Page 29 of The Moon Sister
Well now, there is little point in spending time writing the usual platitudes about my sudden disappearance from your life – I know you will refuse to believe that I have gone. But gone I have. Even though I know you will feel me still all around you, you must accept that I am never coming back.
Of course, I write this letter at my desk in Atlantis, still here on this earth, so I cannot yet tell you what the beyond is like, but the one thing I am not is afraid. You and I have talked many times about the miraculous hand of fate, of destiny and a higher power – God to some – touching our lives. It saved me when I was a child, and my belief in it – even through the harder times I have had in my life – has never wavered. Neither must yours.
With your other sisters, I have been careful to make sure that I only gave them limited information about where I originally found them, because I didn’t want to disturb their lives. However, you are different. When your family gave you to me, it was on the condition I promised that one day, when I felt the time was right, I would send you back to them.
You are part of an ancient culture, Tiggy, one that these days is derided by some. I believe it is because many of us humans have forgotten our roots in nature and where our heart and soul lies. You, I was told, come from a special line of gifted seers, although the woman who handed you over to me made it clear that the gift often misses a generation, or does not grow to its fruition.
I was told to watch you as you grew, and I did so. From a fretful sick baby, you became an inquisitive child who loved nothing more than surrounding herself with nature and animals. Even though you were unable to have your own pet due to Ma’s allergy, you still dedicated yourself to every wounded sparrow you found, and the hedgehogs in the garden that you fed.
Perhaps you don’t remember the moment you came to me when you were five or six, and whispered in my ear that you’d just spoken to a fairy in the woods. She had told you that her name was Lucía, and that the two of you had danced together, barefoot in the forest.
Well, it’s hardly uncommon for a child so young to believe in fairies, but in this case, it was then I knew that you had inherited the gift. Darling Tiggy, Lucía was the name of your grandmother.
So now, I fulfil the promise I made by telling you that at some point in your life, you should travel to Spain, to a city named Granada. On a hill opposite the magnificent Alhambra, in an area called Sacromonte, you must knock on a blue door situated on a narrow path called the Cortijo del Aire and ask for Angelina. There you will find the truth of your birth family. And perhaps your own destiny too . . .
Before I close, I must also reveal to you that if it hadn’t been for one sentence offered by a relation of yours many years ago, I would not have been given the gift of all my beloved daughters. She saved me from despair and I can never repay my debt to her.
All my love to you, my darling, gifted girl. I am so very proud of you.
Pa x
I then drew out the paper that contained the information that had been engraved on the armillary sphere, which had suddenly appeared a few days after Pa’s death in his special garden. Each of the bands upon it bore our names, a quotation in Greek and a set of coordinates, which indicated where in the world Pa had found us.
Pa’s quotation for me, translated by my eldest sister Maia, had brought tears to my eyes, because it suited me so perfectly:
Keep your feet on the fresh carpet of the earth, but raise your mind to the windows of the universe.
As for the coordinates, Ally, who was a sailor and used to that kind of thing, had worked them all out for us. Mine had corresponded exactly with what Pa had told me in his letter. Until today, I hadn’t really dared to understand what Pa had meant about coming from a special and ‘gifted’ line. Yet Chilly had seemed to know who I was, and had even told me I had ‘power’ in my hands. I stood up and walked to the small mirror that hung on the wall above the chest of drawers. I studied my features – my tawny-brown eyes, dark eyebrows and olive skin. Yes, if I dragged my hair back, I probably could be taken for someone with Mediterranean blood. Yet my hair, even though it was dark, had a rich chestnut tinge to it. All the gypsies – if that was what I was – I’d ever seen on TV or in pictures had jet-black hair, so even if I did have some Romani in me, Chilly himself had told me I was not pure-blood. But then, who was these days? Two thousand years of interbreeding meant we were all mongrels.
I knew nothing about gypsies, except that many tended to live on the outskirts of society. I was aware that they didn’t have the best reputation, but as Pa had often said to me and my sisters, ‘Never judge a book by its cover.A dull clump of earth can hide the most precious jewel. . .’
And I had always prided myself on believing the best about everyone until proven wrong. In fact, perhaps my greatest weakness was my naivety about others, ironically engendered by my best quality: my unerring faith in the goodness of human nature. Other people rolled their eyes when I stated that good always triumphed over evil. After all – in simplistic terms – if it didn’t, then all the evil souls would have murdered the good ones, and then murdered each other, so the human race would no longer exist.
Whatever race Chilly came from, I knew he had a good soul. He was the first gypsy I’d ever knowingly met and I definitely wanted to learn more, I thought, as I replaced the precious letter in my bedside drawer.
7
On New Year’s Eve, I woke up, looking forward to the Hogmanay celebration that Cal was taking me to in the local village hall, so I could see in the New Year in traditional Scottish fashion. Arriving back at the cottage after feeding the cats, I found Beryl pacing our sitting room, anxiety painted on her features like a mask.
‘Tiggy, how are you?’ she said.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Beryl. You?’ I could see she was uncharacteristically flustered.
‘Some . . . unfortunate circumstances have cropped up, but they’re not for bothering you with just now.’
‘Right.’
I wondered if the ‘circumstances’ were anything to do with the sudden departure of the Kinnaird family, but I knew Beryl well enough by now not to press her on the subject.
She gathered herself together with considerable effort and continued. ‘However, my most immediate problem is that Alison has called in sick this morning. Apparently, so her mother told me, she has a terrible cold, but it’s left me high and dry. The New Year guests are arriving at four o’clock today – eight of them – expecting a full high tea! I have a mountain of unironed sheets – I had to strip all the beds because the dust from the renovations had fallen again, so each room needs to be hoovered, the furniture polished, the dining table and all the fires to be laid, and that’s on top of the dinner to be cooked and I haven’t even plucked the pheasants yet—’
‘Can I help?’ I offered, registering Beryl’s barely disguised need for assistance.
‘Would you, Tiggy? The gentleman who’s booked the Lodge for the week is a billionaire apparently, and very influential. The Laird is counting on him to spread the word about Kinnaird amongst his rich friends, and what with everything else that’s happened recently, I can’t let him down.’
‘Of course you can’t. I’ll come up to the Lodge with you now.’
Cal, who’d been listening from the kitchen, offered his services too, and for the rest of the day we ironed sheets, made beds, hoovered floors and laid fires as Beryl slaved away in the kitchen. By three o’clock we joined her for a cup of tea, all of us worn out.
