Weird Sisters

Geillis is quite businesslike as she drags me through the retail portion of her shop, not bothering to coax or cajole me, divining at once that I'm quite willing to be reasonable.

Up to a point, of course. . .

Wordlessly, she impels me up a flight of stairs, and somehow directs me to leave all my purchases on a hall table, wash my hands in a tiny toilet station, and join her in the kitchen. It's quite impressive, really. I've never seen anyone communicate quite so forcefully with just body language before.

In fact, she has me installed at her kitchen table, with a cup of tea each and plate of cream cakes between us before she deigns to say anything at all.

"Well. Heer we are, then," she says, quietly, with almost dangerously bright eyes, and a positively ferocious grin.

"Yes," I take a sip of my tea, "Though. . . you were quite rude to them, you know. . ."

She waves a hand dismissively, "The only way, pet, the only way. They'd nevar ha' gi'en ye up if I hadnae forced the point ."

"But why should you?"

"But why no'?"

I open my mouth to retort, but for some reason this stumps me for quite a few seconds, "Because. . ."

"I'm no' goin' tae let ye be monopolized by a meer set o' gigglers, pet – an' from Leoch, yet! That set c'n take an insult oor too from me – an' serve them right, as like as not."

I deeply dislike this attitude in-re Annie and Co. "Isn't that a bit unfair to them? They were just trying to include me-"

"Aye, an' what is it ye think I'm tryin' tae do?"

"I haven't the least idea!"

I grip my teacup hard to keep myself from jumping up and stomping out. There's something, something behind all of this – something Geillis is trying to do, or see, or discover. . .

All of the suspicions I had of Coira this morning return with redoubled force, focusing themselves unerringly on Geillis.

And this time I'm sure Dougal has something to do with it. . .

"Weel," she says with a toss of her fair red head, "Tha's fair enough, I suppose." She opens up a large jar of applesauce, and dishes out a small bowl for each of us, "Leoch brand," she points to the label, smiling, "How does it feel tae be managing one of th'largest food producers in the area, eh?"

I look at the now familiar circular logo, with it's design of stylized flames, and proud words of Latin emblazoned across the center - "Luceo Non Uro" - and smile a bit. There's nothing subtle about Leoch's branding style. I find it charming, in its own way. . .

Only then do Geillis's words register in my mind. Was. . . was that a reference to Skycity 15? How. . . ?

But, was it? I'm far from certain. . .

"It's. . . interesting, to say the least," I say, after only a moderate pause.

"I jus' bet it is. Ha' ye evar done th'like befoor?"

"Not for a fully diversified farm like this," I shake my head, "No. But managing any business means managing men," I shrug, "And men are mostly the same, no matter the job, no matter the age, no matter the time."

There. If she can give vague, oblique hints, so can I.

She gives a light whistle, "*wheew* If I ken the MacKenzies atal, then I reckon they'll ha' their hands full managing you – and no' t'other way round, I'll be bound!"

I chuckle a little, "Well. . . you're not wrong."

"If t'ere's one thing any MacKenzie needs, it's tae be managed, right enough. And that's jus' what they won't let themselves evar be - sly, conniving devils, the lot of them!" She looks at me keenly, "Cannae think why ye evar took on t'job."

I wonder how much Dougal has told her about me. Not much, by the sound of it.

And yet, there's so much he could have told her. . .

Perhaps their. . . arrangement. . . isn't on those sorts of terms?

"Well, I didn't have anything else to do, and I needed a job, you see. And of course, I couldn't get one anywhere else, since I lost my ID card."

"Lost?" she raises her eyebrows very high.

I shrug, "Stolen, lost, it's all the same when you're trying to survive."

"Mmmm. Aye, it mus' be," she nods companionably, "And sae heer ye are, "survivin'" at Leoch. Ye did fetch up on rich pasture, didnn't ye?"

"All thanks to Mr. Fitzgibbons, of course."

"Oh, aye," she nods again, but a sour note has entered her voice, "An' a few thanks tae Colum too, I reckon."

Yes. A distinctly sour note.

And then suddenly it dawns on me. She's trying to find out just how much I know. Dougal hasn't told her anything.

I barely have a second to wonder why before a gruff, quavering voice calls in from the hallway, "Wheer are ye then, wooman? I want mah tea!"

A soft, kindly expression spreads over Geillis's face, and she jumps up to hastily prepare a tray. Lavish helpings of everything go on it, and then she troops dutifully into the other room with it.

Craning my neck only slightly, I can see a tall, spare man as he trundles slowly up the hallway, hunched over an aluminum walker. The lean, raw bones of him are clothed in lose folds of surplus skin, clearly testifying as to his former, far more generous shape. The raspy quaver in his voice was one of pain, and long - very long – suffering. Geillis speaks warmly and softly to him, serving him the tray over his knees just as soon as he settles into his easy chair. Then she brings him several things as he asks for them – an info-screen, a remote control for the television, a blanket for his shoulders, and a few other trifles. Finally, he is comfortably settled down to have his tea in the living room.

Geillis comes back to the kitchen, her face a study of gentleness and regret, of defiance and fear, of love, determination, and of absolute revulsion.

