Washing the Plaid ^{By Juliet Marillier}

The Bridge House is a wreck. It’s been empty for years, and it’s old and crumbly and falling apart. When I walk past on the way to the school bus, I can see peeling paint and cracks in the walls. The wooden porch sags and the front door is faded to a weird shade of gravestone gray. The garden’s a mini-jungle of rioting weeds, half-dead in the end-of-winter cold.

So, everyone’s surprised when the house finally goes up for sale, then super-surprised when it sells almost immediately. The biggest shock is when Mrs. Mac moves in. That’s what people call the old lady. It’s short for Mac-something.

“Why on earth would an old girl like her buy such a huge place?” my mother asks one night at dinner. “It’ll cost a fortune to fix.”

Mum’s an accountant so everything is about budgets and money. I ignore her and flip the page of my book.

She frowns. “And Mrs. Mac must be eighty at least. Living on her own with all those dogs—that’s crazy. What if she trips over one of them and breaks her leg? Or forgets she left a pot on the stove and sets the place on fire? Mr. Briggs next door won’t be happy if they make a nuisance of themselves. He’s always hated dogs.” She points at my plate. “Rachel, close that book and finish your dinner. No reading at the table, remember?”

“If there was a fire, wouldn’t the dogs bark?” I don’t really want to be part of the conversation. I’m only here because Mum expects us all to sit at the table for meals. But someone should stand up for Mrs. Mac. “And we’d smell the smoke.” We live directly opposite the Bridge House.

“Would’ve been a smart buy for a developer.” Dad’s off on his own train of thought as usual. “That’s prime riverfront land. Demolish the old house, build a luxury two-story place, maybe a private jetty. You’d make a healthy profit. That’s if you could get around the heritage guidelines. The owner should have got us to handle the sale.” Us meaning the business he and my uncle run: Premium Property. He pauses to shove a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth, chews, and swallows. “Still, she’s an old woman,” he says. “I suppose it’ll be up for sale again before long.”

I imagine a gleaming modern house sitting there on the riverbank like some alien craft that’s landed among the big old gum trees, knocking quite a few of them over. A private jetty would mean we couldn’t walk along the riverbank anymore. It would block the path for other things too—wallabies, lizards, water birds, all the creatures that live in that patch of bushland. It might send them up onto the road where they’d get squished by passing traffic.

A house like that would never belong.

I finish my spaghetti in silence. Mum and Dad have changed the subject to some cocktail thing they’re attending on Saturday, and they’re working up to an argument. That happens a lot these days. James and I exchange a glance and take ourselves off to the kitchen. We wash and dry the dishes. In the dining room, Mum has gone quiet while Dad gives one of his lectures.

James goes up to his room, in theory to do his homework. I retreat to mine and shut the door so James can’t sneak in. He loves snooping and solving pretend crimes.

I’ve got homework, too. More than James, since he’s still at Ashburn Primary and I’m in my second year at high school. But all the talk about Mrs. Mac has given me an idea for the next part of my story and I need to write it down before it slips out of my mind. Ideas do that sometimes; like when you have a fantastic dream and then you wake up and for a moment it’s still there, bright and clear, but just fades away. That’s so cruel.

I write and write. I don’t stop until I hear Mum coming up the stairs. My neck hurts and my fingers are all cramped and it’s dark outside. I’ve written six hundred words without even thinking, as if something was sitting on my shoulder or, even creepier, in my head, controlling the whole thing. I like it when that happens; that’s when I do my best work.

But I can’t check it over now because Mum’s knocking on the door. She barges in without an invitation.

I hide my story behind a French translation assignment on the screen. I’ve never let anyone read my work. My real work, I mean. I’ve written stuff for English at school and earned high grades for it. Teachers have suggested I might do creative writing at university. But Dad wants me to work for the business, and Mum thinks I should try to get into law.

Before Mum can say, Finished your homework? something outside catches her attention. She walks to the window and stares down into the street. There’s a light out there, not the whitish streetlight but more of a gold glow, moving about.

“What’s that?” she asks.

