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of old.
    Talorc
the Bold, The Laird MacKay, would be leaving soon for the Samhain. At least he
should be, for no Laird of any worth would be away from home when the spirits
of the ancients walked freely upon the earth; when the clan would celebrate
those newly deceased, as well as those to be born.
    Maggie
hurried past the gardens, grateful that the souls were not yet free to roam in
the fey light of a full moon. The only ghosts here were the shadowed furrows of
the vegetable beds, empty of all but the withered rubble of a harvest now past.
Today's bitter northern wind brought frost, prelude to a carpet of snow.
    Snow.
Maggie looked toward her destination, the small area surrounded by a low stone
fence, peppered with Celtic crosses. It was home to her ancestors, home to all
the family who had passed beyond this life. Home to her brother, Young Ian. Her
twin.
    This
Samhain they would celebrate Ian’s glorious death in battle. He would be
honored, praised for going as he had gone. It was selfish of Maggie to wish it
any other way, but wish it she did. She wanted to unwrap her plaid, lay it upon
his frozen bed, to warm him until the snow could play the part of blanket. But
to do so would ignore the chance of his soul rising free of the earth’s embrace.
She could not risk the insult.
    It
didn’t take her long to reach his grave, to see the covering of heather she had
planted, gray in the moon's light, sparkling with the frost. A part of her had
died with him. Praise God that it wouldn’t resurrect, that her ability to love
so deeply would never claim her again.
    She
thought of the MacKay, and his peculiar hold on her. “I’ll not leave you, Ian.”
She promised. “Whatever The MacKay wants, it can’t take me away from here.” She
fell to her knees, leaned to the side and supported her weight on one arm. “This
is my home.” She picked at the heather. “This is where I belong. These are my
people, our people.”
    There
were no tears this time. Normally, when she visited Ian’s grave, emotions
brimmed and spilled. Perhaps she was getting used to his absence.
    “Do
you know what it is he thinks? Can you watch, from wherever you are? Can you
see what’s happening?” Maggie looked up at the sky, before studying the sway of
trees that surrounded the graveyard. She’d often wondered if Ian watched.
     When
he was alive, she would have known what he was thinking without saying a word.
The loss, an emptiness that could not be filled.
    “You
would laugh, you know.” Could he hear her even if she couldn’t hear him? “Our
warriors told tales and the Bold was daft enough to listen. They turned-around
all I ever did to grieve them, until you would think I was the bravest and
wisest of women. Really, they did! 
    “Do
you remember the time I threw the rock and hit that Englishman dead on? Och,
the look on Nigel’s face. He slung me over his shoulder, as if I had caused the
battle, carried me past every warrior on the battlements, through all the soldiers
in the yard and into the crowd of the Great Hall. He dumped me. Like no more
than a sack of oats, he tossed me at our mother’s feet.
    “Aye,
you were there. You laughed till your sides split, but it wasn’t funny.”
    Humiliation
still stung, remembering Nigel’s order, “keep her out of our way .”
    She
was no warrior.
    God
willing, the Bold would never know the depth of embarrassment flung at her when
he asked about the packets.
    A
silly impulse and a sleepless night produced them. No more than ten years old,
she had imagined being lauded for those little pouches. One for each warrior
before he left for battle. They were to serve as a symbol of all they fought
for.
    They
brought no more than absent pats on the head and embarrassed chuckles. Every
ounce of her pride had been gobbled up from that day to this, for she didn't
know how to stop it. What she did for one, she had to do for the others, or it
would be a sign of favoritism. A Highlander would take great