Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (26 page)

"I need but a moment. It's important."

"Just play what you did yesterday," Conrad told him, "and you'll be an even bigger sensation than before." He thundered toward the sackbuts—trombones, Niall corrected himself—not looking back.

Niall heaved a breath. He gazed around the gathering crowd, all with instruments, curious how so many planned to play together. He'd never seen more than a handful play at one time. He seated himself at the harp, at the front of the orchestra. He wondered anew at its magnificence and size, hardly noticing Conrad storming the podium at the front and rapping his stick on his stand. Niall touched the strings, ran his fingers through a rich, rolling chord—the power of which, his own small clairsach could never match—and began
Blue Bells of Scotland
.

"No, no, no,
no!
" Conrad shouted. Niall's head shot up. "What are you doing? I haven't given the downbeat!"

"My apologies." Niall inclined his head respectfully. Snickers rose from the middle of the orchestra. Niall turned, seeking the perpetrator. People busied themselves with their instruments, fiddling with keys and bows. Nobody met his eyes. He leaned his chair back on two legs, his head close to Amy's, and whispered, "What is a downbeat?" The elderly man in front of her gave a loud snort.

"When his arm comes down," Amy whispered back. "Although you hardly deserve more help from me."

He dropped his chair back on four legs, placed his hands, and watched Conrad, noticing now how the other musicians did the same, their instruments poised, still as statues. So that was how it was done! He watched Conrad. For a second, two seconds, three, his arms hung motionless. His eyes scanned the musicians. Then, suddenly, one hand swept to the side and up, and...SLASH!...down! Niall struck his chord, exactly as he'd done for Conrad yesterday, exactly as he'd done hundreds of times for the Laird.

"You're late!" Conrad roared.

"
Right
as he comes down," Amy whispered in his ear.

Across stage, from among the upright lutes, he heard a whisper. "...channeling his inner hack today!" When he looked, the players busied themselves inspecting their instruments and music.

Conrad raised his arms, and they tried again.

"And again, if you'd like to join us this time, Shawn," Conrad said.

The first small snicker grew to several. Niall remained silent, focused on doing what he must, to get back to Hugh. He considered, around the sixth try, getting up and walking out.

"Early, too early," Conrad barked.

He could follow the River Ness and the loch back to the castle, Niall thought. At the seventh try, he considered that it was a day's walk, and he had no idea how to make the switch happen again.

"Late again!"

On the eighth try, his fingers on automatic pilot, his eyes aching from watching Conrad, he feared he'd be locked up, or fired, if he walked out, with no explanation rational to these people. That would end all hope of reaching Hugh.

"He's got Van Gogh's ear for music!"

The ugly comment came from the brass section, hitting Niall as surely and squarely as spittle. The tone was clear, even if the words weren't.

He wished he'd demanded to be taken back to the castle. This can't be what You want from me, he berated God. He gritted his teeth and tried again.

At last, Conrad dropped his baton, his hand plastered against his forehead as he shook his head. "You start," he said to Niall. "Give me two chords. I'll bring them in on the third."

After two false starts, it worked. The music began to fall into place, and the snickers died down.

Niall breathed a sigh of relief at the end of two very long hours. Even riding home with the MacDougall's arrow in his posterior had not been so excruciating. And yet—the music had been beautiful. He smiled. He understood that on one level, he'd failed; Conrad had accommodated him. He didn't care. The beauty of the music breathed hope into him.

He shook the few hands proffered after the rehearsal, searching out Conrad over their heads; he nodded and smiled at the many exclamations of amazement—and noted those who gave him sour looks.

The young man with the black hair, the one who had watched Celine, approached him as the others dispersed. He held out his hand. "Do you remember me? Aaron."

Niall shook the proffered hand.

"You know I never liked you," Aaron said.

"I imagine not," Niall replied. He'd never even met Shawn, and didn't much care for him, either.

"I don't know what happened to you out there, but I always let bygones be bygones. Thank you."

Niall bowed his head, just a bit, over their clasped hands. Their hands dropped, and with a grave nod, Aaron took himself off after Celine.

