Lake of Destiny

by Martina Boone

  But the night was just beginning.

  At Elspeth’s suggestion, the MacGregor pipers were at the front, and the MacLaren pipers were in the rear, and the now familiar kilt patterns were separated by several rows of pipers from unrelated clans wearing an assortment of different tartans. Under the direction of one of the outside judges, they launched into a practice piece as Anna hurried past them. The first notes sounded like a bag of cats being tortured, but then the notes of “Highland Cathedral” emerged and a row of tattoo drummers at the rear joined in.

  Chills erupted along Anna’s spine. She paused briefly to watch, then ducked through the door of the inn, and by the time she emerged again with a half-dozen volunteer chair-wranglers, the call of the drums and pipes had begun to work its magic. Carrying across the water and echoing off the braes, it drew people from the campground and caravan park on the left side of the loch as well as the B&Bs, the inn, and the hotel.

  But there was still no sign of Moira, and Anna needed to get back for the opening ceremony. Checking her watch, she gave an impatient sigh and went to borrow Elspeth’s phone to dial Connal’s number.

  He picked up with a brief, “Hallo?”

  “It’s me,” Anna said. “Has JoAnne left with Moira yet?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. Isn’t she there yet? That’s odd. Let me try and phone her. Give me a minute, and I’ll ring you back.”

  Anna wandered back outside, shading her eyes to search the groups who had gathered along the fence and in the courtyard to watch the pipers, but there was still no sign of Moira’s small blond head or purple jacket. When the phone rang, the screen showed Connal’s number. She picked up eagerly.

  “I swear, I’m going to kill that woman,” he said, his voice icy. “She stopped to feed the wild swans down the loch.”

  “Are they coming now? The pipers are about to start.” Anna whipped around and skirted the wall to head down toward the water.

  “Go take care of whatever you need to do. I told JoAnne to bring Moira straight to you, and I’ll follow up to make sure she does—”

  “Hold on,” Anna said as a shout erupted from the back of the inn as the door flew open. In a blur of yellow fur, Shame tore outside with a steak in his mouth and Flora, red-faced, right behind him. Dashing into the crowd of pipers, the dog scattered them like dominos while the music deteriorated into a cacophony of wails and sadistic notes.

  “Shame, you idiot! Come back here,” Flora shouted.

  Shame paused to grin back at her, tongue lolling, then ran and hopped over the three-foot wall, raced past Anna, and bounded like a deer through the shallow water along the side of the loch. Honking in alarm, a pair of swans who’d been swimming near the shore took flight, their wing spans wide and graceful. As if that had been his aim all along, Shame flopped to his belly at the feet of a child in a purple jacket who stood beside a taller figure dressed like a scarecrow in layers of skirts and scarves and sweaters.

  “Don’t worry about calling JoAnne again,” Anna said. “I’ve found them.”

  Moira wiggled out of her jacket, and Anna took it from her and draped it over the back of the chair beside Elspeth’s in the front row of the tent. As the last of the bagpipes died away, people started drifting in to find their seats, but the VIP section around them was still mostly empty. Even so, Moira seemed more drawn in on herself than usual as she dropped into her chair and stared down at her sneakers, which someone—likely JoAnne—had hand-painted with unicorns and tiny fairies.

  “Are you going to be all right here with Elspeth, Moira?” Anna asked, exchanging a glance with her aunt. “Because you don’t have to stay. I can call your dad, and JoAnne can come back and take you home.”

  “JoAnne said I shouldn’t want to come. She said that people wouldn’t be very nice. They might say things about me.”

  “JoAnne said that just now?” Anna’s nails dug into her palms, but she took a breath and crouched down as Moira gave a solemn nod. “You listen to me, all right? People are people. Some are nice, and some aren’t, and not everyone is nice all the time. That’s just the way the world works. We can’t stop people from saying or doing things that we don’t like, but when they do, it’s up to us to decide how much we’re going to let that hurt us. When something bad happens, we always have the power to remember the good things in the world, the things that make us happy, and that lets the bad things hurt a little less.”

