Somewhere My Lass (9 page)
“There’s no accounting for the wounds of a broken heart.”
“No. Yet you remained strong.”
“I never gave up hope.”
He brushed his lips to her hair. “What do you think the key may unlock?”
“A wondrous reliquary that holds the finger of Saint Peter or a bit of the shroud that wrapped our Lord, or the Holy Grail, as ye suggested.” Awe tinged her voice.
“Your expectations are high.”
“We are sorely in want of a miracle.”
He couldn’t argue that point. “What have I overlooked?” Muting a groan against her soft cheek, he scanned the attic again. Familiar enough, he’d played here as a child. And yet, alien in its way. Was he really seeing it?
Lengthening shadows hid part of the room. Wooden beams supported the slanted ceiling and formed dusky recesses where they crisscrossed. He’d also sought an ornate box of some sort. But it occurred to him that something so fragile might be difficult to transport and would easily break.
“Maybe we’re seeking the wrong thing.”
She lifted her head. “What else other than a reliquary holds a sacred relic?”
“Maybe that’s what we’re meant to discover.”
Getting to his feet, Neil righted a battered stool and climbed onto its shaky support. Mora steadied the rickety stand while he reached overhead and ran his hands along the beams, especially mindful of the dark nooks. Every few feet, he got off, moved the stool, and resumed the search.
She looked on while keeping his support from giving way. “Do ye spy anything?”
“Not yet. And I probably won’t.”
“Do not give up, Neil.”
“Never give up, never surrender. That’s my motto,” he grunted, groping in the darkness above. him, hoping not to encounter a coiled snake or suspended bat.
Then, unbelievably, he closed his fingers around something—not alive, to his relief, and not a box. There wasn’t room to tuck that into this confined space, but what felt like a pouch. With a sense of unreality, he pulled what appeared to be a small bag from its hiding place.
He glanced down at Mora and extended his dusty, unimpressive discovery.
Her brow drawn, she asked, “Is that it, then? What we’ve sought?”
“There’s only one way to tell.” Clutching the bag, Neil climbed down from the stool.
Together, they sank onto the trunk. The pouch wasn’t quite as long as his hand. The circular cord at the top indicated it was meant to be worn around the neck. He brushed away the thick layer of dust, possibly centuries’ old, accumulated on its surface.
From under his fingers, a head emerged on the front of the pouch, embossed in the leather, its features unclear. The leather needed a thorough cleaning, but he’d have to use whatever he could find for a hasty polish.
“Wait a moment.” He leapt up, rummaged in the boxes and snatched a cloth then returned to the trunk and sat down again beside Mora. She watched in rapt silence as he wiped.
The face took form, with fiendish eyes, fangs, and a protruding tongue. Coils snaked around its face like hair made of serpents. Grotesque. But what a find.
He gave a low whistle. “I don’t believe it.”
Mora shrank back. “A fearsome sight. What is this hideous creature?”
“A Gorgon, a powerful deity in Greek mythology. This one is Medusa, the only one thought to be immortal. Anyone who looked on her face was said to turn to stone.”
Mora clutched his arm. “The blessed saints preserve us. Have we not seen her wicked face full on?”
“It’s all right. The image was often placed on objects for protection from evil. Didn’t your tutor mention Medusa?”
“Not as I remember, though he spoke of Greek gods.” Mora relaxed her grip on Neil’s arm. As if drawn despite herself, she reached out a tentative finger to the ancient leather. “What of the pouch?”
“This is a Roman bulla once belonging to a child and the Gorgon was added to insure their safety.”
“But ye said Medusa was Greek.”
“Yes, well, the Greeks greatly influenced Roman culture. Some gladiators even used Gorgons on their armor.”
She lifted wondering eyes. “How do ye know so much?”
“Art history classes and an anal—I mean, passionate—curiosity about the past.”
“Not yer ain past.”
“No. Darkness shrouds that. But I’ve delved into ancient Rome.” He felt carefully along the bag. “Bullas held an amulet or charm significant to the wearer. There’s something inside this.”
“As dreadful as the outside is, I shudder to think what it holds. Surely no sacred relic.”
“You might be surprised.” Nothing that had happened over the past twenty-four hours ceased to astonish Neil.
Stilling the quiver in his hand as another ran down his spine, he lifted the opening of the pouch and slid his fingers inside. What he expected to find, he couldn’t have said, but when he circled his fingers around a tiny vase, he was completely taken aback.
