by Beth Trissel
Lifting the hem, Mora revealed fawn colored boots laced up to her ankles; much more comfortable than the stilettos Wrenie had acquired, but unique, as was her attire. “I like them well. Do ye not?”
“Sure do. Those boots are made for walking,” Fergus quipped.
Neil gave him a look then returned his riveted focus to Mora. Above the cross at her throat, she wore a choker of black velvet with a cameo at the center. Droplets of pearls shimmered at her ears.
She touched her fingers to the pearls and smoothed the cameo. “Beautiful.”
“Utterly.” She was a vision, but why not just stamp, I’ve stepped from the past, on the young woman. Nothing like blending in, Neil thought with his usual sardonic bent.
Fergus scrunched his eyebrows above his glasses. “Are you thinking of taking her to the funeral parlor dressed like this, or out to dinner?”
His mother shrugged an ample shoulder. “Both. She’s darling. Mrs. Dannon’s sister-in-law won’t mind and there will be few people in attendance at the viewing. The poor dear had little family. The sight of Mora will cheer them.”
Probably floor them too. Mora did far more than simply hearten Neil. He wanted to catch her up in his arms and bear her back into that bedroom. “She looks rather bridal.”
Mrs. Fergus eyed him steadily. “Yes. Perhaps you ought to wed her.”
He desired nothing more, still… “There’s my whole existence thing to consider.”
“I trust you will find a way.”
Trusted or knew? A psychic Betty Fergus might be, but still unproven as far as he was concerned.
“Now then,” she continued, “I have just the coat for you, Neil.”
Lord only knew what she’d chosen.
Fergus grinned. “A cloak of invisibility?”
His mother shushed him. “The inside pocket will hide the pouch and lachrymatory vial you and Mora found, and with winter coming you’ll have an excuse to keep the coat with you. Unless you prefer wearing that Roman bulla around your neck?”
Neil shook his head. “The cross at Mora’s throat is one thing, but a bulla at mine will stand out as though I’ve joined an ancient cult.”
“One that sacrifices to their gods,” Fergus added.
Unruffled, Mrs. Fergus continued. “Just as I suggested, conceal it. The coat is streamlined and should allow for easy movement. There’s a second inner pocket you may have need of.”
She turned and headed into her bedroom, returning with a black coat over her arm. She held it up to him, and its hem reached his ankles. Black matte buttons ran down the front to the waist where it was cutaway and worn open from there down.
Approval warmed her regard. “Perfect.”
The unusual cut of the fine black cloth and the high collar was highly reminiscent of—“Good heavens.” Neil exchanged glances with Fergus, who voiced his mystification.
“Isn’t that the coat Neo wore in The Matrix?”
His mother fixed her pale blue gaze on them. “An expertly crafted reproduction, this one of wool. In a way, like Neo, Neil is The One. Certainly, he’s the one Mora seeks and the only man who can go back and undo the wrongs to give them a second chance. But unless he succeeds, you’re looking at his distant ancestor, not his wife.”
The somberness in Fergus’s expression mirrored Neil’s sentiments. Fergus being Fergus, he opened his mouth. “I was partly right. That coat will make Neil nearly invisible at night.”
“He may need to be.” Mrs. Fergus’s face held no trace of mirth.
****
And this is how Neil and Mora came to be outfitted as they were for the viewing of poor Mrs. Dannon in the Oak Hill Funeral Parlor. Neil assumed there was some reason to the madness behind Betty Fergus’s unusual wardrobe choices, apart from the obvious symbolism. Otherwise, he’d have balked and directed Mora to change into something less conspicuous.
To top it all off, Mrs. Fergus had given her a faux fur coat that draped the young woman in what looked like rich, black mink. Heads turned as they entered the solemn chapel in the funeral home. Though, to give her credit, Mrs. Dannon’s kindly sister-in-law, an older widow named Mrs. Pace, made a visible effort to conceal her amazement.
