13. Night of Many Changes
Night of Many Changes
P eering out from the overlook above the courtyard, I watch as my father directs preparations for tonight’s festivities. I’ve been ordered to rest for the day—a task easier said than done. I take pride in helping when I can.
Anticipation stirs as I imagine the lively music and rhythmic dancing that will fill the air at the first ceilidh my parents have hosted in years. The details of the evening have been kept a mystery, no small feat in a house brimming with chatterers.
Sensing my presence, and in true James Sinclair fashion, he blows me a kiss, and I pretend to catch it and place it upon my cheek. We both chuckle, and he waves, returning to the work at hand.
My gaze drifts out to the ocean. I watch as the waves crash, sending whitewater curls onward.
Sunlight catches the foam, transforming it into an ethereal visage.
The scene is both chaotic and graceful. There’s something so hypnotic about watching this endless ebb and flow of the ocean; where great power meets grace in the most enchanting way possible.
Behind me, the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the spell. Turning, I see my mother standing in the doorway, cradling a thick bundle wrapped in linen and tied with twine. She looks tired, as though sleep has evaded her for days.
“I wanted to give ye something before the day gets away from us,” she breathes, her tone uncharacteristically hesitant.
As I examine her face, I notice the lines of worry and the weariness that seem to consume her; something I noticed days ago. Today, a vulnerability clings to her movements, deeper than is even recognisable to many.
“I dinnae ken if ye’ll like it,” she says, hands toying with the edges of linen.
“Ma, you didn’t have to get me—”
“Hush,” she interrupts. “I’ll admit I’ve been hard on ye, and maybe I huv’nae always been fair. I’m no’ too proud to admit it now. I want there to be peace between us.” She inhales slowly, as if her words cut into her.
“I fear for ye—for the world I’ll leave ye in when I’m gone from it.
But not for what ye’re lackin’, or things unknown to ye.
I fear what the world will demand o’ ye, and I ken it’s unfair to place such a burden upon yer shoulders.
I pushed things on ye thinkin’ I kent what was best. I’ve pushed people on ye because I’ve thought the connection might be of great benefit… ”
Tension unwinds thread by thread beneath the weight of her honesty.
“You speak as if you plan to leave tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
She shakes her head resolutely, determined to keep herself composed.
“Nae, love, jus the ramblin’ thoughts of a mother who longs for a brighter dawn for her daughter.
I wish for a world where the path ye’ll traverse be less replete wi’ uncertainty, where each step is easier to navigate than the century that came before. ”
She motions for me to follow her inside. I move without question, leaving the sounds of the courtyard, the feel of the May breeze against my skin, and the calming smell of the ocean behind.
We settle into a quiet corner, and I place my hand atop hers, a silent reassurance.
“Time has flown,” she murmurs. “One day yer da and I are rocking ye to sleep, and now yer nineteenth year has come. Time isnae kind to us—we dinnae get nearly enough of it.”
When she looks at me, her green and brown hued irises are clouded with emotion. “I’ve told ye stories since you were little. Do ye remember yer favourite?”
“As if I could ever forget an Ellen Sinclair retelling.” I tease, earning a small smile.
“There were parts I left out. The parts about aimless sacrifice—decidin’ without consulting others. I know we speak of ériu’s strength… but she acted in isolation, and it cost her.”
“Well, it’s a good thing that it’s just a story.”
“Even the tallest tales are rooted in truth. The meaning and morals stick around. We may grow in age, but thousands of years later, the fact remains that everyone needs someone to lean on.”
She meets my eyes, voice shaking with emotion.
“There will come a day when ye’ll have to make choices that will feel impossible.
Not out of fear or fate bidden obligation, but because of those impacted if ye refuse.
I never thought I’d be an overbearing mess, not until I had ye, but I’ve myself had to make some of those choices.
Motherhood turned me into a bit of a madwoman. ” We chuckle in unison at that.
She places her hand on my cheek, and a tear rolls from her eyes as she stares into mine. “I want ye to trust yerself. I’ve spent every second since the moment I first saw ye draw breath, believin’ in ye. Truly. I regret not showin’ ye more.”
I squeeze her hand in mine. “Ma… you’ve shown me plenty.”
She smiles, though it trembles at the corners.
Then she presses the bundle into my hands, and I unwrap it to reveal the Sinclair Clan tartan—made of deep blue, green, and yellow—beautifully woven and edged with fine embroidery.