“What on earth?” He drew out a blue green glass vial, between three and four inches long, with an iridescent sheen. A piece of cork and candle wax sealed the circular rim.
Mora stoked the smooth glass with light fingertips. “A scent bottle?”
“No. Perfume flasks from that period are larger.” He gently tilted the vial on its side and saw one word etched into the bottom. The letters were unfamiliar. “I can’t make it out. Can you?”
She studied the markings. “Aye. ‘Tis Latin for Mary.”
Another holy shiver ran through Neil, and he knew. “This is a tear vial or tear bottle, called Lachrymatory, used by mourners to collect their tears. A fairly common practice in Biblical times.”
“Why did mourners do sech a peculiar thing?”
“The ritual stems from a verse in the Old Testament where King David spoke of putting his tears in a bottle. By the looks of it, this vial is ancient.”
Mora gazed from the name on the bottom of the glass, back to him. The shine of emotion welled in the depths of her eyes. “Might it hold the tears of the blessed Virgin?”
“Or Mary Magdalene. She was also among the mourners of Jesus.”
“Mayhap. Yet I think ’tis for the blessed Virgin.”
“Yes, probably so. See here’s a tiny rose etched alongside the name and roses are a long held symbol for Our Lady. The Mystic Rose, I believe it’s called.”
Mora gave a nod, her demeanor one of reverence. “And Heaven’s Rose, colored like the rosy dawn.” Her brow furrowed with the question still in her eyes. “But if this vessel is as ye think, how did it come to be in Roman possession?”
“Christ was crucified by the Romans, but not all of them were against him. He had some followers.”
“The Roman centurion spoken of in the Holy Scriptures,” Mora offered.
“And many others. Don’t forget all those poor souls fed to the lions in the Coliseum. To preserve this vial, one of the early Christians hid it in a child’s bulla, and there it must have remained until the Crusaders carried away relics from the Holy Land. Possibly even the Knights Templar who had charge of many sacred treasures. Some Templars are thought to have evaded the terrible annihilation that befell their order in the early fourteenth century and fled to Scotland.”
Mora gazed at him. “And took refuge with The Bruce, whom they served.”
“Yes.” Neil drew on the knowledge gained from his studies, coupled with an inherent knowing. “From the Crusaders, it passed into the hands of the MacDonalds and was kept in their chapel until that raid by the MacKenzies.” He shrugged in bemusement. “If my guess is on the mark.”
“’Tis a marvelous guess. But…” Her face creased in concentration, she fingered the cross at her neck. “If The MacDonald seeks this tear vial, then what does the key in m’ cross open?”
“We don’t know that yet. But whatever it unlocks, must also be of great importance.”
Eyes distant, she slowly nodded. “Perhaps a chamber in the chapel itself. Long has there been talk of a door hidden in the depths of the crypt.”
“What lies behind that door?”
“You, Neil,” Mrs. Fergus said from behind them.
He sucked in his breath and Mora startled beside him. So intent were they on their find that neither had noticed the psychic’s appearance in the attic. They swiveled their heads and stared at her.
Neil demanded, “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I sense the Neil MacKenzie from 1602 is still alive in the past, a captive of the MacDonald and being held where no one would think to search. What better place than a secret chamber in the very chapel his clan raided?”
“But Strome castle burned and with it, the chapel, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Strome lies in ruins, but Domhnall castle stands. And that’s the chapel this relic was taken from.”
A cold hand snaked through Neil’s gut at the name
Domhnall
. And a dark foreboding, like a black chasm, rushed at him. Everything he thought he knew fell into the void. He didn’t ask Mrs. Fergus if she was certain. The truth of her words resounded deep inside him.
Steadying the tremor threatening his speech, he asked, “Why is Niall imprisoned and not dead?”
“The MacDonalds badly want that relic back and wish to inflict as much torment on the MacKenzies as possible in the process. The pain of knowing your family and betrothed imagine you dead is far worse than being so.”
Neil looked at the pain glistening in Mora’s eyes. “And do not doubt the MacDonalds will kill you, him, in time,” Mrs. Fergus continued. “After it’s too late and Mora is wed to Calum.”
Neil steeled himself to the awful wrench in his middle. “Can the Neil from 1602 be recovered?”