Seated with Mrs. Pace in cushioned chairs, were several elderly cousins and a portly nephew. Neither Mrs. Pace nor Mrs. Dannon had any children. This slim retinue of relatives and the small gathering from church and community members made up the mourners speedily assembled to pay their respects. Apparently, Mrs. Pace had a brother on the point of death and needed to hasten to his side. Quite a sorrowful week for the family.
Those individuals not seated filed past on the wine carpet, their footsteps hushed. After pausing by the coffin, the visitors moved on to offer their condolences to the mourners, some of whom were too decrepit to stand. They remained in their chairs, canes and walkers at the ready.
A murmur rippled through the gathering. All present craned their necks for a better look at Mora. Nor had Neil’s appearance gone unmarked, but she was the main attraction.
Whether those in the assembly were cheered by their arrival, as Mrs. Fergus anticipated, or merely flabbergasted, Neil couldn’t say, but they were definitely diverted.
Even Fergus, with his orange-red thatch and No I Won’t Fix Your Computer hoodie—at least he’d chosen a black one—and his specialty windbreaker with seventeen hidden pockets, paled beside Mora’s outstanding presence.
“You reckon they come from the theater?” inquired one older rural gentleman of another, likely not realizing how well his voice carried.
“Looks like they’ve been in a play,” remarked his companion, raising his voice to be heard above the organ music in the background.
Just as well to let people think that. Neil had no more plausible explanation to offer. But how was he to introduce Mora? He didn’t dare march over to these mourners and proclaim her Mrs. Dannon’s niece.
Either they were aware of the kinship between the two women, or in ignorance. In that event, such a pronouncement could prove most unsettling. They’d already endured the murder of a beloved family member. Discovering an unknown relative among them might be too much, not to mention it could result in a summons to the police.
Better to present Mora as his fiancée and see if anyone remarked on her relation to the deceased. Right off hand, Neil guessed no one had a clue.
Nodding at the astonished assembly, he took her arm and walked further into the chapel. Fergus and his mother followed behind them. Muted tones of wine and gray dominated the room, reminiscent of shadows, perhaps the shadows of death.
Throughout the chapel, the lighting was dimmed, except for the glow on the white casket positioned on a slight dais at the front of the room. It was past this podium the visitors filed to pay their respects. The maudlin music accompanying the sad procession only increased the bleak mood.
Neil hadn’t expected a jig, but must the organ be quite so lugubrious? He’d prefer most anything else. A string quartet, flutes…
Nor was he a fan of open caskets. Oh, for the days of a funeral pyre out under the night sky. Or an ancient Scottish cairn laid over the loved one in memorial. These primal rites somehow seemed less disturbing.
Wishing again for a closed viewing, he steeled himself. With Mora by his side, he paused and gazed down into the coffin. There, on white satin, lay Mrs. Dannon, motionless for one normally so active. He pictured her in perpetual motion, humming around the house as she straightened up, busy from morning until evening. One single man could hardly wade through all the scones she made but Fergus had done his part to make a dent in the pile. Mrs. Dannon had also fed the hungry, and served in the church’s food pantry.
Sadness washed over Neil, and he blinked at the moisture in his eyes. The awful gash at her neck had been concealed beneath the collar of the navy suit she often wore to church. And there were the pearls, cleaned of blood and restored to their proper place. Her gray hair, stiff with spray, was crimped in tight curls, and she never used th
at much makeup.
He cringed. The alteration in her bordered on the macabre, but he supposed she bore some resemblance to the gentle woman who’d tended to him and his home, and been such a blessing to the community.
He lightly touched his fingers to her cold brow. “You will be missed, dear lady.”
Mora softly added, “Aye. God rest yer soul.”
A strange sensation tingled through Neil’s fingertips, ran up his arm, and charged down his spine. He’d felt the same thing before with his hand on the knob of his front door before he’d discovered Mrs. Dannon slumped at the base of his steps. Like a flow of precognition, it seemed an ominous current. This could not bode well.
He tightened his grip on Mora. She might be in grave danger. They both might be. He should take her and leave at once. He’d express his sorrow to Mrs. Dannon’s relations in a few words and go.
First, a final farewell to the woman who’d been a good friend as well as a servant. “Rest in peace,” he whispered, mastering the shakiness in his voice.
