As the moment that marked the eve of his wife’s death approached, Nathaniel Moncreiffe knelt before her grave. Fog swirled in thick, gray strands past the eerie light of the lantern beside him, enveloping him in a living tomb. His fingertip, calloused from countless repetitions, traced the letters that were as deeply etched into the recesses of his heart as they were the rough surface of the gravestone.

          MARGARET MONCREIFFE

          BELOVED WIFE

          BORN 1259

          DIED 1287

His hand shook upon the final line before falling away. Eyes closed, he listened to the distant rush of waves and their crash against the cliff that served as Castle Rothesay’s eastern sea barrier. The waves beat upon the stone, their insidious aim to wear away the island until it was but a narrow pillar like the one standing sentinel sixty meters from the mainland.       

How had that pillar withstood time? Nathaniel gave a harsh laugh. Such questions were kin to asking why Maggie had been taken—or why he had ceased living. Anger shot through him. You know why, his mind cried out in the first denial of the night. Five years has not dulled your memory. Neither will another five change the answer.

Footsteps in the darkness wrenched his head around.  “Who goes there?” 

“Forgive me, Laird,”  came a familiar voice.  “I didna’ see you there.”

Nathaniel exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he held.  “Barclay, you near sent me to my grave.” 

Barcley stepped from the mist and through the cemetery gate.  “It would take more than this old gardener to bring an end to Laird Moncreiffe. But lingering outdoors on a night not meant for the living could do so.”

Nathaniel swept his gaze upward at the murky sky.  “Aye, a night for the dead.”

Barclay shivered.  “Niamh walks the earth tonight.”  

Nathaniel looked back at the grave.  “The otherworld princess walked amongst us once. She will not do so again.”

“No surprise, I suppose,”  came another voice from the mist,  “that I should find you here.”  James Ruthven entered the small circle of light.

“You should have saved yourself the trouble of coming,” Nathaniel replied, gaze still on the headstone.    

“‘Tis five years past, Moncreiffe. Time to put your mourning clothes aside.”

Nathaniel riveted his attention onto his friend.  “Five years? What is that to a lifetime? Maggie and I were wed ten years—betrothed three. She was everything to me.”

“But she would not ask this of you.”

Nathaniel surveyed the graves surrounding his wife. Lives not cut down in their prime.  “What would you know of it?”

          “Come inside,”  his friend urged.  “Rose is there.”

A thrill radiated through Nathaniel.  “Nay,”  he shot back, recognizing the second denial in as many minutes.

“Come.”  James gripped his arm and pulled him upright. Lifting the lantern, he urged Nathaniel toward the gate, then halted.  “The grave—”   

Nathaniel gave him a questioning look, but James shook his head, smiling.  “An ungodly place to congregate on such a night.”  He laughed.  “On any night, aye?”  He gave Nathaniel a hearty back slap and prodded him onward. As they turned down the path, James cast a final glance over his shoulder into the darkness of the cemetery.

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