The love of books, the golden key,
that opens the enchanted door . . .
Andrew Lang
“Ballade of the Bookworm”
After wandering through the museum and touring the rest of the house, Anna spent the day in the kitchen working through the manila file of press releases, emails, and festival preparations that Elspeth had given her. She’d forgotten, she realized halfway through the task, how much she loved doing this. Breaking one huge task into smaller pieces, making to-do lists, schedules, charts, and spreadsheets on her laptop.
Organizing a big event was like conducting a piece of music or creating a piece of art from thousands of tiny brushstrokes. And the press release Elspeth had put together was perfectly phrased to bring in tourists by the busload. Too bad it hadn’t gone out sooner. It hit all the right notes: a range of events that included Highland Games and a bagpipe competition, a craft fair with vendor stalls, the crowning of the May Queen and Winter King chosen by the village, the decorating of the May Bush that would be carried around the glen before it was burned in the traditional fire on Beltane Eve.
There was even a community production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream to tap into the fairy stories created by the sober Presbyterian minister, Robert Kirk, who had preached at the old stone Balwhither church in the seventeenth century.
Included also was the translation of the original Gaelic poem about the Sighting:
On the bright day
in the morning dew
to the pure of heart
the Lake of Destiny
will reveal the true love who
will warm the winter of your life
and the Lake of Enchantment
will turn sight to truth.
The morning’s faint-hearted sun had given way to a driving rain, and sitting in the warm kitchen with delicious scents bubbling from the stove reminded Anna of all the Christmas holidays she’d spent in the kitchen in Ohio helping Elspeth cook. This time, Elspeth refused her help rolling out dough for home-baked bread, stirring up a rich cream soup, and peeling the apples for chicken Bonnie Prince Charlie with Drambuie sauce and the apple butterscotch pie that Elspeth claimed was Moira’s favorite.
“She’s got a sweet tooth on her, that child,” Elspeth said as she put the finishing touches on the salmon for the fish course and dusted stray oats off her hands. “You’ve never seen the like, and she’s a little slip of a thing. Looks identical to her mother, at least on the half of her face that isn’t damaged. That same haunting fragility of Isobel’s.”
Anna couldn’t resist pulling up an Internet search for Isobel Teague and the accident that had claimed her life. Not that she needed a reminder of how beautiful Isobel Teague had been. The year Isobel had left television and made her first big blockbuster film, Katharine had worn her hair like Isobel’s and imitated her makeup and elegant, ethereal style. Seeing The Royals of London had helped spark Katharine’s interest in community theater and set her on a collision course with Henry.
For all the thousands of images the Internet had of Isobel, though, there was nothing about her daughter. Nothing apart from the initial speculation around her birth.
“What did you mean about Moira’s face being damaged? Is there something physically wrong?” Anna finally asked as Elspeth browned the flour-dusted chicken in a pan.
“The doctors call it facial palsy. The nerves in half of her face were injured, either at birth or in the accident. She’s had three surgeries already, so it’s much better than it was, but I don’t think it will ever completely match the other side. Och, heavens, look at the time! They’ll be here any minute, and I have grease on my blouse and slippers on my feet! Would you be a love and soften the apples in butter for me and keep an eye on that chicken, Anna? Mind it doesn’t burn.”
Dropping the wooden spoon into Anna’s hand, Elspeth hurried out, her limp light but more pronounced than it had been earlier, as if she’d already been on her feet too long. Anna glanced down at her own casual jeans and sweater and realized she hadn’t put on so much as a smudge of lipstick or eyeliner that morning. And her hair. Stooping to look at herself in the glass door of the oven, she groaned. She looked about twelve years old, eyes huge and tired in her narrow face, her hair curling every which way since she hadn’t made any attempt to tame it with a blow-dryer or flatiron.
On the other hand, the fact that Connal MacGregor was Gregor Mark was oddly freeing. He’d already seen her looking her worst, and he’d been married to Isobel Teague. Nothing Anna did to herself was going to impress him, not when women had no doubt been dressing up for him since the instant he’d hit puberty. Anna had already had her trust crushed to sand by one man like that—Henry—and she was done playing those sorts of games.