Her eyes flew open, and he nearly yelled out loud.
He almost reeled back. Heart in his throat, he stood his ground and stared in disbelief.
Was it some freak thing from embalming gone wrong? Why did no one else seem rattled? They should be shrieking and running from the room.
Before he inquired of those nearest him, Mrs. Dannon reached out a formerly limp arm and fastened bloodless fingers around his wrist. Her sightless stare flashed silver as her artificially reddened lips hissed, “Beware, Neil.”
Dear God. It was fortunate he had a strong heart or he’d have dropped down dead.
What of his mind? Was he losing it, or had his faithful housekeeper come back from the dead to warn him?
Chest thudding, he shifted his gaze to Mora. She’d gone white.
“Did you see that?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
She looked up into his face and whispered, “The resemblance between the two women, you mean?”
He was totally baffled. “What are you saying?”
Mora appeared as confused and shaken as he felt. “This is not my aunt, Neil. She’s yers.”
“Mine?” He could’ve sagged down onto his knees. As it was, they held to each other. He hoped onlookers would think it grief.
“’Tis why The MacDonald killed her and only knocked me aside. He’s after the MacKenzies.”
Neil gaped at her.
“Do ye not ken? This woman is the image of Margaret, the sister of yer father. Do ye not remember?”
Neil swallowed hard. Mrs. Dannon was dearly familiar, but he had no recollections of her before she came to Staunton in the 1990’s, and certainly not as a Margaret MacKenzie. And yet…the image of an older woman flitted through his mind, her shapeless form wrapped in an arisaid. A length of the plaid hooded her face, veiled in mist. Above her rose the craggy Highlands also shrouded in haze.
He looked back down at the still figure. She lay as she’d been before. No one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual except possibly Mrs. Fergus, observing them with that inscrutable gaze.
She sidled beside them. “I saw what you did, Neil. This woman will aid you both.”
He gaped at her, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Fergus scratched his head. “This dead woman? You guys are weirding me out.”
He had no idea.
Stunned beyond words, Neil drew Mora past the coffin. A nod and wave to the mourners would have to suffice. No doubt they thought him hard hit by the loss. And maybe he was more than he realized.
He only knew he had to get out of this chapel.
Now.
They hadn’t a moment to lose.
“Neil,” a voice summoned, like a faint thread in the wind. “Guard Mora well. If it’s the last thing you do.”
The accent was unmistakably Mrs. Dannon’s.
Chapter Fourteen
Clouds covered the stars like drifts of snow and the sharp air nipped Mora’s cheeks. Gone the sun-lit warmth of early afternoon. The all-encompassing cold closed in with the night.
What manner of creature faux was, she had no idea, but she welcomed the fur coat Mrs. Fergus had given her. The pelts were luxurious. Any warrior would be proud to wear them.
Why Neil objected to his gift, Mora didn’t grasp. The black garment swept down over his masculine figure in regal style. Totally unlike the colorful plaids she was accustomed to, but coats were not unknown. English gentlemen wore them and some Scotsmen; she’d seen far stranger garments on display in this foreign city.
Neil seemed especially on guard since their visit to the wee chapel, and his manner quiet as if a great weight lay on his mind. On all their minds, but he was particularly somber.
“Watch your step,” he said.
Mora did just that as he helped her across the cobbled yard in front of the tavern. Cobbles were familiar, though she had not yet tread on them in this land. The wooden sign on the side of the red brick wall proclaimed this tavern, The Depot Grille.
Neil closed his fingers around hers, and a thrill shimmered up her arm. But she didn’t have the benefit of his full attention. His narrow gaze darted from side to side, exploring the shadows like a keen-eyed hunter.
What lay ahead of them she hardly dared to contemplate, and only wished they could be united, joyous and untroubled. Why was their lot so difficult, the way dark and twisted?
“This used to be the train station.” Fergus spoke from behind them, recapturing her errant thoughts. “I don’t suppose that means anything to you, Mora?”
“Nae.” The horseless carriages Neil had pointed out frightened her with their size and roar. The smaller ones called cars were alarming enough.
