* * *
“You’ve got a picture on your desk.” Fiona didn’t look at him, but kept her attention riveted on the dishes she was clearing.
“Lots of them.” Roger took a cautious mouthful of tea; hot and fresh, but not scalding. How did she do that? “Is there one you want? I know there are a few snaps of your grannie—you’re more than welcome, though I’d like one to keep.”
She did look up at that, mildly startled.
“Oh. Of Grannie? Aye, our Da’ll like to see those. But it’s the big one I meant.”
“Big one?” Roger tried to think which photo she could mean; most of them were black-and-white snapshots taken with the Reverend’s ancient Brownie, but there were a couple of the larger cabinet photos—one of his parents, another of the Reverend’s grandmother, looking like a pterodactyl in black bombazine, taken on the occasion of that lady’s hundredth birthday. Fiona couldn’t possibly mean those.
“Of her that kilt her husband and went away.” Fiona’s mouth compressed.
“Her that—oh.” Roger took a deep gulp of tea. “You mean Gillian Edgars.”
“Her,” Fiona repeated stubbornly. “Why’ve you got a photo of her?”
Roger set the cup down and picked up the morning paper, affecting casualness as he wondered what to say.
“Oh—someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
Fiona was normally persistent, but seldom so direct. What was troubling her?
“Mrs. Randall—Dr. Randall, I mean. Why?”
Fiona didn’t reply, but pressed her lips tight shut.
Roger had by now abandoned all interest in the paper. He laid it down carefully.
“Did you know her?” he said. “Gillian Edgars?”
Fiona didn’t answer directly, but turned aside, fiddling with the tea cozy.
“You’ve been up to the standing stones on Craigh na Dun; Joycie said her Albert saw ye comin’ down when he was drivin’ to Drumnadrochit Thursday.”
“I have, yes. No crime in that, is there?” He tried to make a joke of it, but Fiona wasn’t having any.
“Ye know it’s a queer place, all circles are. And don’t be tellin’ me ye went up there to admire the view.”
“I wouldn’t tell you that.”
He sat back in his chair, looking up at her. Her curly dark hair was standing on end; she rumpled her hands through it when she was agitated, and agitated she surely was.
“You do know her. That’s right; Claire said you’d met her.” The small flicker of curiosity he had felt at the mention of Gillian Edgars was growing into a clear flame of excitement.
“I canna be knowing her, now, can I? She’s dead.” Fiona scooped up the empty egg cup, eyes fixed on the discarded fragments of shell. “Isn’t she?”
Roger reached out and stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Is she?”
“It’s what everyone thinks. The police havena found a trace of her.” The word came out “polis” in her soft Highland accent.
“Perhaps they’re not looking in the right place.”
All the blood drained out of her flushed, fair face. Roger tightened his grip, though she wasn’t trying to pull away. She knew, dammit, she knew! But what did she know?
“Tell me, Fiona,” he said. “Please—tell me. What do you know about Gillian Edgars—and the stones?”
She did pull away from him then, but didn’t leave, just stood there, turning the egg cup over and over in her hands, as if it were a miniature hourglass. Roger stood up, and she shied back, glancing fearfully up at him.
“A bargain, then,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, so as not to frighten her further. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you why Dr. Randall gave me that picture—and why I was up on Craigh na Dun.”
“I’ve got to think.” Swiftly she bent and snatched up the tray of dirty crockery. She was out the door before he could speak a word to stop her.
Slowly he sat down again. It had been a good breakfast—all Fiona’s meals were delicious—but it lay in his stomach like a bag of marbles, heavy and indigestible.
He shouldn’t be so eager, he told himself. It was courting disappointment. What could Fiona know, after all? Still, any mention of the woman who had called herself Gillian—and later Geillis—was enough to rivet his attention.
He picked up his neglected teacup and swallowed, not tasting it. What if he kept the bargain, and told her everything? Not only about Claire Randall and Gillian, but about himself—and Brianna.
The thought of Bree was like a rock dropped into the pool of his heart, sending ripples of fear in all directions. She’s dead. Fiona had said of Gillian. Isn’t she?
Is she? he had answered, the picture of a woman vivid in his mind, green eyes wide and fair hair flying in the hot wind of a fire, poised to flee through the doors of time. No, she hadn’t died.
Not then, at least, because Claire had met her—would meet her? Earlier? Later? She hadn’t died, but was she dead? She must be now, mustn’t she, and yet—damn this twistiness! How could he even think about it coherently?
Too unsettled to stay in one place, he got up and walked down the hall. He paused in the doorway of the kitchen. Fiona was standing at the sink, staring out of the window. She heard him and turned around, an unused dishcloth clutched in her hand.
Her face was red, but determined.
