Love by the Stroke of Midnight by Raven McAllan (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

“Right then, here we go.” She picked up the first parcel and shook it. A ritual for each of them with their first present on a birthday or at Christmas. Their mum had decreed only the first or they’d spend all day opening presents, especially at Christmas, when they took turns.

“It doesn’t rattle sing or squawk,” she said. “Or smell. It’s squashy.” She pulled one piece of sticky tape off, slowly, carefully, as if it were gold-dusted. “Still no clink, jangle or pong. So it’s not blue cheese, bath bombs or pound coins.” She grinned and pulled off another piece of tape. “It doesn’t…ooft.”

Bonnie put her hand over Marcail’s mouth. Also tradition. “Enough already, stop milking it. We’ve only got until sunset and we need to be washed, dressed and tidy by then.” Some years it had been a close-run thing.

Marcail nodded and Bonnie removed her hand. “Okay, I’m on to it.” She took the rest of the tape off and peeled back the cheesy ‘happy baa day’ paper away from the contents.

A cardboard box. She lifted the flap, revealed the contents and gasped. “Bonnie, you gem, it’s gorgeous.”

Carefully Marcail lifted the plaid and held it high. “You wove this, didn’t you?”

“Yep, so ignore any mistakes you can see, or not see, even. I’ll just say they’re there so it’s not perfect and can’t offend anyone with its perfection. Evil eyes and gods and so on.”

“Fair enough. I love it.” Marcail put it gently to one side and took another parcel out of the basket. This one did rattle, and she found earrings from her parents, plus some cash. Baird had brought her book tokens and a voucher for her favourite clothes shop, plus a packet marked ‘open tomorrow’.

“Why tomorrow?” Marcail asked.

He rolled his eyes. “So you can concentrate on today. I know you. You open a box of choc— Damn, now you know what’s in it.”

“Aww, thank you. I will save it, especially if it’s my favourite?”

Baird grinned. “Would I dare buy anything else? But it’s not for today or…”

“You won’t eat your dinner,” her family chorused.

“You rotters. I would.” She laughed. “And feel sick after.”

“Any more presents in there?” Paden asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.

Marcail peered into the depths of the basket. “Just one.” A tiny box, wrapped in plain brown paper, with no gift tag.

“From me,” Paden said. “A beginning, if you like.”

Marcail’s pulse sped up at the quiet intensity in his tone. She took the paper off, opened the box and stared. A tiny, silver tree of life. Less than an inch in size, it was perfectly crafted, and gave her goosebumps. In Celtic culture it was said to represent the afterlife and connection between the earth and heaven. “It’s exquisite,” she said when she could find her voice. “Will you pin it on for me?”

“It will be my honour and my pleasure.” Paden leaned forwards and pinned the brooch to the front of her shirt. “The rest will, I hope, follow later,” he whispered, only loud enough for her to hear. “There now, how’s that?”

“Perfect, thank you.” Uncaring of her interested—in her father’s case, suspicious—glances from the others, she kissed him. “I have been so fortunate today.” So far. She was still waiting to discover why Paden was with them.

“Soon, not long now.”

“Good.” She kissed the rest of the family in turn. “Thank you, all of you, my presents are lovely. In fact…” She grinned at her dad. “Rather nice.”

He laughed. “Go on with you. I’ll give you nice. Right, folks, it’s time to ask Paden to judge the neep carving so we can put the tea lights in. Baird, where’s yours?”

Baird rolled his eyes. “On the table with the rest so it’s totally impartial judging by Paden.”

Paden rubbed his hands together. “I’ve not sensed, peeked or cheated, I’m not impaired by whisky, and as requested, I’ll judge on first sight and aesthetic appearance.” He bowed as they all clapped. Marcail giggled. The light-hearted attitudes of them all was welcome after so much deep introspection she’d seen around.

“Now, let me see…” Very slowly he walked around the circular table, where each turnip could be seen from every angle. Marcail could make a guess at whose was which. She knew Bonnie’s of course, and her own, but she guessed the one half-finished with only very crude apertures in it was her dad’s—he didn’t have the patience to carve elegantly—the one with lots of fiddly little cut-outs was her mum’s, which left the one with jaggy teeth and not much else as Baird’s.

Paden studied each neep with intensity until at last he straightened. “That one.” He pointed to Bonnie’s carving. “It works in every way for me. Plenty of ways to let the light shine through, and lots of neep carved out to eat. That’s a win-win.”

Marcail whistled and clapped, as Bonnie appeared stunned. “Yay, go you, Bons.”

“Mine?” Bonnie said slowly. “You sure?”

“Very sure,” Paden replied. “I crown you Champion Samhain Neep Carver.”

Ruari clapped his hands. “Thank you, Paden. Bonnie, well done. Let’s get a move on. Time to don our glad rags. See you all back down here by half past four at the latest.” He made shooing motions. “Scoot.”

Marcail headed up the main stairs, hand in hand with Paden as Baird disappeared in the opposite direction and Bonnie went out to walk to her cottage. “When does this big reveal or whatever happen?”

“After our meal,” Paden said. “Once we’ve honoured those we remember. Then…” He paused as they reached the landing. “It’s in the hands of the spirits. And you.”

Reassuring—not.

“Thanks, I think.” Marcail gestured to her door. “What about throwing nuts on the fire, lighting the turnip lanterns and so on. Will you take part?”

“Of course,” Paden said. “And hope my nut smoulders, not spits, and we have a smooth relationship.”

Marcail blushed. He was so sure they would be together. “If we have one.”

“I can only pray we do,” he said soberly. “And that it will be shown to us sooner