Shifting her attention back to the stove, she pushed all thoughts of Connal MacGregor from her mind. A moment later, she had lapsed into autopilot, humming the same tune Elspeth had been humming all day and losing herself in the delight of preparing food for someone else, of working to make someone happy. The sweet, tangy scent of caramelizing apples mingled with the skin-crisping scent of frying chicken, and the light tang of roasted onion potatoes drifted in the air. She filled a glass with wine and took a long, deep draught. A bracing draught. But it had been a good idea of Elspeth’s to invite Connal and Moira to dinner. How unreasonable could Connal MacGregor be with his daughter in tow?
At the very least, he would have to remain polite.
Despite her efforts to reassure herself, Anna’s optimism faded when she opened the door a few minutes later. Connal loomed on the stoop, his hands protective on his daughter’s shoulders and his eyes wary and cold on Anna.
His smile must have been pure acting. Even so, it packed an unexpected punch. “You got here all right last night, then,” he said. “No worse for the accident, I take it?”
“Um, no. Thank you.” Anna smiled right back at him, and then her expression grew genuine as she turned to the child who stood looking up at her, wide-eyed and solemn.
Elspeth had been right: Moira was beautiful. Slight for her age, with waist-length blond hair that had the perfect amount of wave, bright eyes in her father’s unusual, stormy shade of blue, a high, straight nose, and cheekbones that, even covered in the last fullness of childhood, showed the promise of being high and sculpted. She resembled, as Elspeth had said, her very beautiful mother, except that the left eye didn’t quite close when she blinked, and the slight droop to that side of her face was just pronounced enough to trick Anna’s mind into being unsure what she was seeing when she looked at her.
“Hi, Moira.” Anna stepped aside to invite them in, careful not to stare as she offered a hand for Moira to shake. “I’ve been eager to meet you ever since last night. I wanted to apologize for scaring you with my horrible driving.”
Moira shook her hand and smiled but didn’t say anything. She scooted past Anna into the foyer at the same moment that Elspeth arrived at the top of the stairs.
“Here you both are,” Elspeth said, holding the handrail with one hand and maneuvering the walker onto the stair below her as she stepped down. “I’ll be with you as soon as this leg of mine will get me there. Anna, would you mind getting their coats in the meantime?”
Anna bent close to Moira’s ear as Moira shrugged out of a purple jacket that was still cool to the touch from the soon-to-be-April chill. “I hear I have you to thank for tonight’s dessert,” she whispered. “Elspeth told me apple butterscotch pie is a particular favorite of yours.”
Moira nodded, but again she didn’t speak.
“Well, I can’t wait to try it. I’ve never met one of Elspeth’s desserts that I didn’t want to dive into face-first.” Anna turned to Connal who had already removed his own coat and stood holding it. Beneath the glittering chandelier, the light all seemed to dance around him, and unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten any less gorgeous overnight. Really, a photo of him and Brando together would have been all the advertising the glen ever needed to bring tourists in by droves.
The thought made Anna pause. Because, of course, Connal himself would be a draw, wouldn’t he? Moira’s disfigurement would have been difficult for any child, but for the daughter of Isobel Teague and Gregor Mark, the standard would be different.
“Is something wrong?” Connal asked.
Anna exhumed her smile again. “Nothing at all. Shall I take your coat as well?”
A hint of genuine laughter lit his eyes. “Forcing yourself to be polite, are you? Yes, by all means, take my coat.”
Anna blinked like an owl at that hint of humor. That faint smile. Because that smile was clearly Gregor Mark. Not quite at full wattage, but it didn’t lose a thing translated off the screen.
No. She didn’t need to be thinking thoughts like that. Practically snatching the coat out of his hands, Anna hurried to the front sitting room to throw it with Moira’s across a wingback chair upholstered in faded blue brocade.
By the time she returned to the foyer, Elspeth was already downstairs and leading Moira and Connal straight through to the dining room where Anna had set the gatelegged Jacobean table earlier. The contrast of the dark wood in the room made Moira look even more delicate and fey.
Anna went out to the kitchen to get the soup, and when she came back, Connal had seated himself under the portrait of some long-dead kilted Murray ancestor opposite the only empty place setting. Slipping into her chair, Anna avoided looking at him by setting herself the task of coaxing Moira into conversation.