  “What kind of good things?” Moira stared at her, one-half of her face so beautiful that it physically hurt to see the other side.

  “Unicorns and fairies, for starters,” Anna said, tapping Moira’s shoes, “and having a dad who loves you more than the moon and stars. Having the loch as your front yard and all these hills to play on. Knowing that Elspeth loves you—and I love you, and JoAnne loves you. All the people in the glen love you. Does that help some? Can you try to remember that?”

  Moira gave a nod. “Some people stared at me when I walked in, but I know they can’t help it. Even JoAnne and Daddy stare sometimes when they think I can’t see them.”

  “Do you mind that very much?”

  “I wish my face was the same on both sides.” Moira rubbed one thumb against the other. “Daddy says it’s what’s inside a person that matters, but I think people mostly say that when a person’s outside isn’t very pretty.”

  Anna caught Moira’s hands in her own. “You listen to me, okay? How you look has nothing to do with you. How you look is about your DNA, your parents and grandparents and things outside your control. But how you act, whether you make other people happy or unhappy, that’s the only thing you can control, whether you make the world a better place or a worse place. Sometimes that’s as simple as smiling at someone and showing them that they matter. If they don’t smile back, it’s usually because there’s something in their own lives that’s making them very unhappy. But that’s about them, not about you, okay?”

  “Okay.” Moira blinked at Anna and smiled as fully as she could. As if that one word could change things. As if it was as easy as a smile.

  Anna’s chest hurt and her eyes stung, and she exchanged a look with Elspeth. Then she left Elspeth and Moira to watch the play together and headed backstage to watch from the wings.

  The play went well. By the third act, Anna should have been breathing a sigh of relief. Instead, she edged closer to the curtain as the second scene began, because that scene had always been a problem.

  It didn’t take long for trouble to start.

  Erica, playing Lysander, had been in love with Sorcha’s Hermia character throughout the play, but now she had been enchanted by the fairy Puck and had fallen in love with Helena. And Demetrius had been in love with Helena all along.

  Sorcha clearly hated that. Despite all of Connal’s warnings, she wouldn’t stop getting between Fenella and the audience whenever Fenella spoke her lines.

  Anna and Brando tried to wave her back. Fenella ducked around her for the fourth time, then quickly had to move again. Finally, she stomped all the way to the front of the stage, leaving Sorcha nowhere to go. She threw her sister a triumphant look, and Erica as Lysander and Donald as Demetrius moved up beside her and stood on either side, protectively, as they delivered their own speeches, arguing about their love for Helena.

  Sorcha paused and stared at the audience, her face gone red. Then as if she had suddenly reached a decision, she walked over to Erica and, on her next line, grabbed Erica’s buttocks in both hands, leaning in to kiss her with a sexy pout.

  “What in bloody hell is she doing?” Brando asked, shifting over to stand beside Anna.

  “Nothing good,” Anna said.

  Erica tore Sorcha’s hands away and pushed her back, looking more genuinely revolted than she had ever managed to in rehearsals. “Hang off, you cat, you burr! Vile thing, let loose or I will shake you from me like a serpent.”

  Sorcha ran her hands around Erica’s waist and up her back. “Why have you grown so rude since you left me this morning
, my love?” she said, low-voiced and far sultrier than anything she’d done before. “Sweet love—”

  “Your love? Get off me, you Tartar! Your company is like bad medicine I’ve been forced to drink.” Lip curling, Erica shook Sorcha off again and stepped closer to Fenella.

  Sorcha followed her, snaking her hands under Erica’s defenses and running them up Erica’s chest as she gazed deep into her eyes. “This is all a joke, isn’t it? You couldn’t truly love Helena.”

  “Now the joke’s on you,” Fenella said, pushing in between them.

  “What are you doing, my love? Leave her.” Sorcha wrapped her arms around Erica’s waist and pressed her cheek against her shoulder. “Am I not Hermia? Are you not still my Lysander? I am as beautiful as I was when we went to bed last night when you loved me still, but this morning you were gone. Why would you leave me to go to her?”

