“Logistics are a nightmare. We’re expecting forty-seven clans. Not including unaffiliated visitors. That means hundreds of people on the estate for three days.”
“Four,” Maggie corrects from her throne at the head of the table.
Callum rubs his temples.
“Four days. Thank you, Grandmother.”
“It gives people time to appreciate our hospitality,” she replies with a smile that fools absolutely no one. “And allows everyone the opportunity to participate in the various competitions.”
I catch Mary suppressing a smile.
“Let’s review everyone’s responsibilities,” Callum announces, turning toward the whiteboard where he’s already listed names beside assigned tasks.
He starts with Keira and Alistair, who are handling whisky supplies for the céilidh and the different stands. Emma is in charge of coordinating traditional costumes. Jane oversees accommodations. Lachlan is responsible for the historical and cultural organization, which apparently includes supervising bagpipe demonstrations and Gaelic poetry recitals.
“Mary,” Callum continues, “you’re our official veterinarian. You’ll oversee everything involving the animals. Sheep, sheepdogs, horses for the equestrian demonstrations…”
“Not forgetting Hamish and Ragnar,” Keira adds with a crooked smile.
Mary sighs.
“I’ll try to keep them contained. Far away. Very far away.”
“Good luck with that,” Lachlan mutters.
Callum turns toward me.
His marker points directly at me like a weapon.
“Dr. McLeod. You’re our official physician.”
“I know.”
“That means you need to remain available at all times during the four days. We’ll need a medical tent set up near the main field. You’ll have two volunteer assistants from the village.”
“I already received the briefing by email.”
Which I’ve had plenty of time to reread considering my patient schedule has been slightly underwhelming lately.
But I wisely keep that to myself.
“Perfect,” Callum says. “Now let’s move on to the athletic events.”
He turns back to the board and begins listing the competitions.
Apparently anything physically throwable will indeed be thrown during the Games: logs, stones, hammers—everything.
Not to mention tug-of-war, footraces, and sack races.
The sprain and fracture potential is spectacular.
“This year,” Callum announces with the solemnity of a man revealing classified state secrets, “we’ve decided to add a special event. An interclan tug-of-war competition.”
The twins immediately sit up straighter.
“Interclan?” Cameron repeats.
“Exactly. Every clan present will form a team. The McGregor team absolutely must participate. It’s a matter of honor.”
