Oversight

"Bye Gil, bye Marc!"

I wave to the men as they pull away from the manager's garage.

"'Til Monday then!" calls Gil. Marc says nothing, but he gives me a somber nod from behind the control yoke of the runabout.

I nod back happily, then turn and go back inside.

At once Lily Bara is shaking my hand, her two young assistants quietly attentive behind her, "Aye, an' it's a right joy tae ha'e a manager at last whoo'll listen tae reason!"

I smile, quickly extricating myself. Lil has said little else but variants of this same phrase for the past hour or so – ever since I invited her to make her report and add any personal ideas or concerns she wished. "Now th'Lord kens tha' auld Beaton was a man well worth 'is salt when it came tae things planting-wise, bu' there were precious few men he ever would listen tae, save 'is own sweet self, and nevar a wooman atall."

"Yes, so you've said. . ."

"Sae a fair mind an' a wooman's heart is fair welcome, that it is-"

"Wonderful," I say, searching briefly for something to say that won't be merely a repetition of everything the lot of us have been talking about for the past three hours. "I'll. . . try and find a Scottish provider for those sheep jackets you mentioned. . ."

"Ach, tha's a fine thought, Missie – a fine thought indeed!" She grins, then grabs her coat and galoshes, and makes to go back out into the cold, drizzly mud of the waning afternoon. Her assistants – two tall, redheaded boys, obviously twins, and as quiet as Lil is voluble – put on their coats and boots as well, and follow her out – not without a respectful nod apiece at me, of course.

"Weel that's tha' then," says Murtagh, leaning back comfortably on the couch.

"Aye," says Harry, shuffling about, glancing between Murtagh and me, "An' if et' all t'same t'ye, I'll be goin' tae go talk tae Geordie now. There's that new tack we have comin' in taemorrow – it's specialty stuff fer the new horses - and Geordie kens moor about it than I do. . ."

"Aye lad," says Murtagh, nodding, "You go'n do that. Mebbe ye'll distract him from whate'er-"

A metallic clang and a string of sharp Scottish curses echo from the open door between the office and the garage.

"- from whate're troubles he's havin' wi' that engine of his," Murtagh finishes, with an ironic glance at me.

"Yes, do go keep him company, Harry," I say, encouragingly, "The poor fellow didn't know what he was taking on when he offered to tune up that bloody Liger. Hybrid engines are no picnic – especially so, I imagine, when you're more used to horses than any sort of engines at all," I shrug, "But he's determined to be able to do every aspect of my job, at least a little bit, just in case I ever have to delegate to him." I smile, thoughtfully, "I have to say – I respect the hell out of the sentiment."

Harry looks at me sidelong, "C'n I tell him ye said so?"

"You most certainly can," I grin, "Swear words and all."

Harry grins, winks, and disappears into the garage.

It's been a very strange few hours for me, rediscovering through Marc and Lil how truly unorthodox I am around here. I'm a woman, and English, and "quality" - all three things neither of them associated with a Farm Manager before this. That I also drink and swear would in themselves be more than enough to baffle them greatly, but the word has gone around by now that Jamie and I are dating, and that puts me solidly into the realm of utterly incomprehensible. Or at least that's where I was at the beginning of the Manager's meeting. . .

Clearly, I won Lil over by just listening to her. Marc, I think, still needs to be convinced, but he shows all the signs of at least being co-operative while he waits for me to prove myself.

Murtagh's thoughts are obviously running along the same lines as mine, for he speaks up, "Weel now, ye'ev impressed Lil, right enough, at least. An' Marc'll come 'round, dinnae fash."

"Oh, I'm sure he will. It's Lil I'm worried about, anyway. . ."

"Whaat fer?" he asks, incredulously drawing out his vowels.

"Well, she's built me up in her mind so much," I shrug, "Of the two of them, she's the one I'm bound to disappoint eventually." I plunk myself down next to him on the couch, unexpectedly exhausted by what, by any standard, has hardly been a physically taxing day.

"Agch, an' why should ye proove a disappointment at all, now?"

I huff a bit, ruefully, "That's nice of you to say, Murtagh, but. . . Well, you've seen in there, right?" I gesture across the yard towards the Manager's barn, "All the things Davie Beaton was brilliant at?"

"Aye, but. . ."

"Well what I can do is nowhere near that kind of innovation. I'm a run-of-the-mill technician, in charge of her first fully diversified farming concern. I didn't encourage participation from Lily because she's a woman and so am I – I did it because I've got to be her boss, but I don't know thing one about sheep!"

"What are ye sayin'? Ye cannae do it? Yet ye'ev come this far. . ."

