#its 4 am and i go neeping now :)

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 6

After the mountain, Geralt finds his bard and apologizes, but saying "I'm sorry" just isn't enough. His bard deserves better! He needs to to do more to prove how much his bard means to him! So he'll take him to the coast, just like he asked. But it'll be a surprise :)

Jaskier is just sure Geralt still hates him.

I mean, he won't even tell him where they're going! Why else would he be so quiet all of a sudden?

[weshallc]

This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)

Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”  To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.

“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding.  Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson.  Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will!  On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?”  said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.  

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by.  It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.

[drabbleitout]

Chapter 4: Clowns to the Left, Jokers to the Right

Beginning | Previous | Next

Myghal was starting to wonder what “Ira having a good time” entailed.

Yet, the more he thought on it, the more he realized it was probably for the best he didn’t know. Either way, being in a tavern wasn’t on the list.

Ira disregarded the crowded bar and sat them by the back window, away from mostly everyone else which took the skill of a true misanthrope considering it was packed. The table they found was barely big enough for the both of them, in the corner, and near the nook entrance of the kitchen. The smell had Myghal’s stomach growling.

Ira was leaned back in his chair, hood on and boots cross on the window sill. His hands fidgeted with one of the thin sleeve darts that Myghal discovered were sewn into the hem of his cloak. It twirled between his fingers with careless elegance. The only bit of his face visible was his usual unimpressed frowning mouth.

“Anything I can get you gents?” a young boy in an apron asked, pausing briefly with a tray of drinks hoisted on a shoulder.

“I’ll have the chicken.” Myghal offered him a smile but his face changed as little as Ira’s.

“With the neeps and tatties?”

“Uh, yes?” Myghal had never heard of either of those, but it was enough of an answer as the barhand looked to Ira.

“And you?”

He didn’t as much as offer a snarl. The barhand turned away towards another table. The small tavern was a tight fit in the muddy village outside of Galenia. Smashed between a cobbler and a candle maker, it was the only main attraction.

“So, who should we ask first?” Myghal rubbed his hands together.

“About what?” Ira growled.

“About the dragon. That’s why I wanted to sit at the bar, to get elbow to elbow with locals and see if they’ve heard any rumors.”

“A dragon?” Myghal jumped as a chair clattered down at the other side of the table. It was spun about allowing the tall woman dressed in a vest and slacks sit with her arms draped over its back. She had devious eyes, lips pulled into a crooked grin from under her wide-brimmed cavalier hat. “Name’s Kee,” she offered a hand out to Myghal.

“Nice to meet you,” He shook it, “I’m Myghal.”

“And who’s this charming manifestation of midnight dangers?” She boldly stuck her hand towards Ira, leaning across the table.

“Get any closer and I’ll take it off at the wrist.”

“Heel boy,” Kee laughed, settling back into her chair. “You’re an odd pair, ay? Not from around here, that’s for sure.” She nodded towards Ira’s boots. “Asking about a dragon, what’s that then?” She gave her attention to Myghal, situating on his side of the table. “You really looking for dragons?”

“Yeah, have you seen any?”

“Gods, I need a drink.” Ira murmured, twirling to his feet and slipping off. He stepped behind a patron and disappeared into the crowd.

“No’ alive, anyway.” Kee had turned to watch him go but kept speaking. “No one’s seen many of them since, gads, a hundred years ago? May I ask why the interest?”

“It’s a long story, but we need one of their eyes.” Kee stared at him, eyes blank as if she had just entered a room and completely forgotten why she was there. Her brow knitted, head tilted, and she came back to herself with a scowl.

“Just its eye?” He nodded, “what kind of goon wants a dragon’s eye? You making something?” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder. “Are you in with the Jakes? Making some of the drugs?”

“No. We need it for… well—”

“Hazewash.” Ira announced, both of them jumping having not heard him return. “Here, no one else seemed to worry rats were eyeing it,” he slid a plate of chicken and two piles of mashed mysteries to Myghal before flopping down in his chair. The dark wine in his cup hardly sloshed. Kee eyed him, glancing to Myghal as she leaned back in her chair.

