Lake of Destiny

by Martina Boone

  Her expression grim and her mind racing, Anna searched the crowds in the village until she found Sorcha, Fenella, and Rhona standing at the back of the tent watching a boy Moira’s age doing the Highland sword dance, his toes coming down perilously close to the crossed blades laid out on the stage.

  “Where’s Erica?” Anna asked. “I need to speak with all four of you.”

  “Is there something else you want to take away from us?” Sorcha snarled. “Let me guess, you’re going to have Moira do Erica’s part today? Or maybe you and Moira want to play all the parts.”

  “What I’d like is for the three of you to behave like adults and worry about what you have instead of what you don’t. In spite of you, the reviews haven’t been total disasters so far, and Vanessa’s had a big critic from London lined up to come for today’s performance. If you and Erica and Donald can all manage to work together, it could mean big things for the festival next year.”

  “Which critic? Do you know what he looks like?” Rhona peered around, scanning the faces in the dim interior of the tent. Between those seated in groups among the rows and others standing in clusters near the back, there were a hundred people, most of them strangers.

  “I don’t know, but he’ll be staying for the ball, which would be an opportunity to talk to him. One more slip-up from any of you, though, and I’ll make sure none of you will be at the ball.”

  “You can’t do that,” Rhona said.

  “Elspeth can, since the ball is at her house. And I’ll make sure none of you get past the door.”

  Sorcha and Rhona glared at her, and Fenella dropped her eyes with a sullen pout.

  Anna started to walk away, but after a few steps she turned and went back again. “One more thing: If I see so much as a cross-eyed glance from you in Moira’s direction, or I hear a whisper of any of you being unkind to her, you’ll be dancing here in the village with the visitors tonight instead of at the ball. I don’t care how unfair you think the vote has been. I don’t care about your egos, or your squabbles between yourselves. She’s a little girl, and you are supposed to be grown women.”

  “It’s a joke, you know that, don’t you? Her being May Queen,” Rhona said. “The village wanted to have a laugh.”

  Sorcha’s mouth twisted. “The joke’s on them then.”

  Anna’s hand itched to slap her. “Actually, the joke’s on you. Moira never asked to be picked for May Queen. You still don’t understand what everyone was trying to tell you, do you? Your own behavior made it impossible for the village to choose you, and being snippy to Moira is only going to prove that they were right.”

  Of Crowns and Cloaks

  To . . . wear a crown is a thing more glorious

  to them that see it

  than it is pleasant to them that bear it.

  Queen Elizabeth I

  The audience laughed at all the right places in the play. Warmed by body heat and the brilliant sun that had finally emerged from behind the clouds, the tent had grown stuffy by the time the performance culminated in the final scene, and the air stank of sweat and perfume. Despite that, not even the children watching were squirming in their seats. The actors from the village overplayed their parts, just as Connal had meant them to, and Sorcha mostly behaved herself. Fenella, Erica, and Donald were like completely different people. As if the scene on Friday night had shown them what the script was all about, they highlighted the comic elements of the parts that Connal had designed for them with his small rewrites of the original lines.

  By the last scene, Anna found herself standing beside Elspeth and Moira backstage with her fingers crossed, hoping they’d all managed to pull the production off without any more disasters. As if he’d read her mind, Brando grinned at her and looped his arm around her shoulders. “I can’t believe we’ve managed to make this work.”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” Anna said.

  “True enough,” Elspeth said. “Sorcha’s liable to lop their heads off.”

  Anna peeked back out at the audience. They were still enthralled, quiet in their seats as Pierce Saunders stood at the edge of the stage and began the fairy Puck’s final monologue:

  If we shadows have offended,

  Think but this, and all is mended,

  That you have but slumber’d here . . .

  Slumber’d here.

  Though she’d heard the speech a hundred times in rehearsals and on Friday night, standing there now with Brando’s arm around her, the words abruptly took on a more personal dimension. A few minutes ago, she had been thinking that Erica, Fenella, and Donald had discovered the key to the play within their own lives. How had she missed its meaning in her own?