Perhaps, if the relic is returned and a trade made for his life without the MacDonalds first reclaiming it.”
“Who would carry out the trade?”
“Mora, possibly, with you watching her back. There can be no contact between the Neil of the past and the present. However, that Neil may be unconscious. I sense his life force dimming.”
“What of the Neil in the future—me?” He hated to ask aloud.
The corners of the older woman’s eyes crinkled with the sympathy he felt washing over him. “If Mora weds either Neil instead of Calum, you cease to be, unless…” She trailed off.
“Unless?” He snatched at any glimmer of hope.
“There’s a way to fuse the two of you together.” She pursed her lips for a pensive moment. “That lachrymatory vial you hold has tremendous power. Guard it well. Your life, your very soul, may depend upon it.”
He cradled the priceless find. Was it possible? Could what she suggested actually transpire?
Fixing her farsighted gaze on Mora, Mrs. Fergus continued, “Carry the key always at your throat. You will have need of it. And take heart, my dears. All is not yet lost.”
Yet, it was far from won.
“Here she comes, gentlemen.” Gowned in a black beaded dress, Mrs. Fergus ushered Mora ahead of her from the direction of her bedroom out into Fergus’s living room. Wrenie had gone home but Fergus sat waiting with Neil.
He rose from the couch, his chest surging like a racehorse at the starting gate. It was all he could do not to stare slack-jawed in imitation of Fergus. Not that he blamed him. With all that makeup removed and only a touch of gloss on her lips, Mora was excruciatingly fresh and desirable. The dewy blush on her cheeks her natural hue.
Shy, searching eyes sought Neil’s and shot a barb through his heart.
Damn
, she was lovely.
Betty Fergus swept her arm at Mora, charm bracelets jangling. “Isn’t this gown perfect? It’s a
Gunne Sax
. I always say there’s nothing like the Sixties for true style.”
Neil gave a nod. Again, Mora enchanted him in her second transformation of the day. The ankle-length dress, corset laced to her waist, accentuated her distracting curves. Layers on layers of gathered cloth comprised the skirt; the height of romantic, especially with her long, loose hair glinting in the light. But the filmy muslin dress trimmed in crochet was probably the last thing he’d expected her to appear in.
Fergus recovered his wits. A smirk at his mouth, he said, “Are you referring to the Eighteen or Nineteen Sixties?”
His mother waved him off. “The style is timeless.”
“For a Renaissance fair, Mom.”
“It’s vintage,” she said, while Mora looked on, her lips ajar.
“Scarborough?” Mora asked.
Neil smiled. Fergus snorted in amusement.
Mrs. Fergus squeezed Mora’s hand. “Certainly, but not what I had in mind.”
Neil wondered what that might be. Mrs. Fergus collected old clothes and jewelry. Mora could pass for an ultra-feminine flower child from bygone years, though not as bygone as the era she hailed from, or a faery bride. She had that otherworldly look.
“Show them the boots I found,” Mrs. Fergus prompted. “Seems my feet used to be considerably smaller.”
Lifting the hem, Mora revealed fawn colored boots laced up to her ankles; much more comfortable than the stilettos Wrenie had acquired, but unique, as was her attire. “I like them well. Do ye not?”
“Sure do.
Those boots are made for walking
,” Fergus quipped.
Neil gave him a look then returned his riveted focus to Mora. Above the cross at her throat, she wore a choker of black velvet with a cameo at the center. Droplets of pearls shimmered at her ears.
She touched her fingers to the pearls and smoothed the cameo. “Beautiful.”
“Utterly.” She was a vision, but why not just stamp,
I’ve stepped from the past
, on the young woman. Nothing like blending in, Neil thought with his usual sardonic bent.
Fergus scrunched his eyebrows above his glasses. “Are you thinking of taking her to the funeral parlor dressed like this, or out to dinner?”
His mother shrugged an ample shoulder. “Both. She’s darling. Mrs. Dannon’s sister-in-law won’t mind and there will be few people in attendance at the viewing. The poor dear had little family. The sight of Mora will cheer them.”
Probably floor them too. Mora did far more than simply hearten Neil. He wanted to catch her up in his arms and bear her back into that bedroom. “She looks rather bridal.”
Mrs. Fergus eyed him steadily. “Yes. Perhaps you ought to wed her.”
