The Pictish Child by Jane Yolen Page A

fingers.
    â€œI expect you weakened Fiona a lot, otherwise what I did wouldn’t have worked.” She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she was not sure what she believed anymore.
    â€œWeel, I did that. I did,” the dog said. But—”
    Jennifer shrugged. Then she took the shawls off the other three women as well, feeling the power once again, a strange, eerie tingling. She threw the shawls in a far corner, where for a moment they shimmered, then went dim. “But what?”
    â€œBut ye finished her off,” the dog said.
    For a moment Jennifer went cold. “Finished her off? Do you mean that she’s dead? I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t know I had such—”
    â€œPower? Aye, that ye do, lass. Though ye may call it sommat else.”
    â€œHow will we explain this to the police?”
    The dog chuckled, tiring of his joke. “She’s nae dead. But she’ll nae remember a thing of her black magic noo. The shock was too great.”
    Jennifer sighed and felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. “How did you guess about the knots?”
    â€œThe nose kens all,” he said, giving a large sniff. “And I recalled that Pictish child plaiting elfknots in Devil’s mane.”
    â€œOr maybe,” Jennifer said slowly, “you were just listening to us at the door.”
    The dog grinned and showed a mouthful of yellow teeth.
    â€œAnd all that while I lay in agony on that electric cord,” Jennifer said. “Why didn’t you help?”
    â€œI’m just a dog, ye gormless fool, nae a wizard. I have nae hands! Besides, ye were doing just fine wi’oot me. Now get those knots oot of yer sister’s hair,” he said. “I’d try it myself but I’d make a sopping mess of it.”
    â€œYou would, indeed.” Jennifer laughed and Peter, who was already coming around from the ice-cream freeze, laughed with her.
    Just then Gran shook herself all over. There was a light back in her eyes. “Maggie MacAlpin,” she said, as if no time at all had passed since she’d sat down, “I need a word with ye.”
    â€œMore than one, I’ll wager,” said Maggie. “Ye were always a laiging lass.”
    â€œIt’s not gossip I want to talk about,” Gran said. “It’s about the Picts and Auld Kenneth and a horrible dark mist.”

Sixteen
    Journey Home
    Before they could speak of the mist and Pictish history, Fiona stood up, shaking her head as if she had lost something. She was a bit misty herself, both apologetic for having forgotten to bring them all their tea and also wondering how she came to be so sore.
    â€œIt’s as if something has gone and struck me right here in the chest,” she said, pointing to the silver scissors.
    Jennifer saw that there was a half-moon shape cut out of one of the blades. The remembered power made her fingers feel all pins and needles.
    â€œNow, who would be doing any such thing?” Gran asked sweetly. “It may be a colic coming on.”
    â€œI have just the thing for that,” said Mrs. Campbell, standing up and taking Fiona by the arm. “In my room.”
    â€œAnd she does, too,” said Mrs. McGregor. “A dab hand is our Catriona with the herbs.” She followed them out.
    â€œNot as dab as our Gwen,” said Maggie MacAlpin, smiling.
    â€œYe’ll not fob us off with a smile,” said Gran. “Noo, first I’m going to tell ye what happened to us, and then, Maggie, it will be yer turn.” She recited the events of the day, starting with the giving of the stone.
    Maggie MacAlpin looked grey. “That stone,” she said. “It was mine to give, not Susan McGregor’s.”
    â€œI thought as much.” Gran nodded her head.
    â€œBut …” Maggie MacAlpin mused, “… if Fiona had gotten her hands on the stone …”
    Jennifer gasped, thinking about Fiona