  The whole past month had been a dream, an interlude—time outside of time. She didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay here and pretend that she could have this, have Connal and Moira and the glen, forever. But now the curtain was coming down, both on the play and on her visit. If she wanted the dream, she had to decide.

  Puck spoke his final words, and the audience jumped to their feet, clapping and whistling their appreciation. Slightly drunk on adrenaline and relief, the actors went out to take their curtain call. Then Anna sent Vanessa, Julian, and Pierce out together to take their individual bows, before the rest of the cast from the village went out again. Friends, family members, and total strangers cheered even louder. Anna scanned the stage and audience. So many familiar faces. She wished Connal was there beside her, to take credit if nothing else.

  Once again, Brando had to go stand in for him to accept the audience’s applause. Not that he didn’t deserve it in his own right. His Winter King crown still resting across his forehead, Brando executed a sweeping bow, and the whistles and cheers grew piercingly loud. He flushed red, his carefully constructed mask slipping to show anyone who cared to look how much that show of respect mattered to him.

  Anna clapped so hard her palms stung. Brando turned and called for her to come and join him. She shook her head, but Elspeth gave her a shove, and she grabbed Elspeth’s hand and Moira’s and brought them both on stage along with her. They stood with the actors, talking and laughing, as out in the tent the audience began to gather their things and exit the rows of chairs, turning on phones that glowed and beeped in the gray light that streamed in through the waterproof plastic overhead.

  Moira bounced beside Anna as they headed back behind the curtain. “I want to be in the play next year, Anna. Do you think I can?”

  Anna’s lungs squeezed closed. “I hope so, honey. If you still want to.”

  Elspeth cleared her throat and threaded her arm in the crook of Moira’s elbow. “You know what I was thinking? The temperature will cool again by the end of the procession, so I thought maybe you might like to wear that green velvet cloak that Titania was wearing in the play. You could decide if you want the hood on or off, or throw the whole thing over your back and wear it like a superhero cape.”

  “Yes, please,” Moira said.

  Elspeth caught her hand. “Then let’s go find Vanessa and get it from her.”

  When Moira had skipped off with Elspeth, Brando came back over. “I would have laid odds against us making it through to the end without anyone getting killed or at least dismembered.”

  “Maybe your threat kept them in line,” Anna said, laughing. “Drawn and quartered? Really?”

  He smiled at her ruefully. “I happen to like history, and as gruesome punishments go, that one makes a good deterrent.”

  “Threats aside, you did a fantastic job with everything. I hope Connal tells you so, too.”

  “I’ll be sure to wait until whenever he gets around to watching the video. It was his loss, though for not being here, wasn’t it? I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but I feel sorry for him. Not coming to see Moira—” He shook his head and cut himself off as Moira and Elspeth returned. “Ready for a long walk, Mo?” He held out his arm, and Moira put her hand on it regally, then walked out with him with her head held high in her crown of
hawthorn blossoms and the green velvet cloak that trailed behind her on the ground. They exited the tent together and moved across to the courtyard of the inn while people stared and snapped photos. Anna smiled as, walking behind them, she noted that Brando distracted Moira with chatter all the way.

  Outside, the pipers and line of tattoo drummers had assembled again. The bagpipes squealed the first notes, and people streaming in from the village and all around the glen hurried their steps—at least those who weren’t glued to their phones or texting.

  “Are you ready?” Brando smiled at Moira. She nodded, and he lifted the May Bush from its stand and hoisted it up in front of him.

  The pipers exited the courtyard and formed up in the street. Brando and Moira lined up behind them, with Anna and Elspeth one row back, followed by the Highland dancers who had been competing earlier that day and many of the actors from the village still in costume. It seemed to Anna that most eyes were fastened on Moira now, more so than earlier, nearly everyone snapping pictures on their phones or with their cameras. Moira’s cheeks were pink, and her eyes darted around, taking in the attention without seeming to mind too much. Tucked close to Brando’s side, she glanced over at Anna and Elspeth every few minutes for reassurance, but she left the hood of the green cloak streaming down her back.