“So what’s it like growing up in a fairytale castle in a fairytale valley, Moira? I hope you at least managed to snatch up that tower for your bedroom.”
“She would have if it hadn’t meant moving three stories of overflowing bookshelves. The whole tower is a library,” Connal said, “which we both share, except that Moira is flooding it with so many of her own books that she seems determined to boot me out.”
“A literal tower of books?” Anna smiled at Moira. “That sounds like my idea of heaven. Do you know, I used to adore Andrew Lang’s fairy books when I was about your age? I still do, but I haven’t read any of the fairy stories from Reverend Kirk. Have you?” She cupped her hand over her mouth and leaned close to Moira, saying in a lowered voice, “I don’t suppose there are any actual fairies here in the glen, are there? Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to see one in America, and I haven’t had any luck at all.”
“Moira knows nearly every bit of fairy lore ever told. Don’t you, duck?” Connal gave Moira an encouraging smile. “She helps Elspeth make up the stories about Reverend Kirk’s fairies for the museum.”
Moira gave a quick nod and bent to concentrate on spooning her soup into her mouth.
“The stories with the clever pencil drawings?” Anna asked, remembering the placards she’d seen in the museum earlier with sketches of sprites and pixies and fairies and short fanciful descriptions about the thimbles, cups, and walking sticks that supposedly had once belonged to the Reverend Kirk. “Are those made-up stories? Because sometimes with what Aunt Elspeth says it’s hard to know what might be true.”
Moira studied her longer this time, one small brow puckering toward the other while the other remained fixed in place. She gave another quick, jerking nod.
“What about other books?” Anna prompted. “I love Harry Potter, but I expect you’re probably past all that, aren’t you?”
Spoon pausing in midair, Moira gaped at her. “I love Harry,” she said, her words a little soft around the edges because her mouth didn’t quite open the same way on the left as on the right. “I’ve read the first book seven times.”
“Seven? Goodness.” Anna hid a smile. “And here I thought that with an entire library full of books to choose from . . . ”
“It wouldn’t matter if I had all the books in the world, I’d still love Harry.”
“Me, too, but can I tell you a secret? I’ve always loved Hermione better.”
“She is better!” Moira’s eyes shone. “Not just because she’s a girl. She’s smarter, and works harder, and she’s nicer.”
“All true. And she punches Malfoy in the face,” Anna said, glancing across at Connal.
“Not that we encourage punching people in the face,” Connal said sternly, though his eyes were filled with laughter.
Anna couldn’t resist quirking a brow at him. “Unless they bully other people and there are no policemen around—in which case, all bets are off.”
Connal’s smile turned rueful—and no less dangerous to Anna’s equilibrium. “I suppose I deserve that. I should have apologized the moment you met us at the door, but I was saving it for later.”
“Why do you need to apologize, Daddy?” Moira tipped her head to look at him.
“Because I was very rude to Anna last night when she had her accident.”
Anna found it hard to stay angry with him, no matter how much she wanted to. Although why she wanted to didn’t bear examining. Except that it was easier to resist a Connal MacGregor who wasn’t both kind and gorgeous.
She needed to resist him.
In fact, she was meant to charm him. Not the other way around.
She needed to remember how rude he’d been, and that he didn’t want to have the festival on his property. Also, there was something about the way he was hiding here in the glen that bothered Anna, the way he kept Moira hidden away.
Far from the damaged child Anna had pictured given what Elspeth had said about how Connal and the entire glen protected her, Moira was more like Rapunzel in her tower, locked away from strangers. The poor girl might seem close to happy and normal now, or as close as she could be to normal when the palsy made it a little hard to speak, but how long would she stay that way if no one gave her the confidence to face the world?
Connal MacGregor, however charming he might be when he wanted to put in the effort, was misguided, Anna decided. She didn’t realize she was staring at him until Elspeth kicked her beneath the table and bugged her eyes out.
Right. She was supposed to be smiling. Charming.
For the sake of the festival. For Elspeth’s sake.
First rule of negotiation. Don’t let your opponent get inside your head.