Mum’s gazing in the general direction of Mrs. Mac’s place. I look over her shoulder, remembering the comment about pots on the stove. My eyesight is better than hers. The warm light comes from a torch. Holding the torch is the small, shadowy figure of Mrs. Mac with a shawl around her shoulders, a woolly hat on her white hair, and trainers on her feet. Beside her pads the biggest of her dogs. Its head is nearly up to her shoulder. After she moved in, I looked up dog breeds, and that one’s a Scottish deerhound. You don’t see many of those being walked around Ashburn.

“Mrs. Mac,” I say. “Just walking the dog, I guess.” Maybe two dogs; I think I spotted a tiny one tucked into her shawl, like a baby in a sling. Perhaps that one can’t walk very well.

Mrs. Mac goes in her gate with the deerhound alongside. The gold light bobs about for a bit, then cuts out as she enters the house.

“I don’t know,” mutters Mum. “Out walking in the dark, all on her own…” Her tone changes. “Finished your homework? It’s getting late.”

“Not much more to do. Half an hour, tops.”

Mum looks at her watch and rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget to iron your school shirt for tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Rachel.” She uses the warning voice. I hate that. It’s like a threat: Do it or else (insert horrible thing that might happen). I’ve tried to explain how important my writing is, but she just doesn’t get it.

“I’ll do it when I’ve finished the homework.”

She takes the hint and leaves. I do some math problems and the French translation, all of which takes more than half an hour. Since she hasn’t come back up to hassle me about having a shower and going to bed, I write some more of my story, adding a witch who looks like an eccentric old woman with dogs and turns out to be immensely powerful.

“Mess with me at your own peril,” I mutter as I save and close the document. I put my school stuff in my bag for the morning, then go over to the window.

Mrs. Mac is out there again. Not on the footpath, but in her front garden, shining the torch up into the trees. Looking for owls? Hunting for a lost cat? I’m about to close the curtains when she looks straight up at me. She kindly doesn’t shine the torch into my eyes. She gives me a little wave. I wave back. Then she’s gone. I don’t feel embarrassed to be caught watching her. I’m weirdly happy that she saw me and was nice about it.

When I get home from school the next day, there’s mail sticking out of our box, so I take it inside, call out “Hi!” to Mum so she’ll know I’m there, then check the letters to see if there’s anything for me, unlikely as that is. They are all bills or junk mail, except for one. It’s a longish envelope with interesting stamps on it. They’re all pictures of monsters: a dragon, a weird horse with too many legs, a thing that might be a phoenix. It’s from the UK, and it’s addressed to Mrs. M. MacEachern at number 29, which is the Bridge House.

I wonder what the M is for—Mary? Millicent? Myrtle?

Mrs. Mac might be waiting to hear from a son or daughter, a grandchild, a dear old friend she hasn’t seen for years. I should take it over to her. I should knock on the door and give it to her. That’s more friendly than stuffing it in her letter box. And I might get a peek inside the house.

I’m not going to say, Hi, Mrs. Mac. That would be rude. But I have no idea how to pronounce MacEachern. I get out my phone and search for a pronunciation guide. YouTube gives two ways of saying it, mac-EECH-ern, and mac-EK-ern. Since the first one’s the name of an American high school, I go for the second one. I practice a couple of times. I tell myself not to be nervous; she did wave to me last night.

The gate creaks as I open it, and from inside the house there’s muffled barking. I picture myself in hospital, swathed in bandages from head to toe. I hear my mother and Mr Briggs saying, I knew those dogs would cause trouble. I’m calling the council right now.

I hesitate then swallow and lift my chin. All right, I’ll do it. I won’t be bookish, shy Rachel who barely talks to anyone at school. I’ll be a brave and bold adventurer with head held high.

I reach the door, which has a fresh coat of paint in glossy dark blue—when did that happen?—and knock three times. There’s a frenzied yipping and a scuttling sound, then claws scratching on the other side of the door.

Footsteps.