“You’re no’ making hazewash. You’re no’ a witch.”

Ira hummed, kicking his feet back up in the window as he took a sip. Myghal stared down at his plate, sure he recognized one pile of mush as potatoes but wasn’t sure of the other.

“Hazewash needs a dragon eye? Don’t believe it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you study at the Imperial Court of Faraday?” Ira had lost his bite and was now condescendingly acidic. “Myghal took up the spoon that was shoved in the potatoes, unsure how he was supposed to use it on the chicken, but chiseled at some of the yellow pile. “By that choice of hat, I’m going to go on chance and say no.”

“No’ a witch.” Kee matched the hateful smile, “But something tells me neither are you.”

“Myghal,”

“Hmm?”

“Am I a witch?”

“Yeah. That’s why you wear that creepy cloak.” He tried what he guessed were the neeps, and instantly smiled at Ira. “They’re turnips.”

“Would a guy like that lie to you?” Ira thumbed at him, peering over his glass at Kee. “I need to make hazewash for my exam.”

“Trying to get into the Emperor’s entourage, ay?”

“So badly.” Ira had that smile again.

“Do you know about any dragons, Kee?” Myghal used his hands to take pieces of the chicken. “We’d really like to know if you do.”

“Maybe,” she crossed her arms on the chair’s back. “Need some payment. How much you pay is how much I’ll tell.”

“Figures,” Ira sighed, glass resting on the table as he pulled his feet to the floor. “But if I pay you, and you don’t know where a dragon is, I will make you a public decoration at the main gate.” He said this as if explaining the weather. Reaching into his cloak he pulled out the smaller purse of coin, letting her see it. “Do you know where a dragon is?”

Kee sat there, eyes on the coin, silent and still. Myghal worried that she didn’t know. She clearly hadn’t known Ira, challenging him the way she did, but he feared her bluff had been called and was sure Ira would hold up his end of the bargain.

“An old man who works a mountain orchard west of here says he’s seen one near the top of the Barren Tips. Says it makes a ruckus on the full moon.” She went quiet again, stare locked on Ira. He set the coin between him and Myghal, leaning over taking a swipe of potatoes on a finger.

“What do you think? Sounds like a tall tale to me.” Myghal watched him sit back, surprised.

“That actually adds up some.” He paused in thought, making sure he remembered correctly. “The Ophtenka always attacked on a full moon, so if there is really an orchard farmer, and he says it makes noise on the full moon, that sounds right.”

“What’s an open..penka?” Kee’s face soured.

“Witch talk –mind your half of the conversation.” Ira ate the potatoes off his finger, scowled and leaned in on an elbow to whisper. “You think she’s telling the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“So, we shouldn’t kill her?”

“We shouldn’t kill anyone.” Myghal glanced around.

“You said your name was Kee? What do you do for a living, Kee?”

“I’m a witch, as much as you are. But on days off, I’m a smuggler.” Her feet took her weight as she leaned over the table, “But the only part Imperial you are is as stolen as that coin you’ve got. Just like them hawk feathers, ay?” She gave a humming laugh, “Hawks were outlawed after the Empress was murdered by a Hawker. Ain’t no one in the Empire going to have you wearing hawk feathers.”

The air grew cold.

Ira pulled off his hood to give her full view of the feathers and his glare. Pressing back his chair he leaned closer, locking eyes and lowering his voice.

“You lost your leg in the siege, didn’t you?” he tilted his head with a nod to the floor. “Foreigners didn’t go quietly when you took their homes, did they? Riots tend to get out of hand even for the Imperial Guard. But you did what he asked because you were his good, little soldier. And he liked that about you, so he enchanted you a leg, didn’t he?” There was something sour about the sweetness in Ira’s tone, like poisoned nectar. “You were important, so he had you fixed up with a metal limb that almost feels right.”

Kee’s eyes narrowed, the smile melting from her face into something hurt and angry.

