“I’m telling you Lyn, I saw a Leprechaun! It was right by the door over there.” Mary points to a corner, which is obviously empty.
“This is Aberdeenshire, Scotland. There aren’t any leprechauns in Scotland,” Lyn says patiently, “Perhaps it was a stray wild haggis – or a kelpie.
They gaze in awe around the Georgian Country House.
“How about that roof.” Mac comments. “I heard that the saying it’s raining cats’ and dogs’ came from them going up on the roof to sleep and jumping down in the rain.” She grins.”
Patsy looks at Mac, not really surprised. “Come on Mac, you know that’s nonsense.”
“Nibby says no self-respecting dog would ever sleep on the roof, not when there is a perfectly good bed of mine to sleep on.” Mary chuckles and points to Hampy. “Does Hampy sleep with you Patsy?”
Before Patsy has chance to answer she goes on, “Anyhow, let’s go open the door I hear knocking.” The guests have arrived.
Oliver, dressed in a kilt beats them to it. He bows a welcome and Patsy, Mary, and Lyn, all try to see if what they say about kilts is true.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Mac asks innocently.
“Never mind,” Lyn grabs the others and guides them to the open door. Couples, handsome young guys, shy, pretty, young girls, all follow behind fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and smiley young mothers, and the kids scamper inside.
“Did they all come through the time travel door like us? Or are they locals?” Mary whispers to Patsy.
“A combination I think.” Patsy gestures to the hooded figures who file in behind the other guests. Each one wears a floor length cloak and each one's face is shadowed beneath the hoods.
“They must be the druids.” Mac points to them as they seem to float into the room on thin air. The sound of an accordian and cheery fiddle music fills the room and the guests begin to dance.
“It’s a ceilidh.” Lyn yells to them, to be heard over the lively Scottish music and loud voices. “Those aren’t druids. They are bringing the food in. Look at those tables.”
“Mary, you’d best stick to the IRN BRU, milk, or juice, like the kids. We don’t want a repeat of last week.” Patsy points out as she heaps her plate with food.
“Well, as I keep saying, this is Scotland, you only get leprechauns in Ireland,” Lyn says, annoyed that no-one is listening to her.
She points the drink table on the other side of the room, where a wee little man dressed in green, drinks a bottle of Mead and grins as he disappears. ”Rats, mead competition! Let me at ‘im!”
“Foster, stop it, How many times do I have to tell you?” Mac yells.
“Well, next time I am not gonna listen to you guys. I am grabbing that little man and holding him hostage 'till he forks over his money.” Mary tells them.
“Good luck trying to catch him in those clothes.” Patsy gestures to the long dresses and heavy tartans they are wearing. “In any case let’s welcome our author and give her some of that Mead before it’s all gone.”
Mary points to the cake and book cover on it. “Now that looks tasty.” She wags her eyebrows,” Let’s party, anyone for a dance? But before our evening of feasting and Scottish country dancing, let's welcome our guest of honour, Melanie Robertson King and her new novel A Shadow In The Past."
I consider myself a romance writer but write in other genres, too. Currently, ten of my non-fiction articles have been published, with one being a feature cover article.
I love to read but now that I’m writing, I have to be careful what I choose. I don’t want things from other people’s writings finding their way into my own work. So, to that end, I try to read from totally different genres. I don’t think I could write it effectively, but I love to read crime fiction – Ian Rankin, Stuart MacBride, Val McDermid, PD James, and of course, my good friend Chris Longmuir.
My other interests include genealogy, especially the study of Home Children, photography and travel – particularly Scotland because of my kinship with my father’s homeland. It was on a trip to Scotland, that I had the honor of meeting The Princess Royal.
A SHADOW IN THE PAST
Despite having difficulty coming to terms with her situation, Sarah quickly learns she must keep her true identity a secret. Still, she feels stifled by the Victorians’ confining social practices, including arranged marriages between wealthy and influential families, and confronts them head on then suffers the consequences.
When Sarah realizes she has fallen in love with the handsome Laird of Weetshill, she faces an agonizing decision. Does she try to find her way back to 2010 or remain in the past with the man she loves?
Sarah spun around at the sound of the approaching engine. Headlights sparkled and danced in the closing darkness, blinding her. The next few seconds appeared to unfold in slow motion. A horn blared,brakes screeched, and smoke surged out from beneath the tires.
Hypnotized by the dazzling light, Sarah couldn’t move. The impact of
the car’s bumper sent a searing pain through her legs. Her bones snapped
like twigs as she flew into the windshield and over the car onto the road.
With a sickening thud, her head smashed against the asphalt.
As Sarah lay there, vomit and blood rose in her throat. She tried to
roll over to keep from choking, but her body refused to obey. All the
strength drained from her body, and her world faded away into nothing.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!”
Sarah thought she had imagined the hysterical woman’s voice.
“Don’t die on me; please don’t die. I’ve called 9-9-9. Help will be
Sarah felt the soft touch of a hand caressing her forehead and looked
up into the face of a wide-eyed girl of about her age. Behind the girl, a
mangled car rested against a tree. Sarah opened her mouth to speak but
couldn’t. She shivered.
“You must be freezing. Here, let me cover you.” The young girl
removed her coat and placed it over Sarah. “Please just stay with me,” she
pleaded, looking over her shoulder. As the sirens wailed in the distance,
everything went dark.
When Sarah’s eyes flickered open, the frantic girl and her wrecked
car were nowhere to be seen. Instead of the asphalt surface of Kendonald
Road, Sarah lay sprawled out on a narrow, gravel lane.
Sarah’s chest felt as if her father’s entire herd of cows had run over
it. She gasped for air and tried to prop herself up on her elbows but
collapsed as stones gouged her arms.
Using her last ounce of strength, Sarah hauled herself to her feet.
Her head throbbed as if it was about to explode, and something wet and
sticky ran down the back of her neck. Dirt and blood covered her rugby
shirt and jeans, and her trainers were gone. Sharp gravel bit into her
stocking feet as she staggered, trying not to fall. Sarah was surprised she
was able to stand. She was certain the impact with the car had broken her
legs and maybe even her back.
She wiped her hands on her shirt and cried out in pain. Dirt and
blood covered her palms, and her knees felt like they’d been scraped with
sandpaper. Her chest hurt with every breath, and she wondered if her ribs
Barely able to make out a faint light shining in the distance, Sarah
stumbled toward it, thinking it was the yard light near her father’s barn.
She clapped her hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the
incessant ringing, but it didn’t work.
Sarah blinked and stared at one of the ghostly trees lining the
roadway. The trunk expanded and contracted before her eyes as if it
were breathing. A gust of wind rasped through the branches, and a
sudden cry of a long-eared owl made her jump. Shivering, Sarah crossed
her arms and rubbed, but pain shot all the way to her fingertips, forcing
her to stop.
To win a copy of Melanie's book, all you have to do is just leave a comment and your e-mail address.
Contest ends tomorrow and everyone who comments is eligible.