“Sybil, no!” says Mrs. Mac, and the scrabbling stops. The door opens and there she is, with the tiny dog in her arms and the huge one beside her, and a couple more bouncing up the hallway behind her. “Wait,” she says over her shoulder, and they do. “Oh, you’re the young woman from across the road.” She gives me a close look, sizing me up. “Hello.”

“Hi, Mrs. McEachern.” My voice shakes. Why am I so pathetic? I hate myself sometimes. “I’m Rachel. This letter’s for you—it was in our mailbox.”

She’s holding the dog and doesn’t have a hand free to take the envelope.

“Lovely,” she says, backing into the house. “Will you bring it in? And close the door behind you—Sybil is liable to bolt at the slightest opportunity.”

I do as she asks. I may be breaking the family rules about stranger danger, but I can hardly do otherwise, since Sybil is thrashing around as if she’s seen a demon. Mrs. Mac sets her on the floor. The little dog hurtles off down the hallway.

“I thought that small one couldn’t walk,” I say.

“Ah. Come through and I’ll explain. Cup of tea?”

“I can’t stay long.” I follow her toward the back of the house and try not to gape. The place may be old and neglected, but it’s still amazing. I don’t know where to look first. The ceiling’s a riot of plaster flowers and animals and things that might be cherubs or strange fairies. The carpet runner has a long dragon on it that would once have been brilliant red on a deep blue background. It’s faded badly, but I can still see all sorts of delicate details: people in tiny boats, a bug-eyed monster guarding a tall palace, and a field of flowers with crows flying over it, and…

“That carpet has a hundred stories in it,” says Mrs. Mac, looking back at me with a crooked smile. “Every person who looks at it finds new ones.”

I’m speechless, because the carpet has put several new stories in my head, where they’re jostling to be first in writing order. With test week coming up at school, that’s not a good thing. But it feels great, like a door opening on a wider world.

I follow Mrs. Mac through to a big kitchen, where there’s a long table with five chairs, none of them matching; and an old-style stove, the kind that uses wood or coal. Lots of things hang from the ceiling: herbs and garlic and stuff, but also a string of little silver bells and three pottery owls in different sizes.

At the back of the room, overlooking the river, a row of windows lets in the light. Some have stained glass; some are plain so you can see the water and the trees and probably kookaburras and magpies and spiders. On the outside there are spiderwebs in every corner.

“Live and let live,” murmurs Mrs. Mac, apparently reading my mind as she puts a kettle on the stove and gets out cups and saucers. “They keep the flies out. Please, sit. Now, would you like ordinary black tea, or Earl Grey, or a herbal brew? I make my own mixtures; you might enjoy this one. Lemongrass, peppermint, marigold, a touch of this and that.” She opens a squat earthenware jar and offers it for me to sniff. “What do you think?”

Awkward Rachel, who hates speaking up and getting things wrong, would ask for ordinary black tea because it’s the safest. But this house calls for courage.

“That smells interesting. I’d love to try it, thanks.” I perch on the very edge of a wooden chair and watch Mrs. Mac potter about the kitchen.

Sybil does a great job of getting underfoot, but Mrs. Mac doesn’t step on her even once. When the tea is ready, in a pot that looks like some sort of creature but I can’t tell what—a toad, maybe?—Mrs. Mac clicks her fingers and says quietly, “Dogs!”

Just like that, they’re all around us; Sybil and the deerhound and the two from the hall—sturdy brindled Staffies. They sit, watching us.

“This is Finn,” Mrs. Mac indicates the deerhound, “and these are Minnie and Paddy, or Minerva and Patrick if you want to be formal. One named for a goddess, the other for a saint. And Finn, of course, was a great hero. Then there’s Sybil, and her brother over there.”

There are dog beds all over the place, from an oversized one that must be Finn’s to a tiny one with built-up sides. A head pops up from that one, round eyed and big eared. That dog’s just asking to be called Yoda. When Mrs. Mac lifts him out of his bed, I see that his hind legs are deformed.

“Oh, poor thing,” I say.

“Here, hold him while I pour the tea. One hand under his rear end, that’s it, and one around his chest. Take a firm hold. He won’t break.”

“What’s his name?” I’m trying to think of a god or saint or hero who couldn’t walk.