He desired nothing more, still… “There’s my whole existence thing to consider.”
“I trust you will find a way.”
Trusted or knew? A psychic Betty Fergus might be, but still unproven as far as he was concerned.
“Now then,” she continued, “I have just the coat for you, Neil.”
Lord only knew what she’d chosen.
Fergus grinned. “A cloak of invisibility?”
His mother shushed him. “The inside pocket will hide the pouch and lachrymatory vial you and Mora found, and with winter coming you’ll have an excuse to keep the coat with you. Unless you prefer wearing that Roman bulla around your neck?”
Neil shook his head. “The cross at Mora’s throat is one thing, but a bulla at mine will stand out as though I’ve joined an ancient cult.”
“One that sacrifices to their gods,” Fergus added.
Unruffled, Mrs. Fergus continued. “Just as I suggested, conceal it. The coat is streamlined and should allow for easy movement. There’s a second inner pocket you may have need of.”
She turned and headed into her bedroom, returning with a black coat over her arm. She held it up to him, and its hem reached his ankles. Black matte buttons ran down the front to the waist where it was cutaway and worn open from there down.
Approval warmed her regard. “Perfect.”
The unusual cut of the fine black cloth and the high collar was highly reminiscent of—“Good heavens.” Neil exchanged glances with Fergus, who voiced his mystification.
“Isn’t that the coat Neo wore in
The Matrix
?”
His mother fixed her pale blue gaze on them. “An expertly crafted reproduction, this one of wool. In a way, like Neo, Neil is
The One
. Certainly, he’s the one Mora seeks and the only man who can go back and undo the wrongs to give them a second chance. But unless he succeeds, you’re looking at his distant ancestor, not his wife.”
The somberness in Fergus’s expression mirrored Neil’s sentiments. Fergus being Fergus, he opened his mouth. “I was partly right. That coat will make Neil nearly invisible at night.”
“He may need to be.” Mrs. Fergus’s face held no trace of mirth.
****
And this is how Neil and Mora came to be outfitted as they were for the viewing of poor Mrs. Dannon in the Oak Hill Funeral Parlor. Neil assumed there was some reason to the madness behind Betty Fergus’s unusual wardrobe choices, apart from the obvious symbolism. Otherwise, he’d have balked and directed Mora to change into something less conspicuous.
To top it all off, Mrs. Fergus had given her a faux fur coat that draped the young woman in what looked like rich, black mink. Heads turned as they entered the solemn chapel in the funeral home. Though, to give her credit, Mrs. Dannon’s kindly sister-in-law, an older widow named Mrs. Pace, made a visible effort to conceal her amazement.
Seated with Mrs. Pace in cushioned chairs, were several elderly cousins and a portly nephew. Neither Mrs. Pace nor Mrs. Dannon had any children. This slim retinue of relatives and the small gathering from church and community members made up the mourners speedily assembled to pay their respects. Apparently, Mrs. Pace had a brother on the point of death and needed to hasten to his side. Quite a sorrowful week for the family.
Those individuals not seated filed past on the wine carpet, their footsteps hushed. After pausing by the coffin, the visitors moved on to offer their condolences to the mourners, some of whom were too decrepit to stand. They remained in their chairs, canes and walkers at the ready.
A murmur rippled through the gathering. All present craned their necks for a better look at Mora. Nor had Neil’s appearance gone unmarked, but she was the main attraction.
Whether those in the assembly were cheered by their arrival, as Mrs. Fergus anticipated, or merely flabbergasted, Neil couldn’t say, but they were definitely diverted.
Even Fergus, with his orange-red thatch and
No I Won’t Fix Your Computer
hoodie—at least he’d chosen a black one—and his specialty windbreaker with seventeen hidden pockets, paled beside Mora’s outstanding presence.
“You reckon they come from the theater?” inquired one older rural gentleman of another, likely not realizing how well his voice carried.
“Looks like they’ve been in a play,” remarked his companion, raising his voice to be heard above the organ music in the background.
Just as well to let people think that. Neil had no more plausible explanation to offer. But how was he to introduce Mora? He didn’t dare march over to these mourners and proclaim her Mrs. Dannon’s niece.
Either they were aware of the kinship between the two women, or in ignorance. In that event, such a pronouncement could prove most unsettling. They’d already endured the murder of a beloved family member. Discovering an unknown relative among them might be too much, not to mention it could result in a summons to the police.
