Page 16 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

“Well, you are, and that’s the end of it. Don’t look at me like that, Pippia. You know me, and I’m not about to give you false hope. We can’t defy Malcolm McTavie, so marriage it’ll be. Don’t you think it’s better to just make the best of it? You can have a pretty wedding and be a beautiful bride. If he loves you, you’ll have a good life.”

“I suppose so, I just… Well, this wasn’t how I imagined it.”

Hilda sighed. “It rarely is. I’m sorry, lass.”

“You picked Gordon for yourself, didn’t you?”

Hilda smiled softly, lost in a sweet memory known only to herself. “That I did. But I had no father to dictate what to do, and I wasn’t a laird’s daughter. I think my ma was just relieved to get me out of the house.”

Pippia smiled too, although hers had an edge of sadness to it. “I just wish I could experience what you and Gordon had.”

Hilda’s smile faded. “I wish that too, love.”

They trudged on together in miserable silence until they heard running feet behind them.

“Mistress Pippia, Mistress Hilda!” a little girl called.

The two women carefully smoothed their cares from their expressions and turned with a smile. Euan’s children and a couple of other village children came running up to them.

“Look what Da made!” the littlest girl, one of Euan’s, said seriously, holding up a carved figurine.

Pippia carefully took the little toy. Euan had a knack for whittling, and he carved toys for his own family and the village children out of scraps of firewood. The village children were far too poor for toys. Animals, guards, little men and women, anything you could think of. This most recent toy was a woman in a flowing cloak, a delicate tartan pattern carved into the wooden fabric, and she cradled a minute baby in her arms.

“It’s beautiful,” Pippia said. It was crafted with love and even better than most of the toys she’d had as a child. Just about every child in the village had one of Euan’s toys. He never took any money for them, although grateful parents would give him spare firewood and any food they had to spare, which was usually none.

“Da hasn’t finished the set,” the little girl—Was her name Emma? Pippia struggled to remember the names of the numerous village children—spoke seriously and gestured toward her older sister, who held dozens of little figurines in her petticoat. “We were playing a game, and he was telling us all the little people’s stories.”

The little girl’s lower lip wobbled.

“Well, don’t worry,” Pippia said hastily. “We’ll help you finish the story.”

That was the right thing to say. The children’s faces lit up, and the two little girls began to lay out their toys. Each one had a name and a complex backstory that seemed to have been formed by the children and Euan together.

Pippia had always had a good imagination. As a child, Hilda had told her many warning stories, mostly about wicked fae folk sweeping away naughty children and replacing them with changelings. They were mostly cautionary tales aimed at making Pippia behave herself.

Naturally, it hadn’t worked. Pippia hadn’t believed a word of it, but she had been completely enthralled by the stories. Almost immediately, she set out to create fairy tales of her own, mostly swashbuckling adventures with gnomes, elves, trolls (which Pippia imagined as particularly large and fearsome), which she gleefully told to a horrified Hilda. Poor Hilda had quickly realized that her cautionary tales were having the exact opposite effect than she had intended, but it was far too late now.

Pippia’s imagination was fired up, and she took the stories she had been told and ran with them. As a child, she’d terrified several village children with bloodcurdling tales of witches and elves, earning herself a serious scolding from a scandalized Hilda.

Pippia put her remarkable knack for storytelling to work now. Very quickly they had formed the existing family groups into complex hierarchies, with all kinds of feuds and even a few deaths, births, and marriages.

All in all, it was a very enjoyable playtime, and Pippia had just as much fun as the children.

Hilda sat down heavily on a nearby tree stump and watched with benevolent amusement.

“If you’re done playing with children’s toys,” Hilda mocked sternly, “we should go back to the keep.”

“You’re right, of course.” Pippia stood up, dusting off her skirts and wincing as she noticed the muddy stains. She’d hardly noticed since she had been so wrapped up in playing with the children and telling stories. “I’m afraid I have to go, children.”

The children complained, of course, but Pippia good-naturedly shooed them away. She and Hilda carried on their way, both feeling a little lighter of heart than before. Euan’s girls were a little brighter than before, forgetting about their ill father and terrified mother. That pleasant mood would only last until they returned home, but it was still something good to cheer up a child. Pippia was privately pleased with herself. It felt good to be useful.

All of a sudden, a cold prickle shot down Pippia’s spine, and she stopped short. She felt as if someone’s eyes were boring into the back of her head, and it was not a pleasant feeling. She paused and turned around, scanning the little clearing they’d just left.

Hilda paused, glancing curiously at her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I feel…odd. As if someone’s watching me.”

Hilda clucked and shook her head. “You and your imagination, girl. It’s those stories, I swear it.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Pippia said unconvincingly.

Hilda walked on, muttering about silly stories and a wild imagination. After a while, Pippia followed, glancing around her warily.

The group of children still huddled around the wooden figurines, and there were one or two villagers going about their business. The nearby inn was quiet, with the door standing open, and laughter wafted from within. Nobody was paying any attention to Pippia. Nobody at all.