“Frankie. You’d be far too young to know how that name was chosen.”

I sit at the table with Frankie on my knee, wishing I could work it out. “St. Francis?”

“Good guess, but not right. You may like a spoonful of honey to sweeten that tea. Let it cool a bit before you drink.”

Frankie. Francis. Or maybe just Frank? Wasn’t there once an American president who used a wheelchair? Pity I didn’t bring my phone with me. But she’d probably think that was cheating. I stroke Frankie’s oversized ears and rub him under the chin. He relaxes against my chest. Why do I suddenly feel like crying? I hold the dog steady with one hand while I stir some honey into my tea. And the answer pops into my brain all by itself. “Franklin,” I say.

Mrs. Mac grins. “Very good, Rachel. A reader, are you?”

“Lucky guess. We don’t do much American history at school. And yes, I do love to read.” I focus on my tea, my cheeks hot. I’m waiting for the usual jokes about how a girl my age should be into clothes and boys.

But she just smiles and says, “Frankie has some wheels. He’s just getting used to the contraption, but he can scoot up and down the hall quite well.”

We sit quietly drinking our tea for a bit, then Mrs. Mac asks, “Do you know anything about the history of this house? How it came to be built, and who lived in it?”

“Nothing much. Only that it’s been empty for a long while.”

“You might do a little research. See what you can tell me, next time you visit.”

“Like homework?”

She laughs, not a polite-old-lady chuckle but a full-bellied guffaw. “Not at all. Expanding your horizons. Broadening your knowledge. Preparing for the future, and I don’t mean in a learn this or you’ll never get a job way. More tea?”

I remember suddenly that I only came over to give her the letter. “Oh—I’d better go home. My mother will freak out if she can’t find me. Sorry to seem rude, I…” I get up and almost step on Sybil. “Oh, sorry!”

“There’s no need to apologize for yourself, Rachel.” Mrs. Mac gives me a searching look. Her voice is kind, though. “If you need to go home, go. And if you’d like to visit me again, please do. Sybil! Up!” The tiny dog executes an unlikely leap into Mrs. Mac’s arms. “I’ll see you out.”

As we go down the hallway, I glance through a part-open door—that I’m sure was shut before—and my feet refuse to take another step. The room within is large and shadowy. The walls are lined with shelves, and the shelves are crammed with books. There are little round tables with lamps on them, and some squashy-looking old chairs. I stand there gaping. Those books can’t have been here while the house was empty. They’d have been eaten up by insects or fallen apart from mold or something. When did she move them all in?

“Not completely sorted out yet,” Mrs. Mac says. “Maybe you could assist me next time you visit. Let your mother know first. She’d surely approve of helping an old lady, mmm?”

I walk on, reluctantly, and say goodbye at the front door. As I cross the road, I think out what to say to Mum. I’ll be going over sometimes to help Mrs. Mac sort out her books, if that’s okay. She can’t reach the highest shelves on her own. I don’t like to lie, but the truth would freak Mum out.

That house is full of magic.

To my surprise, Mum says I can go over after school a few days later to help with the books. The night before I go, I make muffins to take with me. I’m nervous, even though Mrs. Mac was so nice. What if I interrupt her when she’s busy with something, or taking a nap?

The thought of being a nuisance makes my stomach queasy. It brings back all the times I’ve heard other kids talking about me at school, as if it was freakish to read a book at recess or ask questions they don’t understand or get so wrapped up in writing that I miss the bell to go back to class.

I can’t talk to my parents about this. Their solution would be signing me up for basketball or hockey or something, on the assumption that playing team sports would suddenly make me fit in. James can tell something’s not right at school. But I can’t talk to him, he’s only eleven. And he’d pass it straight on to Mum and Dad.

Mrs. Mac opens the door and smiles, and my stomach settles. We eat the muffins and drink tea, and I’m allowed to fasten Franklin into his little wheeled contraption so he can whizz up and down the hall with Sybil running alongside.

Then we go to the library.

