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

outside to the long western-facing terrace where the sun was just about to slide below the horizon.

“Blessed be. Welcome to Samhain.” It was time to start their remembrance and giving thanks, along with some traditions and family customs.

As ever, Marcail repeated the words and bent her head to add her own words of thanks and prayers. These few moments were private, the rest of the day was celebrated as a family.

“Except when we talk, that will be private also.”

Marcail decided she would probably be glad of that when the time came. After all, if she decided she needed to throw a hissy fit or have a breakdown she’d rather not let her family see it.

“Don’t blame you, ma ghaol, but I’m hoping you won’t do either.”

“We’ll see.”

“Shall we go and eat?” her dad said as they all stood up straight and took one last lingering look to the west where the sun had now completely gone and only a few thin rays shone up into the skies, dancing with the lengthening shadows. He glanced from Marcail to Paden. “I’ve a feeling a couple of the party want to move on swiftly.”

“Not until the time is right,” Paden said. “But I’ll happily go into the warm.”

* * * *

The meal was perfect in every way. The place left empty, for the ancestors, the food, drink and chat all went seamlessly. Only Marcail appeared to get ever more tense. When it was time to share the soul cakes and give thanks for their home, food and family, a coal fell in the grate and she jumped, almost dropping the plate she was about to give to Paden. He took it from her and put his hand over hers in a comforting gesture. “Not long now, stay strong.”

It was easier said than done.

Marcail’s nerves were on edge, her skin felt too tight for her skeleton, and every noise, however soft, grated. She was, she acknowledged, a quivering wreck, and she still had to have a dram—she hated whisky—peel an apple—she never got the peel off in one go, which was what was best—and throw her nut on the fire—it always hissed and spat, which meant any relationship in the coming year would be fiery and argumentative. That was the last thing she wanted.

Why couldn’t they just go and talk now? There was no answer to that, either out loud or in her mind. She took the apple her mum handed her, broke the peel three quarters of the way through as ever, ate the fruit absent-mindedly as Bonnie took the knife and got her peel off in one long strip. “At least I can do that right,” she said and crossed her eyes. “I’ll throw it over my shoulder at midnight.” If it landed in the shape of a letter, it was supposed to signify the initial of your love. As Marcail had never managed to do one long peel, she couldn’t say if there was any truth in it or not.

“Good luck.” She handed the nuts out.

Her mum’s and dad’s spat, which made them both laugh. They’d be the first to admit they could argue over trivia for ages. Bonnie’s sizzled a bit and disappeared.

“That figures. Just like my love life, fizzles out before it gets started. Go on, Baird, you next.”

Baird scowled. “I’ll pass.”

“You will not,” his mum said. “It’s tradition.”

He stood up and threw his nut onto the fire with such force it hit the back of the grate and burst into flames. “Sod tradition.” He stalked out of the room.

Marcail stared at his retreating figure in amazement. Baird was usually the most unlikely of them to say or do anything like that. Paden squeezed her hand. “Let him be, he also has his problems.”

“Us next,” he said lightly. “Come on, ma ghaol, let’s see what the year has in store.”

“Together?” Marcail asked.

“Together,” he confirmed. “One…two…three…” They flung their nuts onto the fire and waited.

Watched until the nuts slowly burnt to ashes.

“Well, wow,” Marcail said slowly. “Is that a good omen, or what?”

Paden turned to her, his eyes watchful. “Shall we go and find out?” He waited until Marcail nodded before he turned and bowed to Ruari. “By your leave?”

Ruari glanced from one to the other and inclined his head. “Given freely. Go with love, peace and the knowledge that whatever you do will be with the guidance and blessing of our ancestors. Think carefully, take care and remember what happens now will not only shape your future, but that of those still to come.”

* * * *

Paden held Marcail tightly to him as he hurried her out of the room and down a dimly lit, narrow corridor. Almost as if he were scared she might change her mind.

“Hey, let me breathe,” she protested. “I’m not going anywhere except with you. I’d prefer not to trip or be unable to talk if I need to.”

“What?” Paden looked at her with a total lack of comprehension and without slackening his speed.

“Are we in a rush? My legs aren’t as long as yours, and I’m having trouble keeping pace with you.” Marcail did her best not to snap, to keep her tone light and unruffled. Totally opposite to how she felt.

“Argh, sorry.” Paden slowed to a more temperate pace. “I’m at the point now where I’m the one shit scared and want to say what I have to with plenty of time to explain. It has to be completed by midnight. That’s only an hour or so.”

“If this is too much, and not acceptable, I will be… It does…”

“Be? Does?”

Marcail waited for a second or two with no reply. “What does?”

“You’ll see in a second, and here we are.” He opened the door to a room Marcail hadn’t known existed. In fact, she couldn’t remember seeing the corridor before either.

Strange.

“It’s not strange, mo ghaol, just not seen until now. You need to be in your thirtieth year. Twenty-nine years of age. As you are. Please come in.”

He sounded