course I do!” Magnus snapped. “She’s Alex Lind, isn’t she?”
“I think Diane means that she might have married,” John said. “And she does have a point; where would you start?”
“Here, somewhere here in Scotland, and not that far back. She’s not a woad dyed Pict – or an aluminium wrapped space traveller.”
“Well, thank heavens for that,” Diane muttered. “Although she would probably look great in blue skin and nothing else.” She covered Magnus’ hand and shook it. “The probability of you ever finding anything is microscopic. One very small needle in a gigantic haystack of history.”
“I know,” Magnus replied with a deep sigh.
*
Later that night, Magnus refilled his whisky glass and moved out to stand in the long hallway that ran from the front door to the back of the house. The Alex gallery, Diane called it, sixty-seven pictures of Alex from the day she was born to that last photo of her and Isaac, two weeks before she went up in thin air. He tapped a forefinger at this last one. A complicated relationship: an unwanted child and a mother that had taken a long time to overcome that initial dislike. But in this picture, she smiled down at Isaac, her short hair shimmering in the sun.
Just by the kitchen door hung the only picture he had of Mercedes, and he blew her a kiss. His magic wife; witch, some would say. He missed her every day, dreamed often of her. Sometimes the dreams were erotic, dreams of him and her in a long gone southern night. Mostly they were dreams of a young Mercedes dancing across a poppy studded meadow. She had achieved her goal. She was at peace – he could see it in her eyes.
Chapter 7
By the time they staggered into the yard of the farm that was going to be Matthew’s new home, the seven indentures were dizzy with exhaustion. None of them had the energy to do more than throw a disinterested glance at the surrounding structures, and when they were led into the shed that was theirs to share, they lay down and rolled over to sleep.
Matthew couldn’t sleep. The space was cramped, so small that seven men on the floor per definition meant involuntary body contact, and Elijah, the man beside him, was snoring him loudly in the ear. Through the minimal aperture high up in the wall, Matthew could see new unfamiliar skies, and inside of him a small voice expressed that mayhap these would be the skies beneath which he’d die – far away from home, without the comfort of a loving hand. He twisted at the thought and closed his eyes in an attempt to find something to hold on to in all this dark.
She smiled at him, she lifted her hands to her hair and drew out the pins to shake it loose, and he wondered where she was, because this was not their bedchamber, this was somewhere else. Alex wrapped a shawl around her – the one he had given her last autumn with the wee embroidered roses on it – and stepped out into a night where the stars hung within touching distance of her hand. He saw her move over to a railing and something warm and light fluttered through his belly. A ship, she’s on a ship…aye, she was coming for him, her eyes promised, and with that small comfort he shoved his hands under his head and drifted off to sleep.
In the grey light of dawn they were dragged outside. Matthew’s eyes widened as he took in the size of the farm. Plantation, he corrected himself, this was a plantation. Huge wooden buildings stood to one side, and even from where they stood, he could make out the smell of tobacco. Jones led them round and explained that these were the curing barns, indicating how the tobacco was hung on poles to dry.
“Heavy work,” Jones informed them, pointing at a man who was precariously balancing a loaded pole on his shoulders. Finally, he led them down to the fields. To Matthew’s eyes they seemed endless, line after undulating line of dark green tobacco plants, with here and there a pale yellow flower showing through.
As they were walking towards
“I think Diane means that she might have married,” John said. “And she does have a point; where would you start?”
“Here, somewhere here in Scotland, and not that far back. She’s not a woad dyed Pict – or an aluminium wrapped space traveller.”
“Well, thank heavens for that,” Diane muttered. “Although she would probably look great in blue skin and nothing else.” She covered Magnus’ hand and shook it. “The probability of you ever finding anything is microscopic. One very small needle in a gigantic haystack of history.”
“I know,” Magnus replied with a deep sigh.
*
Later that night, Magnus refilled his whisky glass and moved out to stand in the long hallway that ran from the front door to the back of the house. The Alex gallery, Diane called it, sixty-seven pictures of Alex from the day she was born to that last photo of her and Isaac, two weeks before she went up in thin air. He tapped a forefinger at this last one. A complicated relationship: an unwanted child and a mother that had taken a long time to overcome that initial dislike. But in this picture, she smiled down at Isaac, her short hair shimmering in the sun.
Just by the kitchen door hung the only picture he had of Mercedes, and he blew her a kiss. His magic wife; witch, some would say. He missed her every day, dreamed often of her. Sometimes the dreams were erotic, dreams of him and her in a long gone southern night. Mostly they were dreams of a young Mercedes dancing across a poppy studded meadow. She had achieved her goal. She was at peace – he could see it in her eyes.
Chapter 7
By the time they staggered into the yard of the farm that was going to be Matthew’s new home, the seven indentures were dizzy with exhaustion. None of them had the energy to do more than throw a disinterested glance at the surrounding structures, and when they were led into the shed that was theirs to share, they lay down and rolled over to sleep.
Matthew couldn’t sleep. The space was cramped, so small that seven men on the floor per definition meant involuntary body contact, and Elijah, the man beside him, was snoring him loudly in the ear. Through the minimal aperture high up in the wall, Matthew could see new unfamiliar skies, and inside of him a small voice expressed that mayhap these would be the skies beneath which he’d die – far away from home, without the comfort of a loving hand. He twisted at the thought and closed his eyes in an attempt to find something to hold on to in all this dark.
She smiled at him, she lifted her hands to her hair and drew out the pins to shake it loose, and he wondered where she was, because this was not their bedchamber, this was somewhere else. Alex wrapped a shawl around her – the one he had given her last autumn with the wee embroidered roses on it – and stepped out into a night where the stars hung within touching distance of her hand. He saw her move over to a railing and something warm and light fluttered through his belly. A ship, she’s on a ship…aye, she was coming for him, her eyes promised, and with that small comfort he shoved his hands under his head and drifted off to sleep.
In the grey light of dawn they were dragged outside. Matthew’s eyes widened as he took in the size of the farm. Plantation, he corrected himself, this was a plantation. Huge wooden buildings stood to one side, and even from where they stood, he could make out the smell of tobacco. Jones led them round and explained that these were the curing barns, indicating how the tobacco was hung on poles to dry.
“Heavy work,” Jones informed them, pointing at a man who was precariously balancing a loaded pole on his shoulders. Finally, he led them down to the fields. To Matthew’s eyes they seemed endless, line after undulating line of dark green tobacco plants, with here and there a pale yellow flower showing through.
As they were walking towards
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