This time there are reading lights on, and the curtains are open, and the big room is bright and warm and welcoming. In between the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are quirky corners and niches holding different things: a jar full of feathers, a scowling mask, a candelabra shaped like a woman with snakes for hair. There are window seats with cushions—an invitation to curl up and lose yourself in a book. At one end of the room is a tiled hearth for an open fire. The tiles have creatures on them, a bit like the ones on those stamps.

I take a big breath and let it out slowly. My home across the road is nice enough but it’s not the sort of place that brings stories bubbling to the surface.

“This house is beautiful,” I say as I look at the intricate pattern of leaves and vines and birds on the curtain fabric, and the carpet square like soft grass, and the diamond-shaped windowpanes. There are so many surprises here. One of them is the desktop computer setup, with big screen and printer and ergonomic office chair. Hers? I guess it must be.

There are books on a small table, and one catches my eye. Tracing the Cailleach: The Hag Figure in the Folklore of the Western Isles by Dr. M. G. MacEachern. I’m about to ask if Dr. MacEachern is a relative when I turn the book over and see the author’s photo on the back. It’s her, but a lot younger, around my mother’s age. She’s standing on rocks with the sea behind and her long dark hair streaming out in the wind. She’s not dressed up for a fancy author photo, but sensibly clad in a parka and jeans.

“That’s a great picture. You look happy.”

“I was happy. I’d finished my doctoral thesis and seen it published, and I was in one of my favorite spots in the world. You might find that book a little dry; it’s heavy on scholarly references. Try this instead.” She passes me a slimmer volume. The jacket illustration shows an old woman emerging from a dark wood, holding a lighted lantern and accompanied by a wolf. It’s a fairy tale version of Mrs. Mac. The title is Maiden and Crone: Tales of the Western Isles by M. G. McEachern.

“They left the ‘doctor’ off your name,” I say.

“That one’s not a scholarly work, simply a collection of some of the tales I discovered along the way. It was a lot of fun to write.”

I look through the pages. The illustrations are brilliant. One shows the witch, or maybe she’s a hag, standing in a giant whirlpool and washing what looks like a tartan blanket. She’s wild and powerful and completely unafraid. She’s exactly the way I wish I could be.

“We can be whatever we choose,” says Mrs. Mac, as if she’s read my thoughts.

“A goddess? A witch? In Ashburn?”

She smiles. “You won’t live your whole life in Ashburn. Not that it’s so bad a place to be a witch. Often it’s places like this that most need one.”

“What does that word mean—Cailleach?” I point to the title of the first book. “Sorry, I’m sure that’s not how you say it.”

“You’re doing it again. Apologizing.”

“Sorry. I mean… Could you tell me how to pronounce it, please?”

Mrs. Mac demonstrates. It sounds like KY-akh. “It means Hag,” she says. “Some folk imagine a hag as a hideous old woman. I see her as a force of nature. One which has been around since the time of our ancient ancestors, or longer still. But, of course, she could be both.”

“She doesn’t look hideous there. She looks as if nothing in the whole world could scare her.”

There’s a pause while Mrs. Mac pats Minnie and Paddy, who have come in quietly to sit on either side of her. “That’s how we need to be, Rachel,” Mrs. Mac says. “Unafraid. Unapologetic. Like the Cailleach. You’ll find that story at the end. It’s called ‘Washing the Plaid.’ Read it now, if you like.”

She doesn’t speak while I look the story up in the contents and find the right page. The title has a little wreath around it—half spring flowers, half snowflakes.

Then Mrs. Mac says, “She’s young like you. Brigid, a springtime goddess. And she’s old like me. The Hag, bringer of winter. That tale is about the way things keep changing, yet stay the same. How they renew themselves after turbulent times. How we stand strong, no matter what.”

I glance across, and for a moment I see not elderly Mrs. Mac with her white hair and wrinkles, but the woman in the author photo: a traveler, an adventurer, fearless and joyful. She’s young and middle-aged and old, all at the same time. Magic.

With a shiver, I bury myself in the book. It’s weird reading the story right after I’ve had that thought, because when the Cailleach washes her plaid in the whirlpool in late autumn, the tartan colors fade to white, and winter creeps over the land. When it’s time for spring a young goddess, Brigid, takes the Cailleach’s place, and things warm up and start growing again.