"Oh, I can do it – it's within my scope. So long as I have help, of course. But. . . well, you saw me today – I'm the last person to bring any sort of wizardry or flash to the proceedings-"

"Ha! Says th'lass that started the meetin' by showing us five brand-new hybrids she jus' invented – plants she even means tae incorporate inta next year's crop plans, would'ye believe," says Jamie, looking across at us from behind the office's small corner desk, "If tha' isnae flash, what is?"

I roll my eyes, "Hybrids for potatoes, sugar beets, oats, rye, and soy beans, Jamie. If I couldn't deliver on those, I'd could hardly call myself a professional farm tech."

"Mebbe no', but Beaton couldnae have done it at all, now could he?"

I shake my head, "Oh, he could have. Maybe not as quickly as I managed to do – but making use of my more progressive training doesn't make me a more brilliant bio-engineer."

"Leoch doesnae need a more brilliant bio-engineer, mo nighean – what we need here is stable, sustainable farming practices, wi' jus' enough experimentin' tae keep us on our toes. Eh, Murtagh?" Jamie says with bland conviction, as he carves away idly at a stick of kindling wood. His multi-tool blade shaves off neat, tiny rolls that fall with a soft 'pat-pat-pat' on the large sheet of old newsprint he has spread on the floor.

"Och, aye. Experiments like all those visitor's cars ye'ev been fixin' up. Wha's the story wi' all that, anyway?"

I smile, remembering, "Well, it just sort of happened the first time. A fellow delivered a whole flatbed of potted plants and greenery to the main house – decorations for Yule, I think - " Both Murtagh and Jamie nod, " - and when he went to leave, his engine was dead. I was just on my way back to work after lunch, and offered to take a look at it for him." I shrug, as though it was nothing, "It was the starter. And as it turns out, his truck takes the same starter as our two maintenance trucks here." I gesture at the door leading into the garage, "We have a lot of parts in stock, so there was more than enough to spare for him. I got my tools, and had the thing fixed up in less than an hour. I charged him cost price for the part and the Universal Wage rate for labour, and he went away quite happy."

"Aye, I bet he did," Murtagh grunts, sourly.

I smile, in spite of his frown. Geordie has been helping me understand the monetary system of this era, and I am well aware I gave the man a bargain. "It was old stock. Good to get it out of inventory. And I didn't have much else in hand that day either."

I lever myself upright, and go get a bottle of water from the small tea table over by the desk, "Anyway, since then, several people have come in from Cranesmuir, all with business at the main house, but while they're here, they ask me to take a look at their cars." I gesture, openly, "I don't mind doing it, they get a good deal, the garage gets to flush out old stock, the cars get fixed, and I get paid. I'd say that's win-win-win, wouldn't you?"

Murtagh harrumphs again, but this time I catch the gleam in his eyes that I missed the first time. He's not upset. On the contrary, he's proud of me, but no force on earth would ever get him to admit it. I grin, with a genuine sense of accomplishment, and a thoroughly welcome rush of thankfulness. His approval has rapidly come to mean almost as much to me as Jamie's does.

"Speaking of Cranesmuir. . ." I say, bringing a cup of tea over for Murtagh, and sitting back down on the couch, "Annie and a few other girls have invited me on their day out tomorrow."

"Oh, aye?"

"Mm. Yes." I take a long swallow of water, "And I was wondering. . . would it be at all possible. . . that is, could I ask them to introduce me to Iona MacTavish?"

Murtagh blinks. "Ye want tae meet Iona. . . MacTavish?"

"Yes, the woman you told me about at the concert last week? You pointed her out during her dance with Dougal. You said she has the Sight."

Jamie looks up, sharply, "Now why would ye want to meet some'un like that, Sassenach?"

I shrug, attempting to be casual, "I'm curious, I suppose, but I also thought it might be a fun adventure to have with the girls."

"Iona MacTavish, ye say?" says Murtagh, an odd look in his eye, "From Cranesmuir? An' I pointed her out tae ye? At the concert?"

"Yes. . ." I say, suddenly doubtful.

"Lassie, there isnae anyone livin' in Cranesmuir by that name, and there hasnae been for the last four years we've been here."

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. The low murmur of voices and clang of tools from the garage echo in the suddenly profound silence.

"There's a Fiona MacTavish," Murtagh muses, "An' she says she has the Sight, aye, bu' then again that may only be her fancy – gi'en that all she's evar Seen was that auld Jordan Whyte had better not plant his south field in the dark of the moon – which isnae bad advice, a'coorse, but any'un wi' half a brain might'ha towld him the same, an' no mistake."

"O-oh," I manage.

"An' besides, if auld Fiona was at the concert last week it's the furst I've heard of it. She doesnae like dancing in general, an' dislikes the Cuckoos on principle. An' she wouldnae be seen dead dancin' wi' Dougal, t'auld spitfire!"

