The gift of freedom. The gift of trust.
No longer did Imogene or Gwen need to accompany her outside the lighthouse or on trips into town. Soon after, Cilla had taken the bus into Thurso to shop and meet townspeople, all by herself.
One of the reasons for the gift was so Cilla could attend Free Caledonia meetings and gather realistic details for her reports. First, she’d asked Lachlan for permission, which he’dgranted, provided none of those details pointed to real people in the group.
But now—the best part of the gift—a party, Cilla’s first in almost a year.
Imogene and Gwen were attending a New Year’s Eve dance at the RAF field in Wick, but Cilla had a better invitation, to the Mackenzie home for Hogmanay, the Scottish New Year.
Mrs. Mackenzie had said Hogmanay involved food, music, and dancing, but all Cilla heard was “party.” People would be there, lots of people, and she pedaled even faster.
She arrived at Creag na Mara out of breath but elated.
Mrs. Mackenzie greeted her at the door wearing an ankle-length tartan skirt, a white blouse, and a tartan sash over one shoulder. “Welcome, Cilla. We’re glad you came.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Cilla set down her suitcase and unbuttoned her overcoat.
The other day she had felt so elegant when she spent eleven clothing ration coupons—one-sixth of her yearly allotment—on a new dress in Thurso. The peacock-blue wool gabardine draped beautifully on the surplice bodice, mirrored with a draping effect on the skirt—but the skirt fell only to her knees, apparently too informal for the occasion.
She gave her hostess an apologetic look. “I’m afraid I’m underdressed, but this is my best dress.”
“Och, you’re bonny. What a becoming color on you.” Mrs. Mackenzie swept her arm to the stairs. “Let me show you to your room. I’m glad you brought a bag. Hogmanay lasts into the wee hours.”
Cilla followed her hostess upstairs with her suitcase and coat.
At the top of the stairs, Lachlan stood in a black jacket and a kilt. She hadn’t seen him in his kilt since that night on the beach, but this time he wore a mild smile rather than a murderous scowl.
Cilla smirked. “I see Lachlan is wearing his best dress too.”
Mrs. Mackenzie laughed. “Wheesht. Never call a kilt a dress.”
Cilla batted her eyes in mock naïveté. “A skirt?”
Mrs. Mackenzie sent a fond smile over her shoulder. “I’m glad Lachlan has someone to tease him.”
Lachlan thumped his chest with a fist. “You want your son submitted to torture?”
“Aye, if it makes you smile.”
Cilla passed Lachlan—who was indeed smiling. A fluttering feeling lifted her chest, as if dozens of seabirds had roused from the cliffs.
“Right this way, Cilla.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hurried after her hostess.
“You’ll be in here, sharing with Irene, if you dinnae mind. She’s Arthur’s girlfriend.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Cilla entered a cozy room with two beds, carved wooden furniture, and rugs on the flagstone floor.
“I’m very glad you came.” Mrs. Mackenzie pulled the drapes closed on the darkening sky. “I’m sure it’s difficult spending holidays far from home and kin.”
Cilla’s throat clenched. “Ja.”
Mrs. Mackenzie turned on a lamp on the dressing table, illuminating the silver threads in her curled and coiled hair. “Do you have any way to write home?”
“Nee.” She shook her head. Why was she sliding into Dutch?
“Far from your boyfriend too.” Mrs. Mackenzie’s tone soothed.
