The Pictish Child Read Online Free

arm. “I thought the wee one might like some ice cream. It’s vanilla and chocolate mint swirl. A favorite, I am told, among American children.”
    â€œThe very best,” said Maggie MacAlpin, taking the bowl from her and giving it to Molly.
    Fiona looked out the window at the rain and, shaking her head, placed a shawl over the shoulders of each of the old women. “Now, ladies,” she said softly, “can’t have you getting a chill.”
    There was a small protest from each of them, but the shawls were draped nonetheless, and Fiona turned to Gran. “Best you have one, too, Mrs. Douglas, or ye’ll be living here sooner than ye think.”
    â€œI’m not cold in the least, thank you very much,” Gran snapped. “And if it be dreech, it’s but a wee bit o’ dreech. I hae lived in it my whole life long.”
    Looking put out, Fiona set the extra shawl down. She poured fresh tea into the teacups, and then she was gone, back into the main part of the house.
    Back , Jennifer thought, to stand near the fire. I wish I were with her. She shivered. With cold this time, not fear. I could use that shawl! But she didn’t ask, fearing Gran’s ridicule. Or her friends’.
    â€œHow is it, dearie?” Mrs. Campbell was saying to Molly, whose face was already a smear of ice cream.
    Jennifer was not amused. She knew with sudden and irritating certainty that the three old ladies—and probably Gran, too, for that matter—had arranged that little display of Minor magic for her sake. How else to explain Fiona coming in with just the one bowl, and right on cue? The fact that Molly got to eat something delicious and that Jennifer didn’t was entirely beside the point.
    I hope it is cold enough to make her stomach jump , thought Jennifer grimly.
    â€œI have something,” said Mrs. McGregor, in a small, muzzy voice. “For the curly-head. A talisman. I found it … weeding … the graves …” Her voice trailed off, as if speaking had suddenly become an effort.
    â€œWhat’s a tallyman?” asked Molly.
    Oh no , Jennifer thought, starting to turn away. It’s too much. I should have gone to stand by the fire with Fiona. Or out with Peter and the dog. But she didn’t turn quickly enough. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. McGregor hand Molly what looked like a painted stone about the size of a fifty-cent piece.
    â€œOoooo,” Molly said, clutching the stone.
    â€œTaken!” said Maggie MacAlpin mysteriously. “Taken!” But she also sounded weak, as if she were about to faint. Then suddenly she sat up straight, adding, “Waken. Mistaken. Shaken.”
    Gran looked at her with sharp curiosity. “Maggie, what are ye havering about?”
    Maggie MacAlpin didn’t respond directly. Instead she made one more effort at rousing herself, and glared at Molly. “Give it me!”
    But Molly pouted, clutching the stone talisman to her chest. “Mine,” she said, just as Maggie MacAlpin fell asleep in the middle of reaching for the stone.
    Both Mrs. McGregor and Mrs. Campbell began to doze, too, their chins resting on their chests.
    Jennifer knew that nursing homes often over-medicated their patients. She’d seen a TV special on the problem and written a paper for her American Civics class called “Where the Old Folks Go.” (Got an A-plus, too, while Peter’s paper on drugs and the Olympics had only gotten an A-minus, which was surprising.) So Jennifer guessed that all three of the Eventide ladies were probably on pills, like Valium or some other kind of tranquilizer.
    She shivered, recognizing the fear sensation again. A kind of feeling of darkness , she thought, though this time the lights stayed on. The heavy smell of old age only seemed stronger now that all three of the women were asleep, Maggie MacAlpin snoring with her mouth wide open.
    Jennifer knew with sudden certainty that