“But it wore on you. Those people did nothing wrong and you know that. But you thought it was behind you, that he wouldn’t ask anymore from you. And you were wrong,” Ira nodded. “He kept asking and you had nothing more to give. So, you ran. You ditched. You abandoned your post. And, now, he wants his leg back.”

“You’re not from the Empire, are you?” Kee hissed, rising to slide her chair away. “You’re not with the Imperial Court. You’re an assassin. You killed Empress Sarika, didn’t you?” Myghal pressed his plate aside at Ira’s glare, feeling as if he were watching two dogs; hair hackled, teeth bared, ready to fight. “Are you the Hawker?”

“How would you like the left to match the right?” He pulled at his dagger, Myghal shoving it back into the sheath.

“Alright, enough.” He placed a hand on Ira’s shoulder never seeing his eyes so dark. “We have our lead on a dragon. Let’s pay her and go.”

“What do you think they’re going to do to you when they find you?” Kee ignored the glare and Myghal.

“I have a pretty good idea already. And I’m sure when they get that leg from you it’ll feel the same. He won’t forget about you. He won’t give up and let you go. He can follow that magic like a dog to scent. If I were you,” Ira slid the coin purse towards her, “I’d find someone else to enchant it. Lose the scent and the hounds.” With that he stood, tossing his hood back on. Myghal followed him to the door, regretting looking over his shoulder finding Kee behind them.

“Well, you’re a witch, aren’t you?” She exited as they reached their horses.

“Let’s just go,” Myghal whispered. Ira turned as he freed Berma.

“Now you want to believe me?” He shook his head, mounting as she scurried down the steps. “You’re a maze of turned around ideas, aren’t you? An Imperial turned smuggler.” She shushed him, making a short, swiping motion in the air.

“What if I take you to that old man with the orchard, help you find that dragon?” She had steel nerves, grabbing Berma's tack as if that had any control over horse or rider. “Even if you don’t know enchantment, you’re a witch, you know someone who does, right? Maybe we can strike a deal.”

She was crafty, head tilting with a fearless smile. But, just as shocking, Ira hadn’t pulled away or moved Berma. He checked over his shoulder to Myghal. If she knew as much about the farmer, and where he was, she was their best lead. With a shrugging nod, Myghal saw no reason as to why she couldn’t help out.

“If there is an orchard farmer, and if there is a dragon, and if we get the eye, I may be able to help you.” Ira managed to still sound threatening. But it didn’t hinder Kee, grinning as her hand reared back giving a sharp clap against his leg. Ira jolted, lips pursing.

“You’re a belter! What do I call you?”

“Rook,” Ira  gathered the reins, backing Berma away. Kee’s face went slack, watching him with a faint sway in her stance. Ira motioned down the road, “we're following you, smuggler. It’s a deal, remember?” She glanced to Myghal, as pale as if she had just seen death. Almost tripping on her own feet, she hurried over to untie a brown quarter horse.

“Right,” she hopped on, moving the hanging rapier to get both boots in the stirrups. “Galenia isn’t far. We can find him there.” Her horse paced anxiously, turning one way and then another before she directed them down the road.

“You could, you know, not scare everyone.” Myghal shook his head as Berma passed, Ira grinning ear to ear.

“I could, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Looks like you picked a busy time to show up,” Kee called back, almost lost in the chatter of the crowd around them. The walls blocked them from the sun, Myghal taking the chance to steal a glance up to the battlements were guards paced. They were towering, sandstone walls, banners of red fallen from each crenel like draped tongues. Each was embroidered with an extravagant but clear design of a crown.

The deep rhythm of drums bloomed into a mixture of swaying strings and the joyous chant of voices. The traffic also slowed. Sunlight spilled down from the other side of the arch, a group of young women throwing fistfuls of yellow and orange blossoms into the crowd. Large strips of fabric had been hung from one roof to another over the road, providing shade and decorating the sky with the theme of warm tones.