A note at the end tells me that in some versions of the story Brigid and the Cailleach are the same person. Young and old, spring and winter. In others, they’re separate goddesses. Either way, it’s about changes being part of a long steady pattern. That makes me think of how Mrs. Mac came to the Bridge House. And how you can’t judge things on the way they look at any given time, though lots of people do just that.

My mind fills up with ideas. I’m bursting to write about this.

I write at home. I write at school, and when people make snarky comments, I ignore them. I write at the Bridge House, after school or on the weekends, while Mrs. Mac works on her computer. But although I get deep into writing, I’m not blind to what’s happening around me, some of it seriously weird.

It started with the blue front door, and it keeps happening: fresh paintwork, wobbly steps fixed, broken windowpanes replaced. Inside, the house seems lighter, fresher, the curtains clean, the colors of the dragon carpet no longer faded. No cobwebs in the high corners, though there are still lots outside the kitchen windows. Mrs. Mac doesn’t ask me to sort the books, but someone’s doing it, because from all mixed up they’ve moved into library order. The jackets look brighter.

I don’t ask how it’s happening. I don’t want to break the spell

Each time I go home, I tell my parents I’ve been helping Mrs. Mac fix up the house. As long as I do my homework, they don’t seem to mind. I’m not ready to show them my stories yet. And if I told them I want to be a writer, they’d probably say Mrs. Mac was a bad influence, and make me stop visiting the Bridge House.

Why don’t I want anyone to read my stories? Because I couldn’t bear to be told they’re rubbish. It would be even worse if someone tried to be nice and I could tell they actually thought my stuff was terrible.

But I remember how Mrs. Mac gave me her book to read when she hardly knew me, and I think about the gazillion great story ideas I’ve had since visiting her, the house, and the dogs. She’s a writer too, a real writer. If there’s anyone I should trust to look at my stuff, she’s it.

I do have one story I’m fairly proud of. It’s my version of “Washing the Plaid.” Will Mrs. Mac like it, though? I imagine the Cailleach standing out there in the whirlpool, strong arms wielding the plaid like a banner, and I know it’s time to be brave.

I print a copy and give it to her the next time I’m at Bridge House. My hands tremble and I run home before she opens the first page.

The story starts like this:

You know me. But you don’t see me. I’m the shuffling bag lady in her worn-out shoes, the muttering derelict whose disturbing smell turns your head away and speeds your footsteps. I’m the wife and mother who one day, without explanation, throws a few things in a suitcase and walks out the door forever. I’m the snowy-haired grandmother, wizened as an apple left too long in storage, who stares at you with knife-sharp eyes, daring you to call her a little old lady.

I’m a witch. I’m a wisewoman. I’m a force of nature, a power to be reckoned with. I have a thousand names. I’ve lived a thousand lives. I am the spark of being, the flame of courage, the danger and the choice. I’m in every woman, deep down. Sometimes blinding bright, sometimes a steady glow, sometimes the merest flicker in a cavern of uncertainty. Disregard me at your own cost.

The next day I’m nearly home from school when I hear the shouting. There are people on the road outside our house and cars everywhere. I see James and Mum and Mr. Briggs, our neighbor. He’s the one doing the shouting.

I start to run, my schoolbag bouncing on my back. As I get close, I spot something tiny darting around on the road. Oh, God, it’s Sybil.

“Wait!” I call out, gesturing wildly, but nobody’s looking at me. Sybil’s in a panic, zigzagging all over the place. A driver coming the other way has stopped. People behind her honk their horns. A car comes up behind me. The driver slows; I step off the curb and put a hand out. Stop. With a grimace, he hits the brakes.

When I turn back, Mum has moved out to face the opposite line of traffic, signaling to the drivers to wait. I dump my bag on the footpath outside our house. James is crouched beside the lead car, trying to see underneath. The driver opens her door and gets out.

“It’s under here,” says James.

“Stay where you are. I’ll go on the other side,” I tell him.

