As Collum strode over and wedged himself between Doug and Phoebe, the two boys sized each other up.
“Nice tartan,” he said. “Rent that at the costume shop, did you?”
Bran ignored the jibe. “Well, if it isn’t Collum MacPherson in the flesh. You know, I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence. Off playing with sticks, were you? Tossing them in the air and whatnot?”
“Didn’t see your name on any of the entry sheets,” Collum replied. “?Course, most of the competitions here require big arms, not a big mouth.”
Bran laughed. “Got me there, MacPherson. But it’s a shame, isn’t it? Maintaining all those bulging muscles must route so much blood away from the brain.”
Collum’s cheeks turned a mottled fuchsia. His large, freckled hands fisted.
Phoebe stepped inside our loose circle. Reaching into her tiny, furry sporran, she removed a small bottle of perfume. Her skirt flew around her as she whirled, pumping squirts of the flowery essence into the air and coughing theatrically.
“So, uh,” I said as the others stared. “Whatcha doing there, Pheebs?”
“Just trying to clear some of this bloody testosterone from the air so we can get down to business,” she said. “Wanna help? We’ll never get anything done with this lot if we don’t.”
Everyone but Collum burst into laughter. And even his tense features relaxed by a margin.
“As an evolved member of the male species,” Doug said, “I agree with my woman. We may be dressed like savages, but we’re modern men, are we not? So shake hands or punch each other in the face and let’s get on with it, aye?”
With that, Phoebe and Doug hurried away to fetch Mac and Moira, who also needed to hear what Bran had to say. Collum’s turn at the hammer toss was coming up, so he veered off, leaving Bran and me to stroll across the grassy field alone.
Contestants shouted or grunted as they hoisted enormous poles and sensationally long hammers into the air. Announcers extolled the various feats of the athletes while spectators cheered. The smells of summer, of roasting meat and the yeasty scent of beer, all mingled as the mild Scottish sun beamed down upon our shoulders.
Bran took my hand in his. And I was happy.
We reconvened around one of several massive wooden tables that edged the performance field. Very wide and solid, with their split tree trunk benches, they were gray with age, as though they’d been here since Sir William Wallace was a boy. The hard wood of the table’s surface was worn smooth as glass, and scored with hundreds of initials, each pair encased inside a roughly hewn heart.
“Look, D. Here’s ours.” Phoebe’s fingertip traced the letters P.M. + D.C. near the right corner of the table. “How old were we when we did this?”
“Nine,” he replied, pulling her down to perch on his generous lap. “And if I recall correctly, you dragged me over here, ordered me to do it, or you’d put a snake in my bed.”
I smiled at the thought of the fierce little girl, fiery braids swinging as she dragged a tall, awkward boy toward the very same table we sat at now. I could see them still, as they passed a gentle look between them. They’d been a couple even before that day, when Phoebe had rescued the newly orphaned Doug from a pack of schoolyard bullies who hadn’t cared for the color of his skin.
I’d seen pictures of Doug’s beautiful Senegalese mother and round-faced, freckled dad. With her high cheekbones and intelligent eyes, and his father’s kind expression, Doug was a superb representation of two remarkable people.
“Mac carved ours over on the table near the big tree, the year before we married,” Moira said as she settled in next to her granddaughter. “’Tis said any couple carved into the wood here shall never part. Even my grandda’s and grandma’s are here somewhere.”
Mac stood behind his wife, both gnarled hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear that made her jump.
“John MacPherson!”
“Well,” he said, “’tis true. And it was after that, I knew I wanted to marry ye.”
Moira’s plump face flushed as red as the second-place ribbon pinned to her shirt.
She caught me looking at it. Wrinkling her nose, she flicked it. “I swear that Catriona MacLean pays off those damn judges,” she scoffed.
“Well, let’s hear it then, Cameron.” Collum spoke over the laughter that followed. “What brought you all the way here from that spider’s lair? And what have you been doing that we haven’t heard a word in all this time?”
Seated beside Bran, I pivoted to better see his expression as he answered a question I’d asked myself every moment since we’d parted.
“Oh, you know me.” Bran shrugged. “Cricket. Pub crawls. Playing double agent amid a gang of murderous time-traveling thugs. It’s exhausting.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Collum’s hands shot up in disgust.
“Bran,” I said quietly. “Just tell us, okay?”
He followed my gaze as I glanced up at the sun, climbing ever higher overhead. The morning was passing too fast, and I knew we didn’t have much time before he’d have to leave me. Again.
His eyes met mine and he nodded. Beneath the table, I felt his graceful fingers entwine with mine.
“It was Doug’s idea, really,” Bran said. “The man’s a genius.”
“No genius,” Doug replied, humble as always. “It’s just that I remembered something Bran said while he was in hospital. Before his moth—?before Celia—?had him transferred out, that is. He mentioned that he and his brother, Tony, secretly communicated through online video games.”
“I’d been going mad trying to find a way to contact all of you,” Bran said. “Naturally, since my return, my every move is monitored. Gaming is the only contact I have with the outside world. And that only because she has no idea the level of sophistication some of these games possess. She believes them nothing but mindless diversion. Which they basically are, at least until Doug created this program.”
“I’d been tinkering with a new game design for a while, actually,” Doug said. “I contacted some gamers at his brother’s school and asked them if they’d like to beta-test. I had to be careful not to ask for Bran’s brother specifically, so it took some time . . .”
“It’s an amazing construct. A role-playing game, but one of the most interactive and realistic I’ve ever seen. If you ever decide to leave the Viators, Doug, you could make a fortune as a game designer. Tony and his mates are obsessed. He sent me an invite,” Bran continued. “Then, Doug contacted me within the game . . . and here we are.”
“And where is that exactly, lad?” Mac asked.
Bran released my hand to reach into the sporran at his waist and removed several folded sheets of paper. He laid the first one down and smoothed it out over the silvered wood. Moonlight made the pale brick of the hulking fa?ade in the printout practically glow against the shadowy mountain behind it.
Collum slapped a hand down on the paper. “What the devil is this, Cameron?”