She nods as me, with a twitch of her head in his direction, "Tha's my puir Arthur, pet. It's Stage 3 pancreatic cancer, the dear love. It's sheer cussedness keeps him alive these days, ye ken?"

I smile softly at her, "And you love him very much for that, I have no doubt."

She looks fondly over her shoulder, "Och, aye. I doo."

I've had quite enough dancing around. I decide to go straight to the point.

"Well, in that case, I have to wonder why you've chosen to spend so much time with Dougal, of all people."

She smiles again, not exactly ruefully, but with some regret, "Och, ye dinnae need tae sound sae disapprovin', pet. Arthur an' I are poly – allus have been. He kens whoo I spend my nights with when I'm no' heer."

I cross my arms at her deflection, "That's fine, but it doesn't answer the question. Why Dougal?"

She smirks, "Ye mean besides the fact that he kens his way aboot the bedroom sae well he's even surprised me on occasion?"

"Yes, besides that."

"Weel, tae start wi', there's the no' insignificant fact that he's on o' the few people around heer who's well-traveled and well educated enough tae know what bein' poly even means. . ."

I wrinkle my forehead up in confusion, "But. . ."

"But what?"

"Well. . . people around here. . . . they seem to have accepted gay and trans people pretty well, and. . . well. . . I guess I don't see how poly is so much more than that."

This time her smile is ruefully sarcastic, "Jus' because the boxes people like tae put us in ha' been expanded, tha' doesnae mean the boxes are gone – oor that they're any less of a problem when we run up against them."

"No. . . I suppose not. . . "

"An' also t'ere's the fact that I ken exactly what Dougal is in this fer. He isnae evar goin' tae ask fer moor than I'm willin' tae give – mostly since he doesnae want too much out o' it himself." She shrugs, "An' I ken I deserve as much happiness as possible, especially given the circumstances. . ."

I nod. "That you most certainly do."

"Sae how did ye ken?"

I raise my eyebrows, "After you two danced at the concert. . ."

She waves an imperious hand, "Ye didnae ken after that. No' like this ye didn't. Yer mind was on other things then, an' small blame tae ye. When did it come tae ye?"

"The next day." Very generally, I outline the conversation I overheard between Jamie and Dougal that morning.

"Oh," says Geillis, quietly eating a spoonful of applesauce, "For a second there I thought ye might be tellin' me ye ha' the Sight."

I give a low, sharp laugh, "Jamie thinks I do."

"Does he now?" her face lights up, "Weel then, I'll hav'tae tek ye booth tae The Green Man one o' these days, an' see what Iona MacTavish has tae say about the twa ov ye."

That brings me up short.

"Iona MacTavish?" I say, in almost the identical tone of voice Murtagh did when I asked about her yesterday.

"Aye," says Geillis, "She works at the wee herb an' crystal shop doon the rood a bit," she tilts her head in the direction of the little shop I remember seeing a short while ago, "She has the Sight. Wee woman. Long brown hair. She'll be able tae tell if ye have it oor no'. . ." she trails off when she sees me vacantly staring.

"Och, she's no' a monstrous beastie, Claire, pet! Just a plain woman wi' the Sight. I think she was at the concert that night too – ye may ha' seen her. . ."

"And so I did," I say, noncommittally.

Geillis stares back at me, bewilderedly.

"I asked Murtagh – Mr. Fitzgibbons, you know – if it was possible for one of the girls to introduce me to her on this very outing today. But, it was the oddest thing. He said there wasn't any such person in Cranesmuir. And that, to his knowledge, there hasn't been, for at least four years."

I tap my fingers abstractedly on the table.

"And here you are, talking about her just as if she's a perfectly ordinary person. Odd. Very odd." I take a perfunctory sip of my tea. "Unless we are all three of us witches, I fail to see how such a thing is possible, don't you?"

She doesn't answer.

"And there's something else odd, you know. Here we have Dougal – a Scottish man who covets his brother's throne – and, that night, he danced with all three of us. That can't possibly be a coincidence, now, can it? Three weird sisters, and he danced with each one of us. Me. . . you. . . and a woman who doesn't exist. . ."

I pause. The silence, however brief, is full of significance.

"At least, she doesn't exist on this plane of reality-"

"How much do ye know?" she interrupts, eyes snapping. Suddenly her posture is one of a cornered animal, wild and alien. . .

I shake my head, "Almost nothing."

"These are nae the questions of someone who knows almost nothing, Claire."

"It's still the truth."

She sighs, and her fists clump on the table as she stands up to look at me more closely.

"Mebbe ye do have the Sight, then," she growls, her eyes boring into mine.

"Maybe. Who's to say?" I shrug, and return her gaze frankly and unashamedly.

Almost infinitesimally slowly, her posture relaxes into something recognizable, approachable, and almost Human. Abruptly, she turns away from me, to look out of the kitchen window, her pale face wary, a sudden fierce look in her eyes that is also strangely, eerily, hunted. Of all the people I've met here, the last person I would have guessed was running away from something would be Geillis.

But, there it is.

The silence draws out between us – tense, but also, somehow, safe, like the final gasp of blissful ignorance.

"Claire," she says, at last, more earnestly than I've yet heard her, "When. . . when you go home. . . could you. . . would you tell Lamb I'm sorry?"