Free The Pictish Child by Jane Yolen

mind,” said Gran. “To think she has been my best friend forever, and never a word about her Pictish connections.”
    â€œBut it was Mrs. McGregor who gave Molly the stone,” Jennifer reminded her. “Not Mrs. MacAlpin.”
    â€œThen I will give them both a piece. And have a piece left over for Catriona Campbell as well. Yer not to practice witchcraft against yer friends. And never against members of yer own coven. Whatever did those three think they were doing? Or has the Eventide Home sapped them of their wits as well as their strength?”
    There was no one in the Garden Parlor, either.
    Just when Jennifer was sure something awful must have happened to the entire population of the Eventide Home—something to do with the dark mist, probably—there was a loud sound, rather like a flock of birds gabbling together. Along the hall, from the opposite end of the Eventide Home, marched the residents in a ragged line.
    â€œOch—lunchtime, of course,” Gran said. “And now they’ve all been let out of the dining commons and are coming toward us like a gaggle of silly geese.”
    Since it was just what she’d been thinking herself, Jennifer started to laugh, as much in relief as anything else. Molly joined in, and so did Peter. Ninia laughed, too, though she had no idea what the others were finding so amusing.
    But the dog made no such sound. Instead he backed up from the advancing line, tail between his legs, and found an improbable hiding place under the glass-topped table. There he began moaning, “Dark, dark, dark,” till Peter gave him a slight kick.
    Jennifer glanced out the window to the Eventide gardens and the cemetery wall beyond, fully expecting to see the dreaded dark mist advancing toward them. But the gardens were clear, the rain had stopped again, and it was sunshine that was now pouring down instead.
    Molly began jumping around. “It’s Fiona with them. See?” She pointed down the hall. “Do you think she’ll have more ice cream for me, Gran? Can I ask her? Can I?”
    Indeed it was Fiona, shepherding her flock with expert ease and infinite patience. Jennifer came to the doorway and watched as Fiona situated four old ladies on the sofa in one room and left them to their gossip. Then Fiona wheeled the old gentleman over to the fire to doze, though the fire was no longer lit. Next she pushed the lady in the wheelchair to the window and motioned at something, a bird, perhaps, or someone walking by. As she passed one of the fringed lampshades, she gave it a tweak with her fingers, her foxlike face looking slyer than ever.
    Finally Fiona guided Gran’s three friends—Mrs. McGregor, Mrs. Campbell, and Maggie MacAlpin—to the table at the Garden Parlor’s Center.
    â€œThere, my dears,” Fiona said. “Enjoy your card game.” She tweaked the fringe on the shade by the table as well.
    Ignoring the children, she added to Gran, “Perhaps you would like to play cards with them, Mrs. Douglas. And here’s a shawl. You will get much too cold if you sit in here without one.” Not waiting for permission this time, she placed the shawl over Gran’s shoulders and smoothed it down.
    â€œPerhaps …” Gran said slowly, as if trying to puzzle out something, “perhaps I would like to play.” She sat in the empty chair. “And that shawl feels nice and warm.”
    â€œYou miss your friends here in the Eventide Home, don’t you,” said Fiona. But it was less a question than a statement. “You should come more often. They need a fourth for the cards.” She smiled and left the room.
    â€œPlay cards?” Jennifer said, appalled. “This is no time to play cards, Gran. I thought we came here to talk to Maggie MacAlpin. To give her a piece of your mind.”
    â€œAbout the Picts,” Peter added.
    Gran looked up a bit muzzily. “Of course we did, my dears. All in