“I’m not to tell, but I will, I’ve got to.” She took a deep breath and squared her chin, looking like a Pekingese facing up to a lion.
“Bree’s Mam—that nice Dr. Randall—she asked me about my grannie. She kent Grannie’d been a—a—dancer.”
“Dancer? What, you mean in the stones?” Roger felt faintly startled. Claire had told him, when he’d first met her, but he had never quite believed it—not that the staid Mrs. Graham performed arcane ceremonies on green hilltops in the May dawn.
Fiona let out a long breath.
“So ye do know. I thought so.”
“No, I don’t know. All I know is what Claire—Dr. Randall—told me. She and her husband saw women dancing in the stone circle one Beltane dawn, and your grannie was one of them.”
Fiona shook her head.
“Not just one o’ them, no. Grannie was the caller.”
Roger moved into the kitchen and took the dishcloth from her unresisting hand.
“Come and sit down,” he said, leading her to the table. “And tell me, what’s a caller?”
“The one who calls down the sun.” She sat, unresisting. She had made up her mind, he saw; she was going to tell him.
“It’s one of the auld tongues, the sun-song; some of the words are a bit like the Gaelic, but not all of it. First we dance, in the circle, then the caller stops and faces the split stone, and—it’s no singing, really, but it’s no quite talking, either; more like the minister at kirk. You’ve to begin at just the right moment, when the light first shows over the sea, so just as ye finish, the sun comes through the stone.”
“Do you remember any of the words?” The scholar in Roger stirred briefly, curiosity rearing its head through his confusion.
Fiona didn’t much resemble her grandmother, but she gave him a look that reminded him suddenly of Mrs. Graham in its directness.
“I know them all,” she said. “I’m the caller now.”
He realized that his mouth was hanging open, and closed it. She reached for the biscuit tin and plunked it in front of him.
“That’s no what ye need to know, though,” she said matter-of-factly, “and so I won’t tell ye. You want to know about Mrs. Edgars.”
Fiona had met Gillian Edgars, all right; Gillian had been one of the dancers, though quite a new one. Gillian had asked questions of the older women, eager to learn all she could. She’d wanted to learn the sun-song, too, but that was secret; only the caller and her successor had that. Some of the older women would know some of it—those who had heard the chant every year for a long time—but not all of it, and not the secrets of when to begin and how to time the song to coincide with the rising of the sun.
Fiona paused, looking down at her folded hands.
“It’s women; only women. The men havena got a part in it, and we do not tell them. Not ever.”
He laid a hand over hers.
“You’re right to tell me, Fiona,” he said, very softly. “Tell me the rest, please. I’ve got to know.”
She drew a deep, quivering breath and pulled her hand out from under his. She looked directly at him. “D’ye know where she’s gone? Brianna?”
“I think so. She’s gone where Gillian went, hasn’t she?”
Fiona didn’t reply, but went on looking at him. The unreality of the situation swept over him all of a sudden. He couldn’t be sitting here, in the comfortable, shabby kitchen he’d known since boyhood, sipping tea from a mug with the Queen’s face painted on the side, discussing sacred stones and time-flight with Fiona. Not Fiona, for God’s sake, whose interests were confined to Ernie and the domestic economy of her kitchen!
Or so he’d thought. He picked up the mug, drained it, and set it down with a soft thump.
“I have to go after her, Fiona—if I can. Can I?”
She shook her head, clearly afraid.
“I canna say. It’s only women I know about; maybe it’s only women who can.”
Roger’s hand clenched round the saltshaker. That’s what he was afraid of—or one of the things he was afraid of.
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he said, outwardly casual. In the back of his mind, unbidden, a tall cleft stone rose up black, stark as a threat against a soft dawn sky.
“I have her wee book,” Fiona blurted.
“What—whose? Gillian’s? She wrote something?”
“Aye, she did. There’s a place—” She darted a look at him, and licked her lips. “We keep our things there, ready beforehand. She’d put the book there, and—and—I took it, after.” After Gillian’s husband had been found murdered in the circle, Roger thought she meant.
“I kent the polis should maybe have it,” Fiona went on, “but it—well, I didna like to give it to them, and yet I was thinkin’ what if it’s to do with the killing? And I couldna keep it back if it was to be important, and yet—” She looked up at Roger in a plea for understanding. “It was her own book, ye see, her writing. And if she’d left it in that place…”
“It was secret.” Roger nodded.
Fiona nodded, and drew a deep breath.
“So I read it.”
“And that’s how you know where she’s gone,” Roger said softly.
Fiona let out a shuddering sigh and gave him a wan smile.
“Well, the book’s no going to help the polis, that’s for sure.”
“Could it help me?”
“I hope so,” she said simply, and turning to the sideboard, pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small book, bound in green cloth.