“Welcome to Galenia.” Kee had to yell to be heard, riding beside Myghal.

“Is it always like this?” He laughed, glancing over as someone tapped his leg. He was passed a single stemmed, orange daisy. The little girl who had given it to him giggled before rushing to the person behind Nepi, giving them one as well. “Thanks!” He called back, unsure if she could hear.

“Not always this busy, no,” Kee answered as he turned back. “This is the Festival for the Mother of the Empire. It’s a spring thing,” she waved at the air as if searching it for something. “It’s the biggest celebration of the year.”

“Mother of the Empire?” Myghal glanced ahead to make sure Ira hadn’t left. Berma was in front of them, the dark pink flower standing out from his black cloak. “Is that a Goddess?”

“No,” Kee laughed. “Well, depends on who you ask. She was the Empress, the Emperor’s wife.”

“Who was killed by the hawk?”

“You’ve got it. But this is a celebration of her life, what all she did for the Empire. She was a beloved woman.” Another shower of petals fell over them, “You couldn’t find a living soul in the Empire who disliked her. She looked out for the poor, the lesser off, and kept her husband in line. After she died,” Kee shrugged, “they were forgotten again.”

“So, why would anyone want to kill her?”

“I said inside the Empire. Outside of the Empire, any Imperial is an enemy. My guess is they wanted to start a war. Which would’a happened, if the Emperor knew who killed her. That’s why there’s such a high reward on the Prince. You find him, you can find who’s responsible. The Emperor would probably make you a Lord for that.” She knocked the back of her hand against his shoulder, “There, that’s Empress Sarika!”

She pointed ahead, to a fountain inlaid in the side of a building. Myghal leaned in search of a person, a reenactor, or a tomb, but found a statue. Traffic slowed to an almost halt as everyone paused to look or bow. They inched along, chatter lowering to silence.

The large statue was of a woman, realistically carved of brown soapstone, seated above the elongated fountain of white tile. Berma slowed to a stop, Ira twirling the flower between his fingers before tossing it into the pool. It floated alone among the babbling ripples. He stared at the face of the Empress, people moving around him as he took his time. Then, just as slowly, he lifted two fingertips to his forehead, bowing and dropping the salute in a low hook.

If Myghal hadn’t seen it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Berma moved along and by more habit, Nepi strolled up to take their place. No one else threw their flowers, placing them instead on the fountain wall or at its sides. Myghal dropped his with the others, finding himself lost in studying her face. She was thin, chin lifted with a strong jaw and a sleek nose. There was something about her, familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before. Had she visited their council? Was she an ambassador? Had he seen her among their elders?

In a daze he pressed his fingertips to his brow—

“What are you doing?” Kee grabbed his wrist, tugging it away as she nervously laughed, “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“What?” He nudged Nepi forward as she pulled at him. “What did I do?”

“Saluting like that. Don’t do that. The guards will think you’re mocking them and you’ll get tossed out.”

“It’s a salute?”

“You just do things without knowing what they are? Yes. The Emperor's salute. It’s supposed to mean loyalty in thought to the Emperor, but no one but the guard really use it. Unless you’re trying to pick a fight.” She laughed, nudging him with an elbow. “Civilians don’t do that, so… don’t.”

“Oh, alright.” He stared at Ira, wondering what it meant. If he hated the Emperor, why salute the Empress? Or was it as sarcastic as his entirety? Was that the reason for tossing his flower as he did? Even as loved as she was by everyone, did he hate her as much as the Emperor?

Leave it to Ira to hate a motherly, charitable person.

“The farmer always sells on the square,” Kee moved up beside Ira now that the traffic had thinned. People swept into open stalls and shops, road splitting off and widening. “He’s the only one with apples so he’s not hard to miss.”

Myghal was still stuck on Ira, the salute, the Empress. He couldn’t make sense of it –not that he had any luck before in unscrambling the shadowy conundrum of the cloak and hood. He was like distant stars in the sky, to look directly at them you saw nothing, but watch from the corner of your eye and there he was.