Better to present Mora as his fiancée and see if anyone remarked on her relation to the deceased. Right off hand, Neil guessed no one had a clue.
Nodding at the astonished assembly, he took her arm and walked further into the chapel. Fergus and his mother followed behind them. Muted tones of wine and gray dominated the room, reminiscent of shadows, perhaps the shadows of death.
Throughout the chapel, the lighting was dimmed, except for the glow on the white casket positioned on a slight dais at the front of the room. It was past this podium the visitors filed to pay their respects. The maudlin music accompanying the sad procession only increased the bleak mood.
Neil hadn’t expected a jig, but must the organ be quite so lugubrious? He’d prefer most anything else. A string quartet, flutes…
Nor was he a fan of open caskets. Oh, for the days of a funeral pyre out under the night sky. Or an ancient Scottish cairn laid over the loved one in memorial. These primal rites somehow seemed less disturbing.
Wishing again for a closed viewing, he steeled himself. With Mora by his side, he paused and gazed down into the coffin. There, on white satin, lay Mrs. Dannon, motionless for one normally so active. He pictured her in perpetual motion, humming around the house as she straightened up, busy from morning until evening. One single man could hardly wade through all the scones she made but Fergus had done his part to make a dent in the pile. Mrs. Dannon had also fed the hungry, and served in the church’s food pantry.
Sadness washed over Neil, and he blinked at the moisture in his eyes. The awful gash at her neck had been concealed beneath the collar of the navy suit she often wore to church. And there were the pearls, cleaned of blood and restored to their proper place. Her gray hair, stiff with spray, was crimped in tight curls, and she never used that much makeup.
He cringed. The alteration in her bordered on the macabre, but he supposed she bore some resemblance to the gentle woman who’d tended to him and his home, and been such a blessing to the community.
He lightly touched his fingers to her cold brow. “You will be missed, dear lady.”
Mora softly added, “Aye. God rest yer soul.”
A strange sensation tingled through Neil’s fingertips, ran up his arm, and charged down his spine. He’d felt the same thing before with his hand on the knob of his front door before he’d discovered Mrs. Dannon slumped at the base of his steps. Like a flow of precognition, it seemed an ominous current. This could not bode well.
He tightened his grip on Mora. She might be in grave danger. They both might be. He should take her and leave at once. He’d express his sorrow to Mrs. Dannon’s relations in a few words and go.
First, a final farewell to the woman who’d been a good friend as well as a servant. “Rest in peace,” he whispered, mastering the shakiness in his voice.
Her eyes flew open, and he nearly yelled out loud.
He almost reeled back. Heart in his throat, he stood his ground and stared in disbelief.
Was it some freak thing from embalming gone wrong? Why did no one else seem rattled? They should be shrieking and running from the room.
Before he inquired of those nearest him, Mrs. Dannon reached out a formerly limp arm and fastened bloodless fingers around his wrist. Her sightless stare flashed silver as her artificially reddened lips hissed, “Beware, Neil.”
Dear God
. It was fortunate he had a strong heart or he’d have dropped down dead.
What of his mind? Was he losing it, or had his faithful housekeeper come back from the dead to warn him?
Chest thudding, he shifted his gaze to Mora. She’d gone white.
“Did you see that?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
She looked up into his face and whispered, “The resemblance between the two women, you mean?”
He was totally baffled. “What are you saying?”
Mora appeared as confused and shaken as he felt. “This is not my aunt, Neil. She’s yers.”
“Mine?” He could’ve sagged down onto his knees. As it was, they held to each other. He hoped onlookers would think it grief.
“’Tis why The MacDonald killed her and only knocked me aside. He’s after the MacKenzies.”
Neil gaped at her.
“Do ye not ken? This woman is the image of Margaret, the sister of yer father. Do ye not remember?”
Neil swallowed hard. Mrs. Dannon was dearly familiar, but he had no recollections of her before she came to Staunton in the 1990’s, and certainly not as a Margaret MacKenzie. And yet…the image of an older woman flitted through his mind, her shapeless form wrapped in an arisaid. A length of the plaid hooded her face, veiled in mist. Above her rose the craggy Highlands also shrouded in haze.
He looked back down at the still figure. She lay as she’d been before. No one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual except possibly Mrs. Fergus, observing them with that inscrutable gaze.