  “Will you let me use your phone?” Anna asked, leaning in to Elspeth.

  “Are you going to try to phone Connal?” Elspeth pulled the phone from her pocket and handed it over. “He should be here to see her. At least he should come as far as the hotel so that he sees her before we turn around.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  The wind had picked up again, the temperature cooling beneath a brilliant sapphire sky dotted with cotton ball clouds that cast their shadows onto the loch. Anna’s fingers hovered over recent numbers in the phone’s memory, then she stopped and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m not going to do it. If I call and nag at him, he won’t have changed anything even if he does come out. He needs to decide for himself. It needs to mean enough to him for him to come of his own accord, and if I love him, I’ll give him that choice.”

  “He’s not wrong, though, you know. It would be harder—much harder—for Moira if he came.”

  “Do you really think she’d care? Or would she just want her father to be there and be proud of her?” Anna handed the phone back again as the procession moved out to the brave wailing of the pipes.

  Then three things happened almost simultaneously: Connal himself strode around the corner of the road with a cap pulled low on his forehead, the door of the inn banged open and Flora Macara ran out with Shame bounding out behind her, and several people around Anna suddenly shouted, “That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Gregor Mark!”

  Connal’s head shot up. He stopped in the middle of the road, then hastily stepped out of the way of the approaching line of pipers and squeezed himself against the fence. Shame darted onto the track and made a beeline for the May Bush, leaping and snapping at the colorful ribbons and decorations streaming from the hawthorn’s branches.

  Brando raised it higher. “Shame, you blasted nuisance. Stop it. Someone grab him, can’t you? Where’s Flora?”

  Moira and Elspeth both dove at Shame, trying to catch him, but Flora had run straight to Anna. “You need to get Moira out of here. Get her back to Connal. We have to warn him,” she said, obviously not noticing Connal ahead by the fence. She waved the screen of her phone in front of Anna’s eyes. “Someone sent a picture of Moira and Connal to the The Sun, and the article says they’re both here in Balwhither. It says Moira is May Queen—and the rest of it makes my blood boil.”

  Anna snatched up the phone, but behind her, women were weaving through the procession, heading in Connal’s direction, their own phones raised to snap photos of him. Anna found herself pushed aside as she tried to focus on the screen.

  Her breath stopped as if someone had kicked all the air from her lungs. The image beneath the tabloid headline wasn’t a photograph at all; it was an illustration of Moira and Connal laughing together, and the expression put the contrast between the two sides of Moira’s face in stark relief. Above it, the text read:

  WHAT’S GREGOR MARK BEEN HIDING HERE IN SCOTLAND?

  Anna’s hands went cold. Her throat burned with an icy rage, but what was she supposed to do now? What were they supposed to do? Stop the procession? That would only make the situation worse.

  “Help me, Flora.” Catching at Flora’s sleeve, she darted ahead to follow the women who had started rushing at Connal. She stepped in front of them while Flora did the same and waved them back. “Stay in line, everyone.”

  “But that’s Gregor Mark,” said a pale, sturdy woman with washed-out skin and brilliant blue eyes. She tried to shove past Anna.

  “And that’s his daughter in the procession,” Anna snarled. “What if your daughter was in a recital or a performance at school? Would you want someone making a fuss and spoiling her big moment? Gregor Mark isn’t going anywhere. You can get your photos later. Let the procession go on ahead.”

  She hoped she was telling the truth as she stared the women down.

  Reluctantly, they fell back in line, and Moira, her back stiff and her hand wrapped tight in Brando’s, continued walking behind the pipers. She had almost reached Connal, and she turned and waved as she passed by, her smile so wide that it made Anna’s stomach ache. Anna and Flora shooed the remaining fans away and dropped back to walk protectively behind Moira again, Connal falling into step beside them with his face grim and his hands fisted in his pockets.

