Page 60 of Laird of Twilight
“The gold came out of their own hill, and so it holds power for them,” Donal explained. “Without it they are not as strong. They are not at ease.”
“A fairy’s aim in life is to be happy, in harmony with nature and the earth,” Elspeth added. “Living is an art to them, pleasure and delight and enchantment. They cannot be happy if they are uneasy over something stolen from them.”
“A very pretty legend,” James said.
“They are a temperamental lot,” Donal said. “They do not forget. We call them the Good Neighbors, but they would be better neighbors if they had all their gold.”
“Over the years, people must have looked for this treasure,” James said.
“Some, aye, out of greed instead of a belief in the fairy ilk. But the wrath of theDaoine Sìthfalls on all, especially MacArthurs.”
“Truly an interesting tale. I would like to note it in my grandmother’s book.”
“Perhaps you should not include all the details in your book,” Elspeth said, glancing at her grandfather.
“Local legends are the point of the book,” James answered.
“The legend of the lost fairy gold is common knowledge here,” Donal MacArthur said. “But Elspeth is right, you must not write down all we know. Some parts must be kept back. The fairies will be angry if all their secrets are told.”
“Grandda, I think our guest does not believe in all of this.”
“On the contrary, I find it fascinating,” James countered.
“But you do notbelieveit,” Elspeth answered softly.
“I believe,” he replied, “what is proven to me.”
“He will believe it soon enough. He is writing the fairy book, he is drinking the fairy brew,” Donal said. “And he is taken with you, lass. The glamourie has him now.”
“The glamourie?” James asked. “My grandmother wrote of it.”
“Aye,” Elspeth said. “It is a fairy enchantment that changes our perception of the world so that we see the Fey as clearly as anyone.”
“Something like that,” James said, and his gaze fixed hers.
“Aye, sir,” Donal said. “And yon lassie has the knack of it.”
James inclined his head. “That she does.”
Chapter 15
Stirring in the night, still a bit groggy from the whisky, James was unsure what had woken him. He had not dreamed, exactly, yet had sensed voices, moving shadows around him. He needed fresh air to clear his head—the so-called fairy brew had been stronger than he thought.
Dressing quickly in trousers and shirt, he shrugged into the borrowed frock coat, leaving cravat and waistcoat aside. In the wee hours, no one would see him.
Slipping out of the house, he decided on a brisk walk, following the long earthen lane that led toward the weaving cottages perched between hills and a stretch of meadow. The night was cool and misty, and moonlight sliced through overhead clouds. James noticed translucent rings around the bright moon. The sky was clearing after days of rain.
His footfalls echoed quietly, but soon he was surprised to hear the clacking rhythm of a loom. Light glowed in the window of one of the weaving cottages. Was Elspeth unable to sleep too? The loom clicked the fast cadence of a weaver passionate about the work.
Approaching the door, about to knock, he realized this cottage was not the one Elspeth had been in earlier. Moving to the small window, he glanced inside.
Donal MacArthur sat at a large loom in the light of a single lantern, the rest of the room in shadow. He worked quickly, shifting and moving with power, speed, and certainty.
James frowned, then gaped in astonishment. MacArthur worked so fast that his hands, the shuttle and colored threads, the loom itself were simply a blur. The red tartan pattern gathered rapidly on the roller, faster than seemed humanly possible.
James blinked, rubbed his fingers over his eyelids, looked again. The loom whirred, clicked, and shuddered while the weaver sped through his work like a demon. The incredible pace seemed beyond what a man could do.
Had the whisky had been that strong? Was he dreaming after all?
