Page 114 of Stealing Sophie
Epilogue
“Come here,” Sophie said. She took Connor by the hand and pulled him with her across the length of the long room, their steps echoing on polished wood floors, quieted by plush Turkey rugs in red, blue, and gold. “I brought you here to see this especially.”
He laughed. “Oh, you did not bring me here to Duncrieff Castle to have dinner with your brother, chief of your clan, and your kinsmen? Nor to meet dear Mrs. Evans, who claims she nearly died of apoplexy the night I snatched you? Not even,” he said, drawing her close to him, so that she laughed breathlessly, “to be alone with you in this handsome drawing-room, or to go outside to see the gardens you mucked about in as a child? Just to see this. Very well. Where is it?”
“Here,” she said, pulling him by the hand toward a sideboard of polished mahogany. On its surface sat a gleaming glass dome on a wooden pedestal.
Under the glass, on a red velvet nest, stood goblet. A simple thing, he thought, and beautiful. The golden bowl and stem were of hammered gold, intricately engraved with bands of spirals circling the rim and the base. Set in the upper border, a sparkling chain of small crystals and gems winked in the sunlight that flooded through the tall windows.
“So this is the fairy cup of Duncrieff,” he murmured, tilting his head in interest. “The very one. Our clan’s finest treasure.”
“I would argue that.” He slipped his arm around her, snuggling her close as he peered closely at the goblet. “Looks a bit old. Well-used.”
“Very old. We are not sure how many centuries. The gold is said to be fairy gold mined in the northern mountains, hammered by fairy goldsmiths. And the crystals were mined in the mountains of this very glen by the fairies. So they say,” she added.
“Ah. So this is the treasure that was given to an ancient laird of Duncrieff? Not the one who deserted Castle Glendoon, I hope.”
“Oh, long before him. And he did not desert it. I am sure that story can be found somewhere in our ledgers. The library here was books containing all the stories of the Duncrieff MacCarrans,” she said. “Many were written by the very MacCarrans who lived those adventures. I wanted to read all the stories, but I left Duncrieff with my family and never had the chance.”
“You will have time now. You could write tales of our adventures too, love,” he said. “And I will write music.”
“I would love that. Now, the cup. Did you know that the first laird of Duncrieff was called Malcolm MacCarran? He was the one with a fairy wife. She gave him the golden cup long ago.”
“Tell me the story, then,” he murmured. “Your kinsmen are waiting for us out on the terrace, but they can wait a bit longer.”
“I told Robert I wanted to show you the Duncrieff Cup first.” She slid her arm around his waist, leaned her head on his shoulder, looked at the glittering cup. “In the time of the mists, they say,” she began, “Malcolm MacCarran rescued a fairy woman whose horse had thrown her from a bridge into a river during a summer storm.”
“Ah, so did I,” Connor said.
“And your fairy woman got very wet and muddy. Hush now. So he took her to his tower, a small fortress in a remote place. They shared a warm hearth, a dram, a bowl of porridge, and more, so the story goes.”
“This tale sounds familiar. And they found true love, I suppose?”
“They did, and soon they were wed. I know,” she said, raising a hand as he drew a breath. “We did that part first.”
He nodded, laughed. “Go on.”
“The MacCarran learned that his beloved was a princess among her ilk, an ancient line of fairy kind, beautiful and intelligent, of a size with humans, and possessed of magical powers.”
He kissed the top of her head as she spoke. It was all he needed to say.
“And in their happiness,” she went on, “MacCarran and his fairy bride had three sons, each one beautiful and strong. The sons inherited gifts from their mother—the Sight, healing touch, and the gift of charms. When her children were grown, though it broke her heart to do it, the fairy left her family and returned to her people, for that was her agreement with her own kind in exchange for years of joy.”
Connor listened intently, his arm encircling his wife’s shoulders.
“She left behind a legacy of fairy blood and magical abilities, passed on through her sons to generations of the MacCarrans of Duncrieff. And she left the golden cup that had been smithed by her fairy kin.”
“Fairy gold, with a band of crystals,” he said, looking at the goblet. “Some of them are missing. There are...four gone.”
She nodded. “Kate and I each have one. By tradition, a MacCarran child who shows the fairy gift will be given one of the crystals to wear. Later it is returned to its original setting in the cup, and that person’s tale is recorded in the Book of Duncrieff, locked in a cabinet in the library.”
“And the crystal can create a miracle for its wearer if the need arises. I see.”
“One miracle,” she said. “Just one, they say, for the sake of true love. If that is not honored, the cup will lose its magic and no one else will inherit the gift.”
“I did not know that,” he murmured. “What of the two empty settings?”
“One crystal, they say, has never been returned. There is some mystery about that—I am not certain what. Wherever it is, its power holds. One legend claims that the lost crystal is in the keeping of a castle ghost, a maiden who was never able to claim her miracle before she died tragically.”
