Isla
ISTARED AT my mother in horror as she held up some ancient, white lace dress that should have been burned at the stake in Salem. “No.”
“Baby girl, your daddy’s great grandmother wore it on her special day.”
“Oh, of that I have no doubt,” I ground out. “Big fat no way in hell.”
I was less than a week away from my twenty-fifth birthday, a significant day in our culture as it meant the identity of my mate would be revealed. The Cauld Ane celebrated it much like a sweet sixteen or a Quinceañera was celebrated in other parts of the world and Mum had been planning the party for a year.
“Isla,” Dad said, his tone one of warning.
“No, Da. I promised I’d look at it, but that is hideous.”
“She’s right, Con,” Mum said, and dropped the monstrosity back into the box.
“And our girl isn’t a traditional girl. You’ll just have to deal with it.”
“I wore it,” my older sister, Chelsea announced from my doorway.
“And you looked beautiful,” Mum said quickly.
Chelsea raised an eyebrow. “I looked like the ghost of an old timey librarian.”
“You did not,” her mate, Henry, argued.
They’d been bound for almost eight years now and had three children.
“Oh my god, love, I did,” she argued. “My boobs were barely contain—”
“Och! I’m not standing here and listening to my baby girl talk about her…lady bits,” Dad said, and walked out the door.
Chelsea grinned. “Works every time.”
“I quite like talking about your lady bits,” Henry said, and I bit back a laugh.
“You need to be nicer to Daddy,” Mum admonished.
“He’s far too attached to this celebration, Mum,” Chelsea said.
Mum smiled. “Well, there is that. But Isla’s his last bairn.”
Chelsea and I glanced at each other and burst out laughing.
“Oh, suck it,” Mum retorted.
Mum was American and when she tried to use a Scottish word, most of the time it came out very, very wrong. The thing was, Mum could do a very convincing Scottish accent when she concentrated or was into a second glass of wine. I mean, she’d been with my father nearly forty years, but she said she wanted to hold onto her roots for as long as she could.
“You could always alter the dress, LaLa,” Chelsea suggested, running her fingers over the silk. “Or would the fabric fall apart?”
“Auntie Charlotte knows a lot of costume designers,” I said. “I bet one of them would know.”
Mum’s sister, Charlotte, was an amazing actress and ever since she co-starred with Thane Allen in the phenomenally successful film adaptation of The Bride Price, she’d found herself cast in a lot of period pieces.
“She’ll be here for dinner,” Mum said. “So, you can ask her then.”
I clapped my hands. “Yay.”
Mum’s phone rang and she answered immediately. “Hello, my darling bestie sister.” She laughed. “No, sister wife still doesn’t apply because neither of us is willing, nor physically able, to share our mates.”