“Myghal,” he stopped at the stall, not remembering getting down from Nepi. Ira stood beside him, eyes darting to the owner in signal. It finally caught up to him that they had been discussing the dragon.

“You’re sure it’s a dragon?” He asked, hoping it was congruent to the conversation.

“Pretty sure,” he was so old and thin Myghal wondered how he brought his apples down from the mountains. “My grandfather used to tell me stories of the dragon on Barren Tips. He was a sheep farmer, you see, like his father and them. Used to eat his flock. I was smart and grew apples. Dragons don’t eat apples.” He laughed at this like a tireless joke.

“What was that you said about the full moon?”

“Oh, I hear it. All screams and barks like nothing I’ve ever heard. Saw it once, was pretty sure.”

“What did it look like?”

“Great winged thing. A shadow, with a long neck and tale.”

“Antlers? Horns?” Myghal asked gaining a scowl. “Was it long and thin, like a serpent?”

“No. Great and big, like a dragon. No bird or snake like it. Far too big.” Ira looked at Myghal, expecting and waiting for a verdict.

“It doesn’t sound like an Ophtenka,” he glanced to Kee who took a step away. Ira grabbed her sleeve with a blind snap. “But, that doesn’t mean it’s not a dragon. It can’t be far if he lives near it –no offense,” he gave an apologetic glance to the old man, “but if he brings apples to town he can’t live far from here.”

“You can get there by nightfall,” the old man patted Myghal's shoulder. “And it'll be a perfect night for it!”

“Of course,” Ira grumbled, “It’s a full moon.”

“Oh…” Myghal hadn’t considered they’d have found their lead so soon, and possibly a fight for their life to go with it. By the idle pause, Ira seemed to be considering the same. “Well, we better stock up.”

“You’re in the perfect place for that.” Kee reassured, passing him a sympathetic pat, “I’m sure you can find everything you need here.”

“Then let’s hurry up,” Ira sighed. “If we need to get there by nightfall we don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

“Want me to look after the horses? You’ll be able to get what you need a lot faster.”

“You?” Ira scoffed.

“I’m not going to run off with them! We had a deal, remember?” Offended she snapped at him. “Besides, I know who I’m dealing with. Heard enough bedtime stories about you.”

“It will be easier to go about this crowd with out them,” Myghal gave Nepi’s reins over to her. Ira remained cemented in place,

“Where am I going to take them, to the Emperor?”

“Give me your sword.”

“What?! No!”

“We trade until we’re done.” Ira held out a hand, egging her on with a wave of fingers, “My horse for your sword.”

“Be glad he isn’t asking for your leg.” Myghal shook his head. With a dramatic sling of her head she turned, unfastening her sword and handing it over.

“If you trade it for anything, I will ruin you.”

“Charming,” Ira tied it to his belt beneath his cloak. “I don’t have to tell you what will happen if my horse goes missing.” He gave up the reins and turned.

“What about Nepi?” Myghal smirked, “you’re not going to make a threat for him.”

“If something happens, you better hope you can keep up with Berma.”

Ira gave up on lecturing Myghal. It was clear he wouldn't listen, or refused to break any habit. He was going to do whatever he wanted, either way, and Ira concluded he didn't have the breath to waste anymore. If it was a real dragon they were facing, their chances of survival were slimmer than the rapier on his hip. He worried more over haggling for supplies. Myghal stayed out of it for the most part, or, rather, avoided it.

Ira noticed the way he busied himself with people rather than searching for items. At first, he assumed it was nerves, but later discovered it was more the way he was than anything. He kept drifting off, rushing out of line to find someone to interact with in the crowd. Someone’s dog or child. Almost getting himself killed to catch someone’s falling tower of packages. Helping an old woman reach what crowds wouldn’t let her access.

Every time Ira turned around, Myghal was in someone else's business.

"Ira," Myghal leaned over his shoulder, whisper a worrying contrast to the bustle. "Can I have a few coins?"

