“I can make myself scarce, if ye like?” Tris offered kindly. “Violet decided to celebrate the removal of her cast and took yer dog for a walk. I could go find them.”
With a shake of her head, Aila wiped her watery eyes. “Sure, she sayswalk, but ye’d probably find them down at her friend Joyce’s house doing shots. She’s beyond control, yer granny is. Using my dog as an excuse to sneak away and party.”
“She’s living her best life.”
“Aye,” Aila nodded. “She’s bloody good at it.”
“And now you have a dog,” Brontë prompted. “Is that part of what has you like this?”
The whole story tumbled from her lips as if the floodgates had opened and everything she wanted to tell Violet but couldn’t burst forth. She told them how she met Donell and Rab at the whisky shop, how he lured her with a chance to solve the mystery of the missing treasure, and his deceptive claim that three turns of the time machine would take her to the appropriate time to do just that. “I was bored, I’ll admit it. A tad intrigued. It wisnae as if I went into it blind. I learned a lot from yer adventures and more from yer mistakes. I was determined no’ to make the same ones myself.”
“Hey,” her friend protested. “I may have made a few wrong turns, but each one ended up taking me the right direction.”
“Mine dinnae.” Aila couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “That auld bastard led me astray from the beginning. He gave me some song and dance about savoring each day like it was a fine glass of whisky. I fell for it completely.”
“Well, he wisnae completely wrong. There’s something to be said for cherishing the moments we have.” Tris gazed at Brontë with love so apparent it sent a shaft of envy through Aila’s heart.
“He was wrong enough,” she argued. “To begin with, he sent me to the wrong time entirely.”
“Ye believe he did so intentionally?” Tris asked.
“Aye. I think everything he told me was a lie.” She gestured to the necklace in Brontë’s hands. “That is no’ the treasure Donell made it out to be. It’s as much a piece of shite as he is.”
“Perhaps the treasure he sent ye for was one of a different sort.” Tris took the necklace and turned it over in his hands, then examined the images and etching. “Veritas Vincit Hostes Nostros.Truth conquers the enemy amongst us.”
“Ye maun have had the same Latin tutor as yer great-whatever-grandfather,” Aila told him. “Another translation, I’m told, is truth prevails against the enemy. Which is, in part, my clan’s motto. I think ye can agree, Donell disnae do coincidences.”
Brontë grimaced. “No, he does not. He does ulterior motive and manipulation.”
Aila had been given a summary of Donell’s basic motivations months ago after her friend brought Tris to their time. Something about him saving the future from a despot, good against evil…Nay,overcomingevil. He insisted there was a fine line between the two. That much she remembered. Same as there might be betweenconquerandprevail. Either way, she’d forgotten about his vainglorious plans when she’d accepted his offer to look for the treasure. She’d been another pawn in his game. Nothing more.
“We can assume, then, that he sent ye to that particular time on purpose, as well,” Tris said, still examining the pendant. “What was it like?”
Aila shrugged, glad he hadn’t lobbed a more difficult question at her. “It was nice enough. As peaceful as a country torn by war could be. It wisnae as horrible as one might think picturing it. A little boring at times. On the other hand, I never did watch as much on the telly or go to the cinema as often as Brontë.”
That mundanity also calmed the pinch of anxiety life tended to incite. The incessant need to bring snark and sarcasm to every conversation had abandoned her. She’d been content to be herself, even when secrets and lies should have made that impossible. It had been nice.
“She does miss those things when we’re gone,” Tris agreed. With a frown, he held the medallion close to his face. “Do ye have a magnifying glass?”
“Nay, why?”
“There’s something odd about this sword.”
“The one in the gauntlets?” Aila looked around and found a pair of Violet’s reading glasses. “Here, try these. What is it?”
Tris went almost bug-eyed when he put on the spectacles, then he squinted at the piece. “This sword —” he caught it between his forefinger and thumb “— it looks like it can…Aye!”
He wiggled it between his fingers and pulled, then withdrew a miniature sword. He held it up for Aila to see. It was about the length of a toothpick, but broader. Like one of those cheesy cocktail picks. She ogled it in shock then took the pendant from him. Only the hilt was missing. The remainder of the sword was still carved in below the clasped hands. “What? Was it in there like a…like a…”
“Like a sword in a sheath,” Tris finished. “Clever, but why would it be removable?”
Aila ran her fingertip over the pewter relief. The stag in rearing profile. The lion above and opposite it on the shield. Something about the rampant pose had been niggling at her. “This lion. What’s wrong with him?” She turned it toward the couple who put their heads together and studied it.
“In heraldry, the rampant lion normally has his arms raised. This one looks like he’s clasping his chest,” Tris offered. “As if he’s had an attack of the heart.”
“Or like he’s been stabbed,” Brontë offered.
Aila snapped her fingers. “Aye, that’s it.”