“’Tis most gracious of Mrs. Fergus to bring us here to dine,” she added, lest the benevolent woman think her ungrateful.
“The least I can do, my dear. It’s a charming establishment, as is this side of town. So historic.”
Did not historic refer to vanished Greeks or age-old Celts who drank the blood of men? Keeping that thought to herself, Mora looked where Mrs. Fergus gestured. Much was hid in darkness but the great torches she’d admired before illuminated portions of the street. How do they keep them lit, she wondered, marveling at the rare magic.
Mrs. Fergus pointed. “See, there are quaint shops. And up on the hill stands the old church.”
The rows of brick buildings and church spires rose above them and reminded Mora of the grand city she’d visited in the Lowlands. Only Edinburgh was far more impressive and possessed a vast castle on the hill. Not wanting to wound anyone’s pride in their city, she kept that to herself as well.
Neil motioned Fergus and his mother ahead of them. Mora gathered the long skirts of her new gown as he assisted her up the steps and along the planked walkway outside the tavern. An inviting glow beckoned to them from within, doubly welcome in the chill. Fergus opened the door and their small party stepped inside.
A high-backed wooden settle stretched on either side of the entryway. Weary travelers reclined on these benches. Above the settles, an array of drawings seemingly created by the hand of bairns lined the brick walls. Even children were deemed artists in this land.
At their feet, a strip of red carpet made a path over the well-worn floor. Countless shoes had trod these boards. The swell of laughter carried from patrons. Food and drink must be good here. Musicians would be a lively addition, but the tavern exuded a hospitable atmosphere. No wonder so many folk were gathered within its walls.
The most eye-catching feature glittered up ahead. A long, elegantly carved counter stretched before a series of shining mirrors. Tall stools supported the men and women who sat swigging from the vessels. Shelves filled with bottles of every size and hue were massed before the glass and reflected in its depths, enough drink to gladden a mighty chieftain.
The gleam of mirrors and shining lights dazzled Mora. Here, was the heart of this public house.
“Are we heading to the
bar?” Fergus inquired.
Mora also was drawn to the bright light, but his mother shook her head and spoke to the pleasant-faced young woman approaching them. “Seating for four please and we’d like a booth near the back.”
She smiled. “Follow me.”
The servant dressed all in black—why the obsession with that grim color?—led the way through a host of revelers. Some were seated on chairs at tables or in pews snugged up against tables positioned along the walls. It was to one of these nooks the woman directed them.
Neil motioned Mora in ahead of him. She slid over the polished seat, nestled between him and the brick wall, a posture she had no objection to. Mrs. Fergus gestured Fergus ahead of her and sat opposite Neil.
The maid handed each of them a parchment. “Your server will be with you in a moment.” After imparting this message, she turned and fled.
Why such a rush, Mora wondered. Perhaps the poor lass suffered from nervous hysteria, or was in mourning.
She looked around her. Overhead, a half circle of stained glass was suspended from the ceiling. This artwork was understandable, but the large painted fish and slice of fruit dangling above were peculiar displays. Portraits of horseless carriages hung on the walls. Evidently, these people regarded them as sacred.
Not Neil. He skimmed his gaze over the room without interest, gray eyes like a heavy sky, his mouth tight. His thoughts seemed bent elsewhere.
Glad for the cheer, Mora welcomed the surrounding laughter and chatter. By the light of the oil lamp on their table, she glanced at the parchment handed to her. The appetizing food imprinted there made her realize how hungry she was.
“I need a weapon,” Neil muttered.
Fergus laid his hat on the bench. “A broadsword?”
Neil cast him a look that meant he would not tolerate foolish remarks. But how was it foolish?
He unrolled a white square cloth and spilled a knife, fork, and spoon on the table. “I was thinking of something I could conceal, like a revolver. A pistol,” he explained to Mora, his voice hushed.
“Black powder is dangerous. Might not the pistol explode in yer hand?” She closed her fingers around the end of the blunt knife. “Would ye not prefer to bear a claymore in back scabbard, mayhap hid beneath yer coat, poking out a bit at the top.”