  Brando turned to Anna. “That’s not the right line? What is she doing?”

  Anna scanned the script. “She’s combined two speeches and skipped ahead.”

  “Why?”

  Anna shrugged. Donald and Erica, who should both have had lines in between, looked off stage at Brando, their expressions confused. Anna rolled her hand for Erica to jump ahead and mouthed the beginning of the line Lysander was supposed to have after what Sorcha had just said, “By my life, Hermia . . . ”

  Erica nodded. “By my life, Hermia, I never want to see you again. Don’t hope for me to change my mind, don’t question, don’t doubt. Nothing is truer than the fact that I hate you and love Helena.” Erica tried to pull away from Sorcha, and when Sorcha clung, suddenly stomped on her toe, crying, “Let me go!”

  Sorcha, limping, spun around and pushed Fenella with both hands. “You thief of love! How did you come by night and steal my love’s heart from me?”

  Fenella shoved her back. “Do you hear yourself? Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of bashfulness? You want to force me to speak the truth? All right. You’re a faker, a puppet!”

  “Puppet? Why? Because you think you’re better than I am? You think you’ve won Lysander from me? You think she’s fallen in love with you because I’m not worth loving? How low am I, you painted maypole? Speak. How low am I?” Sorcha stepped forward, her fingers curled into claws. “I am not yet so low that I can’t scratch out your thieving eyes!”

  Fenella stepped behind Erica while the audience laughed again. “I pray you, Lysander, even if you’re mocking me with a pretense at love, do not let her hurt me. I don’t have her skill at insults, or her sly cat’s tongue. She’s always played low and dirty.”

  “Low? That again!” Sorcha’s hand clipped Fenella across the cheek, and Fenella tumbled backward over a prop log that had been set out on the stage and landed on her hip behind it. The audience gave a shout of laughter.

  Erica rushed to help her up. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, thinking quickly and jumping ahead another half page in the script, “I won’t let her hurt you.”

  “I won’t let her hurt you,” Donald delivered the next line as Demetrius, rushing to pry Fenella away from Erica.

  Without bothering to speak any lines at all, Fenella tore herself free of them both, leaped over the log, and rushed at Sorcha with her fists raised and her lips twisted into a snarl. Donald caught her and spun her around, and Erica jumped to grab hold of Sorcha.

  “Let me go,” Sorcha snarled at Erica, fighting to get free. “Let me at her.”

  Brando flipped frantically through the pages on his clipboard.

  Erica shoved Sorcha even harder. “Leave her alone, you dwarf.”

  Sorcha fell to her knees on stage amid a roar of laughter from the audience. Her cheeks pale beneath the lights, she turned her head and squinted out into the rows of chairs. For a moment, she froze. Then hands covering her face, she jumped to her feet and ran off stage.

  The remaining three actors in the scene watched her go, then they slowly turned to Anna and Brando, clearly lost. Silence had fallen across the tent.

  “Come off,” Brando mouthed at them, frantically beckoning while Anna waved for Julian and Pierce to get on stage and jump ahead in the script.

  Fenella ran straight to Sorcha who was stalking back and forth in the curtained off area reserved for actors. “You can’t ever let me have one single thing without trying to take it away from me, can you?” Fenella screamed at Sorcha. “You try to take away everything!”

  “What do you have that I could possibly want?” Sorcha asked, her chin rising like a flag.

  “Lines? Talent? An ego smaller than a train?”

  “Shhh!” Anna and Brando both ran toward them. “Be quiet,” Brando snapped. “The audience can hear you!”

  The audience was ignoring Julian and Pierce, both of whom had calmly restarted their lines on stage. Every face had turned toward the wings, heads craned to hear the fight between Sorcha and Fenella.

  Sorcha poked Fenella in the chest with her index finger. “You’re delusional, aren’t you? Daft and delusional and mousy. No wonder no one ever wants you around.”

  “Me? What about you? You’re only jealous that Erica and Donald like me better.”

  “In the play,” Sorcha snapped. “That’s where you’re confused. It’s not real life, is it?”

