Page 71 of Laird of Twilight
Elspeth dropped the skeins into an empty basket and hugged Margaret quickly. Heart thumping, she left the storage house to head to Donal’s weaving cottage. Seeing him inside, loom clacking at its regular pace, she knocked, entered.
Donal glanced up as she set the yarns on a table, and she saw immediately that he needed no more colors; ample skeins were piled on the table already. But Margaret was right. Some things needed to be said.
“Grandfather,” she began.
“Aye then,” he said, stopping his work, hands folding. “What is it, lass?”
“Kilcrennan Weavers is a flourishing business, in part because of your ability to weave tartan so quickly, by virtue of your skill. And your secret.”
He nodded. “When the magic is upon me, aye. Go on.”
“We can meet orders for tartan faster than many other weavers because you work so fast. Otherwise, we would need several weavers to fill our orders, not just two. Someday Margaret’s Robbie could join us, which might help replace some of the work you do when the magic, as you say, is upon you.”
“I have been meaning to speak to Robbie about that very thing. I will not be here forever at Kilcrennan. What is on your mind, lass?”
“You will be here a long while,” Elspeth insisted, ignoring his last question. “And I will help you. We could train new weavers. With the tartan madness upon the city folk and so many orders coming to us, the business is thriving. You have put your heart and soul into Kilcrennan weaving.”
“We can thank the goodwill of the fairy ilk for some of that,” he said. “Our cloth casts a bit of a spell. Kilcrennan plaid brings happiness to the wearer.” He smiled. “All is well. But you seem concerned about something, lass.”
“Grandda, listen. You said that if I ever fell in love, the fairy spells would end.”
“Love, is it,” he murmured, smiling. “And have you fallen in love?”
“I cannot,” she said. “I never can. All of this would end.” She swept a hand wide.
“You would be happy. And that blessing is worth any price to me.”
“I am happy here. I love Kilcrennan. I love my work.”
“That may be enough for now. But it is not enough for all your life.”
She sighed. “When I was fourteen, you took me to the place in the hills where the fairy portal is hidden and told me about the fairies of the glen. Do you remember? You said if I ever found true love, all binding agreements would be broken. You said that love is the—” She stopped, her throat constricting.
“Love is the greatest magic humans possess,” he finished. “It is more powerful than fairy magic. It can undo any spell, satisfy any bargain.”
Love makes its own magic.The motto of the MacCarrans. Her heart beat faster. “But I cannot risk bringing ill fortune to Kilcrennan.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake to tell you this when you were too young to understand. Your happiness is all I have ever wanted.”
“What about your happiness? You would lose your gift, and your right to visit the fairy realm every seven years. To be honest, I have never known whether to believe all of it, but I will not ruin what you believe in and treasure.”
“Is that why you refused Struan?” Donal folded his arms. “Because of my gifts?”
She nodded. “Because I must stay in Kilcrennan.”
“Your happiness is what matters to me,” he said stubbornly.
“What of the lost fairy treasure, and what you said of my coming birthday? I do not know what to believe. I have no magic myself. It only seems to come to you.”
“The Sight is your gift, and it is magical in itself.”
She shook her head, yet remembered visions—Struan in battle, and how that was true. A host of the Fey riding horses through mist and moonlight—was that true? The stories of childhood seemed to unreal to believe, as Struan said. Yet no one believed these things more deeply than her own grandfather.
“Whatever is true, I know I only want to live here, in my own home. I do not want to go to Edinburgh, or—or with the fairies when my birthday arrives, as you have told me might happen. Were they all stories?”
He frowned. “When you turn twenty-one, something may indeed happen. I have been told so, and I believe it. Have you had no inkling yourself? No dreams?”
She hesitated. “I...saw something in the Struan gardens one night. Riders on horses, coming through the mist. It looked...like fog. Or ghosts. Or the Seelie Court riding past. I can see how people might think it.” Should she believe Struan, or Donal MacArthur—or her own eyes and inner knowing? It had seemed so real.