The driver moves to the front of the car and gets in position for a quick catch.

There’s still an exit for Sybil—at the back. If she goes out that way, her path will lead straight under the line of vehicles with their impatient drivers. Mum stays right where she is, making sure nobody tries to drive through. Her expression startles me. Disregard me at your own cost.

“We need someone at the back of the car!” I call out.

In a moment, there’s Finn, come from nowhere to station himself exactly where he’s needed. I kneel on the road, peering under the car. Sybil’s right in the middle, out of reach, hunkered down on the ground, trembling.

“We need a broom or something,” says James, peering at me from the other side.

“How about I release the brake and we roll the car slowly forward?” suggests the driver, getting back in.

“Get that vicious brute off the road!” yells Mr. Briggs. “Should be muzzled and locked up!”

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Mum snaps. “Right now, we need a couple of people to push the car gently forward. Thanks,” she adds as other neighbors come over to help. “Slowly. That animal must be terrified. Ready? One, two, three—now.”

The car moves forward to reveal Sybil, now lying motionless on the road. Oh God, she’s had a heart attack or something. But no—she raises her head. She’s up on her feet, gathering herself for a sprint. Finn steps forward and places a majestic paw on her back, and she relaxes. I gather her up, holding her tight against my chest. My heart’s thumping super quick and so is Sybil’s. I feel dizzy, as if I might pass out.

“Thank you so much,” Mum is saying to the crowd. “It looks as if the little one’s fine. Thanks, everyone.” She ushers Sybil, Finn, James and me onto the footpath, then signals to various drivers that they can be on their way. One or two of them toot their horns briefly before they drive off, as if to say, Well done.

Mum waves.

I could swear she’s enjoying herself.

“I’d better take Sybil to Mrs. Mac’s,” I say when the traffic’s cleared. I can hear Mr. Briggs muttering something with “council” in it as he shuffles off home.

“Not on your own,” says Mum. “You’ve had a shock. We’ll all go. James, take Rachel’s bag inside, will you? And fetch that packet of Tim Tams from the pantry.”

We wait for him at Mrs. Mac’s gate, which is slightly open. There’s no sign of her; I hope she’s okay. James returns with the biscuits, but when we’re heading up the path he hangs back.

“Mum?” He sounds unusually serious.

“What is it, James?”

“Mr. Briggs let the little dog out. He opened Mrs. Mac’s gate.”

We stand in silence for a few moments. Then Mum says, “How do you know?”

“I saw him. From Rachel’s window.”

Mum looks at me, a question in her eyes.

“Mrs. Mac wouldn’t leave the gate open,” I say. “And there’s nowhere else Sybil could get out, even though she’s so small.”

“It’ll be James’s word against Mr. Briggs’s if someone complains to the council,” Mum says.

“I took a photo,” says my brother, “before I ran downstairs.”

I grin at James as we go up to the door. “The boy detective solves another crime!” A photo. That’s pure gold.

We knock; Mrs. Mac is slow to open the door.

“So sorry, I was just wrapping up an online tutorial… Sybil! Finn! What have you been up to? Come in, please…”

Mum tells the story as we go through to the kitchen. They introduce themselves properly and I learn Mrs. Mac’s first name: Morag. I hand Sybil over and make tea for everyone. James goes around patting all the dogs.

“You might get a visit from the ranger,” says Mum. “Briggs is the complaining type. Though no harm was done. Your dogs are very well behaved.”

“They are. I do have a council permit to keep more than the regulation two. Oh, chocolate biscuits, how thoughtful! I should be rewarding you, not the other way around.”

“Any time,” Mum says. “You were giving a tutorial? In what field?”

“Folklore. For the University of Aberdeen. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can teach from anywhere, though I am semiretired now. What field are you in, Mrs. Gordon? Or may I call you Alison?”

“Alison, please. I’m an accountant.”

Mrs. Mac nods. “And do you enjoy that?”

“It’s a job,” Mum says, fiddling with her cup. “Funny, thinking back. When I was Rachel’s age, I wanted to be a dancer. I was offered a scholarship, but my father put his foot down. It meant going to live in France, and he thought I was too young. Maybe he was right. How often do those childhood dreams come true?”