"What did you break?" Ira expected to turn and find Myghal frowning but found a gentle smile instead. He had those bright eyes, excited and warm. Ira slipped a few from his purse, barely setting them in Myghal’s hand before he darted off.

Finishing with buying enough rope, Ira stepped aside to search for him. He noticed Myghal at a stall further down the road, buying food. It was odd considering Ira had previously gotten enough to last them to the mountains and their possible trip back. He had also just eaten. As to why he bought an apple, a slice of bread, and jerky, Ira had to know.

What is he doing? He decided to follow Myghal who hurried off in the other direction. He left the square. He left the market. He left the festivities ending up in a quieter, older area of the city. Backstreets became dirt instead of brick. Windows shuttered or boarded. And everything reeked of urine. Myghal trotted on, winding his way down to an alley that looked more fitting for dumping a body than a lunch break.

Ira slowed, slinking towards the alley entrance hearing voices. Pressed to the wall he peered around the corner.

Myghal had found a pile of garbage, some thrown out table that had become a kingdom of strewn forgottens. Crates, broken barrels, tattered sheets, and countless bottles. He was crouched before it, opening the linen his goods were wrapped in. Tearing off a bit of bread he held it out towards the garbage pile. Rage boiled up, Ira starting to wheel around the corner, when a small, dirty hand drifted out from the rubbish.

"It's alright," Myghal smiled, head tilting as he watched them. "Aren't you hungry?" He leaned closer.

The little fingers snatched it from Myghal's hold, retreating into their hovel. He chuckled, as warm as ever, tearing off another piece. "See there?" Another hand reached out, larger, thin and frail. A woman leaned out from the pile, wrapped in rags with a sunken face smeared in dirt. "Here, there’s plenty."

Myghal didn't scowl or flinch at their condition. He didn't grimace if their hands accidentally touched. He didn't even belittle them in his offering with fake smiles or pity in his eyes. His smile was genuine, completely him, and it only brightened as he offered jerky next. "This will last longer. Go on, you can have it."

The mother stared at him, wide eyes beginning to run with tears as her shaking hands took the food. Her son emerged from his thin blanket, sniffing heavily. A child, mostly bone, his keen eyes caught sight of Ira and looked.

Staggering back from the corner, Ira pressed his back against the wall. He didn’t understand. Growing up on the streets of Felmire, no one had ever given him a scrap of anything. People sneered and kicked as if he were some mangy, wild animal when he was just a boy. He had seen people drop scraps to rats and care less than allowing any street urchins to have it.

Yet, Myghal... Myghal used his share for strangers.

If Ira had met Myghal sooner, would his life be different? Better? Was now too late? He leaned his head back against the wall, letting the air out of his lungs and shutting his eyes. Did it matter now? Scraps and smiles wouldn’t do them any good facing down a dragon.

"I know you're mad," Myghal was there, pleading. "But just take it out of my part. I've still got some left, and I can cover the extra. I'll take an extra job. Maybe someone needs some firewood cut around here or something." Ira grimaced trying to clear his thoughts, like mentally swatting flies. “I know the coin won’t last forever, but if a dragon is anything like an Ophtenka we might not even have them time to spend—”

"I'm not mad." The words came out gradually, one at a time, opening his eyes to stare up into the blue sky.

"Wait... you're not?"

"No," Ira wanted to say something more. Something about what Myghal had done, but he wasn’t even sure what he would say. Or, really, what he even felt.

"Are you sick?"

A chuckle broke from Ira, helpless and biting, "Yes. I am."

"Do we need to go find a doctor?"

"Don't worry about it." Ira stepped off the wall, huffing as Myghal pressed him back against it. The smile was gone, eyes dark and brows low keeping a heavy hand against Ira's chest.

"What's wrong?" It was a strange way to sound caring, low and dangerous.

"Nothing."

"It's something. Are you really sick? You don't have a fever do you?" The hand moved up to Ira's face, trying to check. He panicked, a twisting, bolt of a feeling shooting through his chest. Knocking Myghal's wrist aside he slipped away.