Niall scanned the rehearsal hall. Conrad was gone. Niall sighed, and left the stage. He sought out Amy, and found her in the back room, a cavernous and dim place almost worthy of the name dungeon. She and Dana spoke together while Dana polished an instrument like a giant golden snail. Amy held in her hand the lute-like instrument he'd heard singing so sweetly behind him for the past two hours. She stared at him with barely veiled suspicion. Dana glanced at him and walked away.

"What a beautiful instrument." He reached out a hand. "May I?"

She looked at him doubtfully, but passed it over. He took a moment to see in his mind's eye how she'd held it, before tucking it under his chin. The corner of Amy's mouth quirked up, but she fought it down. "The other way," she said. "On the left side."

"Ah." As Niall shifted the instrument to his left shoulder, Rob entered the gloomy backstage, polishing his trumpet with a yellow cloth. Niall drew the bow across the strings. The thing screeched; he shuddered and lifted the bow. "Amazing," he said. "You get such a lovely sound out of it."

"Praying
and
giving kudos." Rob perched on the table. "My, you have turned over a new leaf." He laid his instrument in its case. The words were not entirely sensible to Niall. What leaves? He'd turned over nothing. But the strutting of an angry cock was strikingly similar in any time and place.

Niall glanced at him, looked back to Amy, still smiling faintly at the compliment, and thought about his difficulty tracking down Conrad. He made his decision instantly, pulled her aside, and leaned close. With or without Rob's noxious presence, he must ask her. "I need your help."

A curtain dropped over her eyes. She stiffened and pulled away.

"I told you so," Rob said. Niall gave Rob a hard stare, and edged Amy another inch from him.

"'Tis...not...it is not what you think," Niall said, softly. His insides shimmered with waves of irritation at Rob, like mist curling up from the loch just before a storm.

"Try again." Amy yanked her arm from his grip. "I helped you enough out there. No more help until I get my ring back." She stared at him steadily.

He closed his eyes. Another obstacle to getting back to Hugh. "What ring?" he asked, slowly. It had been mentioned at breakfast, too. He could feel Rob's eyes boring holes in his back.

"What ring," scoffed Rob.

Niall clenched his teeth, holding his temper.

Amy glanced around the now-empty room, before hissing, "My grandmother's ring! The one you all but stole from me!"

"He gambled away his trombone," Rob reminded her. "He needed the money to buy it back."

Niall pressed his hand to his eyes. Gambling, he understood. What a fool Shawn was! Amy set her lute in its case and snapped it shut forcefully. She turned on Rob. "You have a lot of nerve playing the cowboy in the white hat now, Rob. You helped him convince me. And you haven't exactly raced to get it yourself, have you?"

Rob flushed pink, and then red, right up to the roots of his Viking white hair. His lip twitched upward, like a mad wolf Niall had once seen. But his jaw jutted forward. He tore his eyes from Niall and looked back to Amy. "He's playing you, Amy."

She turned back to Niall, just pulling his hand from his face. "You
should
be embarrassed. I'm sorry you got hurt, but I don't care how bad your memory is all of a sudden, I haven't forgotten my grandmother's ring, and I'm not helping you with anything else till you get it back! It was helping you in the first place that cost me my ring! And for a lie on top of it! Gambling away your trombone! How stupid can you get!"

Niall sucked in his breath. Heat climbed up his face. Damn Shawn, the chanty wrassler! Useless and dishonest to the core, by all he'd learned of the man. He'd be darned if he'd help the baw juggler! And the man was most likely there in Glenmirril with his Allene, no doubt sitting by idly while death stalked her and all those he loved. The thought gave him pause.

Rob hoisted himself off the table and strode toward them. "Let's go, Amy." He threw his arm over her shoulder. "I'll get your ring."

"I'll get the ring," Niall snapped. His eyes bored into Rob's. They both tensed. Amy shrugged Rob's arm off her shoulder.

Rob stepped toward Niall. "I
said
, I'll get the ring."

"I'll get it." Niall stepped forward himself. He didn't know why he was demanding to fight the baw juggler's battles, but he couldn't seem to let go.

"I want to see Shawn keep a promise," Amy said.

A muscle twitched in Rob's jaw.

"Let's go, Shawn." Amy turned on her heel and marched out, leaving the two men to stare each other down.

"Setting her up to hurt her again?" Rob sneered.

