Page 90 of Treachery in the Highlands
Joey grins."They cheated first."
My laughter echoes through this private sanctuary."I can see why ye'd hide here.'Tis like a wee piece of the Highlands."
"That's what I thought when I found it," he admits, sitting beside me, our thighs touching."It reminded me of something...something I couldn't quite name.Maybe I was remembering a place I hadn't been to yet."
"The Highlands," I whisper as a wee shiver runs through me.It has nothing to do with the gentle breeze."Perhaps your soul knew where it belonged before you did."
Joey slips his finger between mine, his callused thumb tracing circles on my palm."Maybe that's why I felt so at home when I landed there.Despite everything---the danger, the confusion, the fact that I was centuries out of place---something about it felt right."
I study his face, searching for the boy he must have been, seeking refuge in this hidden corner of the park.The thought of him alone makes my heart ache.
"Did ye come here often, then?"I inquire gently.
"All the time."His gaze goes distant, a slight smile playing on his lips."Especially in winter.There's something about this place when it snows, like the whole world goes quiet.I'd sit right here and watch the flakes fall until my fingers went numb."
The image of a younger Joey, huddled alone on this bench while snow gathered on his shoulders, brings tears to my eyes.I blink them away before he notices.
"And what would ye think about?"I ask, "During those quiet moments?"
Joey's gaze drifts upward to the canopy of leaves."Escape, mostly.Where I'd go if I could just...disappear."His lips quirk into a half smirk."Never once imagined Scotland in the 1700s, though.Guess my imagination had limits."
"The universe had other plans for ye."
"I guess it did.And I'm grateful for that every single day."
A comfortable silence falls between us, broken only by birdsong and distant laughter.I close my eyes, breathing in the earthy scent of this place, committing it to memory.When I open them again, Joey is watching me with such tenderness that my heart aches---in the sweetest way.
Joey stands up, offering me his hand."Time to go home, Rach.I miss my best buddy, the Laird of Dùndubhan.I'm feeling lonely without him threatening to run me through with his claymore and then rip out my entrails."
"Dinnae fash, Joey.I'm certain Father will be waiting for you to come home so he can murder you."
Aye, MacTaggarts are a strange, bloodthirsty lot.Joey fits into our miniature clan quite nicely.
This charming, cloistered spot seems like the best place for invoking magics without being caught in the act.Joey and I stand facing each other.I excavate the book from inside my cloak and hold it in my palm with one hand, then encourage Joey to do the same.Our palms are now sandwiched---a word Joey taught me---with the book in the middle.
I begin to chant in a hushed tone.
The words flow from my lips like water from Loch Fairbairn, ancient Gaelic phrases that my ancestors have whispered for generations.The air begins to shimmer, almost imperceptibly at first, then with growing intensity until it seems we stand within a veil of liquid light.
"Is it working?"Joey whispers.
"Shush," I hiss."The spell requires intense concentration."
The book between our palms grows warm, then hot---not burning, but alive with energy that pulses in rhythm with my words.I feel the magic gathering, swirling around us like Highland mist, binding us together as it prepares to tear a hole through time itself.
Joey's fingers tighten around mine.His eyes never leave my face, and in them I see both excitement and a flicker of apprehension.This man who faced down mobsters without flinching is nervous about returning to my time---our time.It's disarmingly sweet.
He opens his mouth---to speak, undoubtedly.
But I give him a stern look."Relax, Joey.My magic has never failed me."
Joey snaps his mouth shut, but his lips form an impish smile.
Sighing, I continue my working the magics.Wee sparks ignite, surrounding us as the spell magnifies.Small objects---leaves, twigs, even Joey's strange metal "keys" that he insists upon keeping in his pocket---begin to rise from his pocket, suspended in the swirling energies.
"Rachel," he whispers, ignoring my earlier directive for silence."Your hair..."
I cannot see what's going on, but I can feel it.My hair is floating around my head as if I were underwater.The spell is working, gathering strength with each syllable I utter.