"Oh." I say again.

"Are ye shure it was me towld ye of this Iona MacTavish?"

"Utterly certain." I push through my astonishment, and cast my mind back to the scene in the Great Hall, "She was a short woman, with long brown hair. You said she was always telling people their fortunes, whether they wanted her to or not, and that made some people avoid her. You said she was right about things with the Sight that even that wasn't usually right about, and sometimes she would offer to change strange things about people's pasts – like their grandparent's names or place of birth – but no one knows if she ever actually managed to do so or not, because no one remembers there being any. . ."

I break off for a moment, in dumbfounded realization.

". . . changes," I finish, quietly.

Murtagh shakes his head, "Weel, tha's as may be, lass. I dinnae recall a bit of it. Bu' then, we neither of us ended that night entirely sober, so whoo's tae say we'er either of us rememberin' as we ought?"

Abstractedly, I roll my water bottle between my hands, "Yes. Quite."

And then he had said it was a good thing they don't burn witches anymore.

A shiver goes up my spine.

Yes. A very, very good thing. . .

"Weel, I've a few things tae do before supper, lassie, sae I'll be biddin' ye good evening," He stands, straightens his jacket, and salutes me, all in one seemingly impossible motion, "An' thanks for th'tea."

I nod, and stand to see him out of the door.

When I come back, Jamie has put away his multi-tool, and the half-carved stick of wood sits abandoned on the corner of the desk.

"Sae what was that then?" he asks, quietly, but with a strange ominous undertone.

I tuck my suddenly chilly hands underneath my arms, "I. . . don't know."

He scoffs, sharply, a cold, keen look in his eye, "Aye, ye do, but ye'er afraid tae say. Dinnae lie tae me Claire."

"It's no lie!" I shiver again, and hold my hands tighter, trying to force some warmth back into them, "I have no idea what's going on. Not with that, anyway."

"Hmphm. Mebbe no'. But ye ken moor than ye'er sayin'." Idly, he taps two fingers against his thigh, "Can ye no' trust me wi' it, Sassenach?"

"It. . . isn't a matter of trust, Jamie, it. . . it's a matter of. . . impossibilities!"

Whatever it was that was cold and ominous in him melts suddenly, and he strides over to take me warmly in his arms. I cuddle into him gratefully.

"Now then, now then," he murmurs into my hair, "There isnae annything impossible about it, that's sure and certain. One of ye is rememberin' wrong, tha's all. . ."

"Me, you mean."

I should say it petulantly, or at least somewhat regretfully, but with my arms wrapped around my very big, very warm boyfriend, and my face burrowed into his chest, all I can manage is mild disinterest.

"Nae, I don' mean that at all, mo ghràidh. Ye finnished the night three sheets tae the wind, if ye'el recall. . ."

I nod against him, and hold him just a little bit tighter, remembering.

". . . Sae is it all that unreasonable tae think tha' mebbe ye'ev mixed things up a wee bit? Remembered bits from other parts of the night an' shifted 'em? Granted that Murtagh's forgotten entirely, a'course."

I sigh, and shake my head, "That's not how my memory works, Jamie. Or at least it never has before. Getting drunk doesn't flip things for me, or mix them around, it only makes things blurry – and sometimes not even that much."

"Weel, ye'ed nevar had that exact combination of drinks before either – perhaps yer memory reacted in a new way?"

I chuckle a little, let go of him, and go sit back down on the couch. Jamie goes over to close the door between us and the garage before sitting down next to me.

"That's. . . a comforting thought, Jamie. Thank you for thinking of it."

He pats my knee, "Anytime, Sassenach."

"Now cut the bullshit and tell me what you really think."

He pulls back, surprised, "Wh. . . what I. . . ?"

"Yes, Fraser! Do you think you're the only one who can tell when the other isn't saying everything they could?"

His jaw tightens. He knows I'm right.

He looks at me rather dubiously for a few seconds, "Ye really want to know what I think? What I really think?"

"I think you'd be wise to tell me, yes."

His focus turns inward for a minute, and then he lifts the hand I have nearest him, cradling it in both of his, "Sassenach, I. . . I think it's ye who has the Sight. No' any'un in Cranesmuir. Just ye."

It takes me a few long seconds to absorb the meaning of his words.

"M-me? Bu-but Jamie, that's impossible – I can't predict the. . . futu. . ." I trail off desperately, because I can, god help me, I can predict the future. . .

"But tha's no' what the Sight is, mo ghràidh," he presses my hand a little tighter between the two of his, "The Sight isnae an oracle, nor a prophet's poem, nor a fortune teller's crystal ball. Fairground trappings – all o' that sort o' thing. Balderdash, th'lot of it."

I nod, shakily. It's not so far from what I have always thought myself.