Only when you make them come true, I think. The conversation feels somehow dangerous. I drink my tea and let the two of them talk. Mum has surprised me today, and not only by taking control out there on the road. A dancer. Why had she never mentioned that?

“Rachel,” says Mrs. Mac, “your brother might like to see Frankie’s contraption in use.”

We put the wheels on the little dog and take him into the hall, where he shows off his speed. Now that we’re out of earshot I ask, “What were you doing in my bedroom, James? When you took that photo?”

My brother turns pink in the face. “Reading,” he mumbles.

I lay my palm against the wood paneling of the wall and imagine the house is making me calm and strong. When I ask, “Reading what?” I manage not to sound angry.

“That story about the dragon that gets woven into a carpet. I read some of it yesterday before you got home and I had to finish it.”

I swallow harsh words. You know you’re not allowed to go in my room without asking! Who said you could read my story? But I did leave a printout on the desk where anyone could find it. And it sounds as if he enjoyed it.

“Sorry,” my brother says. “I know you don’t like people reading your stuff. That story’s really good.”

“Thanks.” He’s just a kid. And as brothers go, he’s not bad. “It’s just as well you did go into my room, I guess, or Sybil might have been run over. And there would be no evidence.”

James flashes me a grateful smile. “Have you got any more stories I’d like?”

“Maybe. But ask first next time, okay? Some of them are too grown-up for you.”

I can hear snippets of conversation from the kitchen, and I’m glad we’re not there, because it’s really personal stuff from Mum, and the occasional comment from Mrs. Mac.

She held onto my Washing the Plaid story overnight; I still don’t know if she thought it was any good. Is she telling Mum about my writing? I hope not.

After a while, we take Frankie back to his bed. Mum and Mrs. Mac are still talking, but Mum looks at her watch and gets up.

“I should be making dinner. Thank you so much, Morag. It’s been wonderful talking to you.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue. Has she been crying?

“You’re welcome to drop in any time, Alison,” says Mrs. Mac. “You too, James. The dogs love a play. And thank you again, all of you. You saved Sybil’s life today.”

I’m considering this as Mum and James go out ahead of me. Thinking of a story in which Mrs. Mac made the whole thing happen—the gate, Sybil’s escape, my family’s intervention, the kindness of strangers. Wondering why.

“Wait a moment, Rachel,” says Mrs. Mac.

“I’ll catch up to you!” I call to the others.

Mrs. Mac waits until they’re out of earshot. “I loved your story, and not only because it’s about the Cailleach. It’s a remarkable piece of writing. I made a few notes, not corrections, just possibilities. I’d like to read it again tonight, if you don’t mind collecting it after school tomorrow. Writing is hard work, isn’t it? Frustrating sometimes. But there are moments of sheer magic. Like your story.”

I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“I’ll find you a link to the course I teach at the University of Aberdeen. Folklore and Ethnology. A possibility for the future. It’s a postgraduate degree, so you’d have a good while to convince your father that a year of overseas study wouldn’t turn you into a wild creature.”

And I think, down deep, I’m wild already. Trying my hand with the plaid. Freeing the dragon. Stirring the cauldron.

“You could enter that story for the Young Writers’ Awards,” says Mrs. Mac. “You’d need to show it to your English teacher. Think about it. Another monster to be confronted. One that might prove very helpful. Now you’d better go, your mother would probably appreciate some help in the kitchen.” A pause. “I like her.”

“She likes you. Bye, Mrs. MacEachern. I’m so glad Sybil is okay. And thank you for reading the story.”

“It was a joy, Rachel. See you soon.”

As I cross the street, I sense the presence of the Bridge House behind me. There’s no sound but distant traffic and the warbling of sleepy magpies, but I feel the house sigh and settle, like someone who’s done a good day’s work. I glance back. The neat, white-painted walls gleam in the warm afternoon light. Freesias bloom in Mrs. Mac’s garden; their sweet scent fills the air.

It’s springtime.