  “Shut up, the pair of you,” Brando hissed, physically shoving them both deeper into the wings, trying to get them out of earshot while Anna waved at Julian and Pierce to speak up. But like the audience, they had fallen silent and turned toward the drama that was happening between the twins.

  “You’re both horrible.” Donald ran up to Sorcha and Fenella, his slightly pudgy face and mild blue eyes close to Sorcha’s, and his skin a mottled, angry red. “You too,” he added, pointing at Erica. “You’re all three of you mean and vain, and I wish none of you were in the play. I wish you didn’t even live here in the village.” Stalking away, he went off to slump into a chair with his head in his hands.

  Inside the rest of the tent, there was utter silence.

  “Donald’s right, don’t you think, Miss Elspeth? None of them are very nice.” Moira’s voice dropped into the lull. “I wish none of them had to be the May Queen.”

  Fate’s Steady March

  Nothing else with such slaughtering

  feats can compare,

  To win manly applause,

  or the smiles of the fair.

  Marion Bernstein

  “Manly Sports”

  It was a truth universally acknowledged that a man competing in a Highland Games should always wear a kilt.

  Which was not a bad thing, Anna thought while rushing around the glen on Saturday morning after yet another near-sleepless night. In fact, a kilt may have been the only thing that had saved them the previous night after the Sorcha/Erica/Fenella disaster. Vanessa had stalked offstage without even waiting for the applause to die down after the final curtain call.

  “Where’s Connal? Where’s my bloody phone? If he thinks I’m going to do another bloody performance with this lot, he can bloody well hold his breath,” Vanessa had fumed. “This is my reputation I’m staking on this. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”

  “As if you haven’t given more than your own share of tantrums over the years,” Julian had said. “Come off your high horse, Van. You remember what it was like to be eighteen.”

  “I had some bloody talent when I was eighteen. I wasn’t some no-name upstart—”

  “Well, I for one can’t imagine anyone doing a better Titania than you just did,” Brando had said, swooping in with his charm turned up to maximum. “That was a brilliant performance, and I guarantee that’s all anyone will remember when they talk about tonight.”

  Vanessa had eyed him up and down, taking in the kilt and the snug black T-shirt, not to mention the muscles and the smile and the jawline. “Did you think so?”

  “Aye, and anyone who doesn’t has no idea what they’re talking about.”

  Vanessa’s shoulders had relaxed an inch, an
d she’d taken Brando’s arm when he offered it and gone back to the Braeside Hotel with him for a “bit of bubbly by way of celebration,” but she’d turned back to Anna after gathering up her things.

  “You and Connal had better figure this out. If you can’t guarantee those . . . girls . . . will behave on Sunday, you can find yourself someone else to do my parts.”

  Brando excused himself briefly, leaving Anna to walk Vanessa and Pierce out of the tent while he and Julian went back and threatened to draw and quarter Sorcha and the rest of them if they didn’t pull themselves together and behave like grown-ups. And judging by the expressions the girls all wore when Anna got back, no one considered that much of an exaggeration.

  Anna and Elspeth had both echoed his threats, and then they’d set out to concentrate on damage control. Between then and this morning, they had handled a dozen brief interviews with reporters from various newspapers and websites, many of whom had stayed on to cover the games. Down on the field now, there was even a video crew from an Edinburgh television show filming the caber toss where contestants were competing to see how far they could throw a tree trunk.

  Muscles, like kilts, were in plentiful supply.

  The air smelled of grass, spring, and frying grease from the food concession booths, and Anna hurried from one event to another, making sure they ran on schedule, making sure the volunteers were where they were supposed to be and that they had plenty of water to drink, lugging boxes of trophies and awards. She tried to keep Elspeth sitting down and taking it easy, giving her Moira duty to restrict the amount of stress and walking she had to do. But by noon, Elspeth’s nearly non-existent limp had become noticeable again. As Davy Griggs prepared to compete in the haggis-hurling competition, Anna coaxed Elspeth off to the information tent on the pretext of relieving his wife, who’d been there all morning answering questions.