Niall studied him closely, and saw, not anger, but pain, in his eyes. "I wouldna hurt her," Niall said. "I hope you wouldna, either."

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Out on the sidewalk, her lute having been locked in the green room, Amy walked quickly, not looking at Niall. Her skirt swirled around her ankles. "When I get the ring," he finally said, "you'll help me?"

"Within reason," Amy said. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that I trust you now, just because I feel guilty and you made a promise. I'll believe it when the ring is on my finger. You have your cash card?"

He patted the unfamiliar pockets of Shawn's jeans and jacket and pulled out Shawn's leather wallet. He flipped it open, revealing the cards he'd found last night. He stared at them helplessly.

"What? You don't remember which one is your cash card?" Amy took the billfold, rifled through the cards to a plain blue one, and handed it to him. "Do you remember the pin number or is that conveniently forgotten, too?" She stomped up to a wall—a brick wall sporting another of those paintings of Shawn. This time, he lolled in a bed of bluebells in his tartan wrap. The sackbut lay across his chest. His head rested in a young woman's lap, and she smiled down at him adoringly.

Amy followed his gaze to the painting. She rolled her eyes. "The money," she said. Niall saw now that set into the wall was a metal plate, and a glassy screen, like the moving-picture box in his room, set into that. Below the screen were numbered squares.

"I get money from here?" he asked. It seemed to be her intent, yet it was impossible! He was aware he was giving himself away with every word, but unable to stop.

"Our paychecks were deposited at midnight."

He shook his head; her words were gibberish.
Paychecks? Deposited?
But it seemed to be a yes of some sort. He lifted the shiny, blue card and stared from it to her. "What do I do?"

"Here, in the slot," she said. "I didn't know amnesia made people forget even the basics." He tried, and she said, "No, the other way." He turned the black strip upwards. "No," she said again. "Not that other way, the
other
, other way. Like this." She took the card and turned it. "See the picture?" She pointed at the machine. The machine sucked the card in, and Niall sucked back a gasp. "Okay, so you don't know the pin number," she said. "You were always pretty predictable. Probably something like a birth date. Let's try yours." She punched the numbered squares. The machine beeped back angrily. "Okay, not that. What else? Mine? No, you probably don't even know it. Your mother's birthday? What is it?"

"I don't know," Niall confessed.

"The model number on your trombone? Caroline's bra size?" She sighed. "Okay, your dad's birthday. You don't remember that, either? Let's try the obvious ones, then. A sequence." She stabbed at the buttons again. The machine beeped again. "You're not playing me?" She turned to him. Her eyes glistened with frustration. "You're not just pretending you don't remember? It was my grandmother's ring."

"Och, Amy," he said, forgetting to imitate their speech, "I wouldna do that to ye. How else can I get the ring?" It hurt to have someone think so poorly of him. He wondered that Shawn could go through life that way.

"I only get two tries before it takes the card." She hit another button angrily, and the card slid from the machine. "Do you have your checkbook?" she snapped, swiping at her eye. "Pawn shops don't usually take checks, but maybe you can convince them. You're good at that," she added dryly. She snatched the card, pocketing it herself, and set off briskly down the road. "Let me know when you need money. You can tell me the number then, and I'll get it for you."

He hurried after her, into a seedy narrow street, feeling in the pocket of Shawn's jacket for the sheaf of bound papers. "This?" he asked. "Is this the checkbook?" He had no idea how it might be used for money, and offered a silent
Ave
that he might figure it out when the time came. A wind shot down the close, billowing trash around his ankles.

She nodded. "That's it. Here's the pawn shop."

They stopped at one of many shops in the long brick building. Niall studied it, finding no sign of the Inverness he had known. It had big windows of glass, through which could be seen every sort of object known to man. A bell tinkled as they stepped through the door. It felt like stepping back into his own time. The thought made him disconcertingly aware that he'd come to accept as normal, the inconceivable thought that he wasn't in his own time.

It was a small, crowded shop, dark and stuffy and smelling of its own ancient goods, which filled every inch of space: counter tops, shelves, and walls. Red velvet hung at doorways and peered out from what infinitesimal bits of counter top showed between the jostling crowd of pawned goods.