“I made this for ye,” she whispers. “To keep ye bundled in the cold, and when ye’re away from home, to remind ye, no matter where ye are or who ye’re with, that ye’ll always have a home. Ye’ll always be loved, and despite the distance between us, ye’ll always have me.”
My hands tremble as I run my fingers over the fabric. The weight of her love is palpable in every stitch.
“I dinnae ken what I did in this life to deserve ye as a daughter.” She admits.
“I love you, Ma. Even when I push back out of pure stubbornness. I’m blessed to have such love.”
She pulls me into an embrace. “Ye’ve done enough in every life to be loved a thousand times over.”
She stands, pulling me with her. She carefully drapes the tonnag around my shoulders. Its comforting weight feels like a hug that will stay with me wherever I go.
“Happy day o’ birth, mo nighean bheag.”
The early night air outside the gallery doors carries a lingering chill, just enough to make my new tonnag feel welcome on my shoulders. Its significance deepens as I take in how my family and friends have transformed the courtyard for this night.
My father has worked tirelessly since dawn, and his efforts are undeniable. The once simple space now shines with life and warmth. Each table boasts a floral arrangement that brings an absentminded smile to my face.
“They bloomed early for ye this year, lass,” my father says, appearing at my side. He traces the delicate heather blooms with his finger. “Must’ve kent we needed ‘em to show face to celebrate my wee lass.”
Heather—the first to bloom in early summer, symbolising good luck and protection. Flowers symbolise many things; beauty, renewal, patience, protection, life, death… All things that resonate with someone who values all things granted in this life .
In these particular arrangements, he used many wildflowers, but each of our favourites is present; bell heather, thistle, lavender, and of course… “Primrose,” I whisper.
“Aye, wouldnae be a proper bouquet without it,” he says with a proud grin.
“They’re sunning, Da.” My smile is one of the most radiant of warmths I can muster. He stares down at me, as if memorising every detail of my face—each line, freckle, and flicker of emotion.
“Nae, my thanks are to ye for bein’ the best daughter a man could ask for.”
“Your opinion is highly biased, Da. After all, I’m your only daughter—no great competition there.”
His serious demeanour cracks, and a low chuckle churns from deep in his chest. “Ach, lass, always givin’ me strife. Still, if there were a hundred more, ye’d still be the best.”
I nudge him playfully. “Flattery will get you nowhere, auld man.”
He raises an inquisitive eyebrow at me. “Auld man? We’ll see who’s got the energy to outlast this ceilidh, eh?”
“Usual stakes, then?” I say, shooting him a mischievous grin.
His eyes shine with amusement as he crosses his arms over his chest, his expression mock-serious. “All yer mornin’ rolls,” he declares. “Hope ye’re prepared to go starvin’!”
I laugh and give him one last playful shove. “We’ll see!”
“Better go see that yer ma needs no aid, lest I get put in the bad books. Keep out of trouble, lass.” He kisses my head and strides off, leaving me to admire the courtyard.
Lanterns, wrought iron with elegant scrollwork from my grandparents, flank each floral display.
The Sinclair Clan Tartan is draped over every table, chair, and archway, completing the scene.
Nearby, guests are gathering around a table laden with fresh bread, bannocks, roasted meat, and Scotch broth. The aroma is heavenly.
I turn at a burst of laughter and spot Callan near the bonfire. Before I can join him, an imposing figure steps through the archway of the portcullis.
Marcus’s broad shoulders and confident smirk command attention.
He bears a sinful smirk as he leans against the heavy stone wall and crooks his finger at me, which might work to curry favour from more obsequious females, but is vexing to me given the well-known fact that I don’t enjoy being summoned by men.
However, I decide it best to smile coyly and oblige to his request, and vow to mention it later. His usual gentlemanly and urbane manner still lingers underneath the man attempting to gain my attentions .
A chill sweeps through the air as I suddenly find myself rooted in place, held against an unforgiving frame as an arm holds me tightly at my waist. The very earth holds its breath at his arrival.
Finn’s touch is protective, but as I stare up at him, I see he isn’t looking at me, but at Marcus. There’s a visible challenging possessiveness in his eyes.
“Finn,” I whisper, drawing his attention.
He leans in to murmur, in a tone meant for my ears alone. “Ye’ve no reason to obey when summoned like a sheepdog.” His eyes burn into mine, and the frustration in his tone only serves to further my aggravation.