"It’s nothing! I was… worried. That’s all. You ran off and I thought maybe you saw that smuggler take off with our horses.” Myghal didn’t let the stare go so easily. It took him a moment to give in. “I’ve got enough, I think. At least for if we don’t survive this.”

“Let me have that.” Myghal took the bag with an effortless tug, shouldering it. “If you’re sick, the last thing you need to do is haul all this around. Dead or not, if we’ve got to fight this thing you need to be at your best.” A finger prodded into Ira’s chest, that dark look still in Myghal’s eyes. “If it gets worse, we call it off.”

“What? No. Myghal, I’m not really sick.” Ira scoffed, following him. “Are you listening? We’re getting the eye. I’m not waiting anymore.”

[uscdornsifeadmission]

Tips For Edinburgh - Kyle Pham

Just about every student at USC has probably received an e-mail or brochure from the Office of Overseas Studies at one point or another. I knew early on that I wanted to study abroad, so I turned in an application last semester to study at the University of Edinburgh. I am now very lucky to be attending the University of Edinburgh during this spring semester, until the end of May. 

Without a doubt, studying abroad is the best decision that I’ve made in a long time. Living in the incredibly beautiful and walkable town of Edinburgh, I have felt a much-needed change of pace and been the subject of countless new, meaningful experiences. While I can gush endlessly about my adventures abroad, I will limit this piece to a few key insights and musings about Edinburgh that I think would benefit anyone who is interested in studying abroad there.

1. The Scottish accent is a bit hard to understand. But as with anything, an open mind and a bit of effort will go a long way. Be aware of UK expressions and customs. For example: people call college “uni” and the US is known as the “states”.

2. While I believe that any weather can be overcome through mental strength, it is a good idea to pack warm clothes. Down jackets and scarves are essential to your survival. You can purchase two scarves for 10 pounds on the Royal Mile.

3. The grading structure is different: 40 is passing and 70 translates roughly to an A. Many classes involve just one paper or exam that constitutes the majority of the grade.

4. While those of us that are more nationalistic contend that America is the greatest country in the world, one sobering truth is that interstate airplane ticket prices are far from the best. Traveling between European countries, especially by comparison, is significantly more affordable. The Edinburgh airport is also convenient and cheap to get to: it is less than 5 pounds each way.

5. You don’t get your final exam schedule until two months into the semester, so wait to plan your later travels.

6. Living accommodations are all over the town of Edinburgh. You can live in hall-style dorms or apartment-style flats. In my humble opinion, Darroch Court is the best bang for your buck.

7. While I’m neutral about haggis, neeps, and tatties – I can confidently say that Edinburgh’s Thai food and Indian food, as well as its coffee shops, are excellent. I recommend Ting Thai Caravan for Thai food, Mother India for Indian food, and Brew Lab for coffee.

8. Norms for tipping are different. As a student, you can tip 10% or less at restaurants. 

9. There is a beach just three miles away! Arthur’s Seat and Calton Hill, located right in Old Town and on Princes Street respectively, are wonderful places (and short hikes) to get an amazing view of Edinburgh.

10. While bad eggs exist in all cultures, getting to know the locals is more likely to positively contribute to your experience. Nothing better than international networking!

[weshallc]

BERNS NIGHT: CHAPTER THREE.

So much love to the most patient person in the world @lovetheturners and all you folks who are willing to take on another chapter.

A Call the Midwife AU in the Crown Jewels Series.

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”  Robert Burns, To A Mouse 1785.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad. That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding.  Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair probably by Frank Hudson.  Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more management role much earlier than she would truly have preferred. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don't think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will!  On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “ but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn't it?”  said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that's why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the villages most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying but maybe not it’s meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees, the mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We've already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking, oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger, that must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that's the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up, before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What's for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband's hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That's a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.  

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable Mr Buckle, going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won't do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor's appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn't it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let's be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip, she felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by.  It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip because even though her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob's your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie's tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story, we can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your Dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.