  “I didn’t think I’d be recognized that fast,” he said to Anna before stooping to speak into Moira’s ear. “You look beautiful, little duck. I like that color green on you, and I’m very, very proud of you.”

  “It’s Titania’s cloak,” Moira said. “She was the fairy queen.”

  “Just like you.” Connal's gaze lifted as he turned the corner onto the main road that followed along the loch. He scanned the rows of faces in the procession fanning out behind them.

  “You weren’t recognized by accident,” Anna said. “Someone sent a picture to The Sun. Someone deliberately told them where you were.” She waved for Flora to come over, and watched with her breathing ragged while Flora, still gripping Shame by the collar, handed the phone to Connal.

  Connal squinted at the screen, and Elspeth edged around his elbow to peer down as well. Both of them went pale simultaneously. Connal’s hands shook as he read the rest of the article beneath the caption. Almost at the same moment, both of them said a single word: “JoAnne.”

  Anna wasn’t quite so convinced. She walked backward as the rest of the procession came around the corner, searching the people in the back for the three Grewers and Erica MacLaren. Not spotting them didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it gave her a chance to think. She and Connal and Elspeth had all fallen behind Moira and Brando now, but she lowered her voice anyway, as much as she could while still making herself heard above the wailing of the bagpipes.

  “I don’t think we should be too quick to accuse JoAnne.”

  Elspeth lifted her chin, bright spots of color burning on her cheeks. “Don’t bother trying to defend her. That’s JoAnne’s drawing. I’ve seen it in her sketchbook. You warned us, you warned me, and I’m the one who didn’t see this coming.”

  “The posters and the phone calls, those were almost certainly JoAnne. I don’t dispute that. But what would she gain by sending her own sketch to the tabloid?” Anna asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Nothing that girl does makes sense. Only now her artwork’s been noticed, hasn’t it?” Flora said. “That picture’ll be famous, and you mark my words, she’ll be claiming credit in a day or two, coming out with lots more sketches.”

  “I’m the one to blame if we’re going to blame anyone,” Connal said. “We had a big argument about Moira being May Queen this morning, and I told her that if she didn’t like my decisions, she w
as welcome to leave. I never dreamed she’d do anything like this. But I should take Moira home. If The Sun put this out on their website, they’ll have people on the way here already. They could be here practically any minute.”

  “No!” Anna cried. “You’ve promised to let her be May Queen. You can’t stop her from finishing the procession now, not unless she wants to stop.”

  Flora grabbed Connal’s arm. “Let the poor child have her day, Connal. I’ll take Duncan and some of the others, and we’ll block the road here at the intersection. No one will be able to get down the glen until after the procession gets back here, and then you can whisk Moira straight off home, safe and sound, if you want to.”

  “All right.” Connal’s nod was terse. “Thanks, Flora.”

  “Flora, wait,” Anna called. “Keep an eye on Erica and the Grewers. Maybe I’m biased, and it’s not that I’m particularly fond of JoAnne, but she does love Moira. I can’t see her doing anything to hurt her. Sorcha and Erica, on the other hand, they have plenty of malice between them, and Erica could have photographed that sketch anytime while she was cleaning at Connal’s house.”

  “Erica’s sneaky enough, I’ll say that much for her, but she wouldn’t have thought up something like this all on her own.” Flora’s lips tightened, and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you worry. If she and Sorcha are the ones behind this, they’ll get what’s coming to them. I’ll see to it personally.” She hurried off, an avenging angel in sensible shoes and an ugly puce-green sweater.

  The procession followed the road along the loch, pausing now and then to let someone who had come down from a farm or house hang a ribbon or painted egg shell on the bush in exchange for a bit of blossom. Connal had pulled the hat lower on his head, and his eyes constantly searched the edges of the road with the wary expression of a dog who had been kicked too often. It wasn’t a lack of courage, that reaction. It was a lack of trust—and who could blame him? Look what had happened the moment someone wanted to lash out at him.