in to write it.” Ardelle spoke briskly.
Marta dabbed a tissue to her nose while blinking eyes that swam with brightness. “We sat down last night and tried to remember all the things you most wanted to see and experience in Scotland.”
“We left out the ‘tang of cold brine’ and haggis.” Patience drew herself up, smoothing the pink and orange swirled folds of her caftan. “And you know”—she pinned Margo with a stare—“once such a blessing spell is cast, only a fool would rebuke it.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Margo kept her hand tight against her breast.
Her friends’ words said it all.
And she was tempted.
Never had she come so close to ignoring everything she believed in. She’d sooner burn in hell than be beholden to anyone. And—she couldn’t deny it—her pride wouldn’t let her accept charity. She believed in working for everything she had, and if she couldn’t afford certain luxuries, she’d rather do without.
But such sharp longing pierced her that she could hardly breathe.
“It doesn’t matter.” She put down the card, her denial breaking her heart. “I know you mean well and I love you for it. But I still can’t take the money. My own hundred dollars will have to do. That’s a lot of raffle tickets and—”
“There will be thousands of visitors at the Scottish Festival.” Ardelle frowned at her. “They’ll all be buying tickets.”
“Which”—Margo stood straighter—“is another reason I shouldn’t snare more than a hundred chances to win. The other people will be just as keen to—” Marta snorted. “Name one person who loves Scotland more than you do.”
Margo couldn’t.
Dina Greed came to mind. But her passion for the Highlands came when Braveheart hit the movie theaters. Margo had been born loving Scotland.
“It still wouldn’t be fair.” Her principles made her argue.
“Hah!” Patience came around the counter and laid her arm across Margo’s shoulders. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? There could be ten, even twenty thousand visitors to the festival and the winner would still be the person meant to win.”
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional
“Then snapping up two hundred and fifty additional chances won’t make a difference.” Margo wriggled free. “You’d be wasting good money.”
“We’d be investing in your energy.” Patience tutted.
“You’d have confidence knowing you’d bought so many tickets. That boost would go out into the cosmos, increasing your chances of winning.” Margo bit her lip. She knew Patience was right.
So she used her strongest objection. “It’s still a lot of money.”
“Oh, sure.” Patience waved a dismissive hand.
Then she turned away, looking to Marta. “Madame Zelda”—she used Marta’s tarot-reading name—“how much money have you brought the shop with your weekly readings from clients who live at the Fieldstone House?”
Marta smiled. “Thousands of dollars, I’m sure.
Maybe more, as old Mrs. Beechwood comes twice a week, sometimes more. She doesn’t lift a finger without first stopping in for a consultation.”
“And I wonder where the Fieldstone House residents heard that you’re so good at reading the tarot.” Patience rubbed her chin, feigning ignorance.
Margo felt her face warming. Sh
e did praise Marta’s skills to everyone she met, especially her neighbors at the Fieldstone House.
“I see you know where those clients come from.” Patience surely saw Margo’s flush. Not finished, she glanced at Ardelle. “And you, dear”—her voice boomed—“didn’t you tell me a while back that you heard Margo suggest to an Aging Gracefully customer that we carry an excellent blend of moon-grass tea?”
“The woman had a bad cough.” Margo recalled the day at Ardelle’s vintage-clothing shop. Silverweed, called moon grass at Ye Olde Pagan Times, did soothe aching throats. “I couldn’t help but offer a tip.
The woman was popping industrial-strength lozenges that weren’t helping her at all.”
“And now that woman, Octavia Figg, orders our moon-grass tea by the case. She’s been doing so for over six months, claiming the tea also calms her nerves. I could take a Caribbean cruise on the money she brings the shop.” Patience smiled triumphantly, her point made.
Marta and Ardelle grinned like fools.
Margo knew she’d lost.
There wasn’t any point in further argument.
She was going to purchase 350 of Donald McVittie’s raffle tickets.
Centuries away, in a distant place even Donald McVittie had never been, Magnus came instantly awake and frowned into the shadows of his bedchamber. He thought about punching his pillow, rolling over, and returning to sleep. But his entire body tingled with a warrior’s knowing and he was on his feet, reaching for his sword with the speed and agility his enemies knew to dread.
For weeks he’d been waiting, trying to guess where his foes would next strike. But no matter how well he’d come to understand the Northmen, or how often he stared out across the sea, his gaze on the horizon, he couldn’t guess where or when the Vikings’ long, lean dragon ships would glide out of the mist and then gain speed, their oars flashing like demon wings as they raced to the shore, eager to raid, plunder, and kill innocents.
