her of threatening the Krums’ relationship. She hesitated between being insulted and laughing, but neither seemed appropriate.
Dakota was methodically working her way along the shelves, her head tilted as she considered Fergie’s impressive array of books, not just peeling and yellowed ones dating to generations past, but also contemporary titles ranging from astronomy to crypto-zoology, from archaeology to geomancy, from history to frenzied fringe tomes claiming that alien astronauts had not only built ancient structures from Stonehenge to Angkor Wat to Teotihuacan, but also that alien astronauts were humanity’s primeval gods.
Odd notions, yes, and Alasdair was justified in questioning Fergie’s taste for them, but then, like all odd notions, they were thought-provoking, horizon-expanding, and downright entertaining.
Atta girl, Jean thought at Dakota, and, at the same time, Watch out, you’ll end up like me. Although there were a lot worse places to end up.
“So,” Scott said to Jean, just a bit too loudly, “What about the guy—it’s a guy, right?—who fell down at the old castle? Is he okay?”
“I told you,” said Heather, “we didn’t hear any sirens, so he must be all right.”
Jean was intended to be counselor as well as jester, then. Thanks, Diana. “Ah, um.” She looked down at her feet planted solidly on the faded rug. “I’m afraid there was no need for sirens. No rush. He, ah, didn’t make it.”
“You mean he died?” Heather’s nostrils flared as though someone had just handed her a bucket of muck.
“That’s what ‘didn’t make it’ usually means,” Scott informed her.
Dakota looked around, smooth features crumpled.
“The police are here,” Jean said quickly, “and they’re taking care of everything, and the local doctor’s with his wife. Greg’s wife, that is. The man who—didn’t make it.”
“Good,” said Heather. “I mean, bad. I mean, I’m sorry.”
Dakota turned one way and Scott the other. He stared up at the painting over the mantelpiece. This one depicted Calanais stone circle on the island of Lewis. The glow of a small fire at the base of the tallest, square-shouldered, megalith diffused upward and met a similar glow in the lowering sky, probably the rising moon. Over the fire crouched a figure that would have been human except for wings catching both light and dark in subtle grades of color, like a pigeon’s breast.
Beneath it, on the mantel, stood an olivewood nativity scene, presented straight up. At least, Fergie had tucked the E.T. action figure behind one corner of the stable, not substituted it for baby Jesus in the manger.
Scott made no remarks—or photographs, either, never mind his expedition to retrieve the family camera. Heather inspected a fingernail the same color as the painted sky. Dakota looked at the bookcase, but Jean could see her expressionless face in the glass, while the peppy features of the teen idol on her sweatshirt floated ghostlike below.
She considered injecting the sudden silence with something artificially cheery, such as the suggestion they could all consider the unfortunate event as a real-life mystery weekend. But over and beyond having to expand “he died” into “he was murdered,” this was no game.
A musical rattle from the corridor, like glass wind chimes, fell joyfully on her ears. “The drinks are here!” she announced, probably giving the Krums the impression she was an alcoholic needing a fix.
The door opened, admitting Fergie. He now wore a beautifully cut dark suit over a tartan waistcoat—somewhere a Savile Row tailor was weeping—and pushed a serving cart laden with bottles, glasses, and steaming punch bowl. Not, Jean thought, that the red liquid splashing behind the cut glass had to be particularly hot to steam. Beyond the fire’s aura, the room was cold. The two dogs looked up but didn’t get to their feet.
“Good evening, how are we getting on?” Fergie said with a grin. If St. Patrick had had such an affable grin, he could have charmed the snakes out of Ireland instead of ordering them to go.
Scott essayed a smile. Heather did not. Dakota stared.
“I’m Fergus MacDonald, the poor chap responsible for this castle. And you’re the Krums, from the U.S, like Jean here. Scott, Heather, Dakota. Welcome, welcome.” He was working uphill, but, trouper that he was, went gamely on, “Are the dogs all right for you? No allergies?”
“We’re fine, thanks,” said Scott. “Heather’s got a poodle at home.”
“The lab is Bruce,” Fergie said, “and the terrier is Somerled. Good lads, aren’t you?”
The dogs fluttered their tails against the tile of the hearth and with grunts of satisfaction let their heads fall back down.
“We have several fine single malts, a continental aperitif or two, or—’tis the season and all—we have wassail. My special recipe. And lemon squash for the lass.”
Dakota crept forward. “Squashed lemon?”
“It’s kind of like Seven-Up or Sprite with lemon,” Jean explained. And to Fergie, with a deep inhalation of cinnamon and nutmeg, “I’d love a cup of wassail. Do you make yours with cider?”
“Oh yes, and with wine, fruit, and spices. The latter two used to be quite special, mind you, in these northern climates.” Delicately Fergie pushed aside several clove-studded lemon and orange slices and ladled out a cupful. “Here you are. And you, Mrs. Krum?”
“I guess you don’t do cosmopolitans,” Heather said.
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” began Fergie, “I’m sure I can…”
“Let it go, Heather.” Scott extended both hands. “We’ll take wassail, thanks.”
“Very good.” Fergie placed two more cups in his hands, the small, smooth hands of someone who’d only worked with his mind, then gave Dakota a tall glass adorned with mint and a cherry.
Scott drank deeply. After a tentative sip over her protruding lower lip, Heather allowed, “It’s good,” and retracted the pout.
Reminding herself that the drink was full of alcohol and her stomach was full of air, Jean let one swallow of insidious sweetness slide down her throat. Then she cradled the warm cup between her cool hands and pushed aside any comparison of the crimson drink to crimson blood. Nor did she ask if Thomson or Portree had taken Fergie up on his offer of sandwiches in the staff sitting room…no, wait, was that a door opening far down the hall and a couple of male voices?
“What’s that burning in the fireplace?” asked Dakota.
“Peat,” Fergie answered, and launched a soliloquy about peat bogs, and wood as a precious resource, and the Yule log in the Great Hall among other observances planned for tomorrow night—his smile was that of a child anticipating Santa Claus—and how the Log represented the Yule bonfire, which was a major observance along the outer rim of Scotland and its islands, the areas heavily influenced by the Norse, as evidenced by the fire festival Up-Helly-Aa in the Shetlands every January.
None of the Krums blinked. Jean edged closer to the door. Yes, her internal sonar detected Alasdair’s voice.
“This