"So?"

"So, the Sight isn't something ye choose – if annythin', it chooses ye. An' ye cannae choose when, or whear, or what about – it jus' happens. Ye see things. Things ye cannae understand or explain, sometimes, an' then sometimes things that seem sae real it's like they'er happening at that very moment. Bu' havin' the Sight means ye always see things from beyond barriers that the rest of us," he taps his forehead, "that the rest of us dinnae even ken are there. Barriers of time, of space, mebbe even of reality itself. Mebbe ye can See inta parallel universes sometimes, or the distant past, or, yes, mebbe inta the future. Ye can nevar tell which. An' ye can nevar say when it'll happen."

"So. . . you think that Murtagh telling me those things. . ."

"I think it was all a Sight vision, mo chridhe. Dougal dancin' wi' a woman that doesnae exist here, but mebbe she does, in the future. Or the past. An' Murtagh's voice tellin' ye a story that nevar happened. . . except mebbe it did, in a universe not our own."

"That's. . ."

That's a pretty wild tale, and not at all the sort of thing I'd normally consider for more than a nanosecond.

But then, traveling through time does tend to open up the mind to possibilities. . .

"Remember how ye said ye felt like a ghost for a minute after Gwyllyn sang the Skye Boat Song?"

I huff a laugh. Do I remember!

"A bit difficult to forget that feeling, Jamie."

"Weel, what if it was partly true, in a way? There was a. . . a power. . . in the music that night, Sassenach."

"Yes." I inhale deeply, "Yes, there was."

"Aye. A power the likes of which I've nevar felt afore. . . unless it was when I looked inta your eyes."

"Jamie. . ."

"Nae, listen tae me, Sassenach," he curls one arm around my shoulders, and pulls me tight to his side, "The night of the concert was only the first time I was sure of all this, ken? I'd thought it a good possibility several times afore that, an' evary time 'twas because of those glowing, golden, glorious eyes of yours, mo nighean donn." He runs a finger down the side of my face, and lifts my chin, so I have to look at him full on, "Like living amber, more precious than gold itself. . ." He dips his head and kisses me, more reverently than I've ever been touched before, "An' more intoxicating than whisky, mo Sorcha."

We both drink deep, finding a blissful refuge in each other's lips.

I touch my mouth after he finally pulls away, still feeling the pressure of him against me.

"So. . . what was it made you sure, that night? What was different about that time than all the others?"

He smiles, reproachfully, "Sassenach, are ye goin' tae try an' deny what happened between us during Hotel California?"

"Deny? No! I just. . . haven't found a way to bring it up without sounding. . . well, crazy. . . and to be honest, until right now I didn't know for sure that you. . . that you had seen it too."

"Weel. That's how I ken. I saw a plain of green grass, under orange light, and then a fairy forest, with an ancient power humming through the ground itself. An' then a well, deep and cold, but not dark, an' we fell out the other side, into a forest black as coal. But it wasnae burned. Then there was a mist, thick an' dark, and when it cleared, there was the sea. But no' like any sea I've evar knoon. This one was acid green and pale, and the rocks nearby were a sickly, leaden gray - as though everything in the entire sea was dead. An' then we dove – dinnae ken from where – down deep inta the water, and then deeper, beyond the water, through fire and stone, all the way through the earth. An' then there was grass an' golden light again, an' then Leoch, and Gwyllyn's voice. . . an' ye." He kisses my forehead, "An' I knew, annyun wi' power enough tae give me a vision like that, hadtae have the Sight themselves. An' a moor powerful version of it than evan a Highland lad had evar heard tell of befoor."

And then he had dragged my willing self into a broom closet and kissed the daylights out of me. . .

"And all that. . . didn't scare you?"

He smirks, "It was terrifying, Sassenach. An' glorious, an' exhilarating, an' tremendous." He pecks a kiss to the very tip of my nose, "A man could get lost in yer eyes, mo Sorcha, an' no' come back tae himself for two hundred years. . ."

He takes my mouth again, gently this time, and very slowly.

I don't know if I have the Sight or not. But it's as good an explanation as any. . .

And that means. . .

I don't have room inside my mind for everything that means.

"I'm scared Jamie," I breathe against his cheek.

"Aye. I ken." He strokes my hair, and holds me close. "The Sight isnae a blessing. A burden, more like."

I grip him tight, and speak into the crook of his neck, "I don't need another one of those. . ."

"Aye. But the only way tae live wi' it is tae carry it, mo ghràidh. An' as long as I'm with ye, I'll help ye carry it."

"Promise?"

He looks down into my eyes with all the dear, lovely devotion he's shown me these past weeks, concentrated and distilled into one piercingly sweet glance.

"I promise, mo nighean donn."