Love by the Stroke of Midnight

to even accept that while she was certain there were no such things as levitating, time travel, witches and seers, others thought differently? Why was she adamantly opposed to them? The expression, ‘but how do you know’ circled round in her mind. She didn’t know, and that might be half the problem.
She was never happy being kept in the dark.
Perhaps she’d been a witch in a previous life and burned at the stake? Or harangued for trying to warn people of things to come? Even though she didn’t believe in having a previous life and couldn’t sense things now. Marcail remembered all the reports she’d read about remote viewers and how different governments had tried to use people to discover what was happening in various places by asking them to concentrate on said place. Eventually the trials had been discontinued due to lack of evidence. But…what if…?
“Start to believe it, mo ghaol.”
One more thing to ponder over.
Engrossed with looking at the water, she didn’t know anyone was around until a polite cough interrupted her reverie.
Marcail looked up, and into the twinkling deep blue eyes of a white-haired, elderly lady.
She blinked as the woman smiled—a smile that lit up her face with welcome—and dipped her head by way of greeting.
Those eyes reminded her of the sheep she’d seen on the way north. Piercing, all-seeing, old and wise.
“I don’t think she’d want to be compared to a sheep, mo ghaol.”
Marcail ignored that and addressed the lady. “Hello, I didn’t see you, sorry.”
How on earth had she turned up there?
“By magic, Marcail. Do you not recognise your previous self?”
Marcail dropped her mug, and watched in a detached way as it rolled slowly down the slope to the edge of the cliff, leaving a trail of homemade tomato and basil soup in its wake, before it bounced twice and disappeared over the edge.
“How for twenty-eight years and ten months or so did I live a happy uncomplicated life, with no weird happenings, no unwelcome intrusions into my mind, and then it all go topsy-turvy?” she said aloud, not really knowing if she was asking herself or the elderly lady. “I accepted I had a voice in my head, that others might sense things and I couldn’t, and I was okay-ish with that. Then I accepted I had other voices at times. Now, though? I have no idea what the he-heck is going on. What have I done to deserve it?”
“Apart from wasting months with that idiot who was using you?” the lady asked. “I tell you, I thought you’d have learned your lesson last time.”
“Last time?” Marcail had no idea who else in her not-so-rich love life had used her. None of the relationships had lasted long enough for either of them to get to that stage, surely?
The lady laughed. “Around the time I, as in you, were ready to go to London and petition the government to allow us the tartan. Although the visit never materialised because the law banning it was repealed first. Saved me a long journey but left me too close to a skiving, conniving, sneaky wee bugger called Callum Crathes. He thought to use me…you. Ach, this me you is getting awfy complicated. Can ye no accept your earlier sel?”
“It’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Aye, if you’re thinking so.” She sat down beside Marcail and drew her faded plaids around her. “You’ll change as need be. It’s a wee bitty chilly, eh? Is snow coming?”
Marcail sniffed the air. “Not for a while yet, I don’t think. Maybe later today or early tomorrow.”
The woman nodded. “So you can sense that, Marcail Morven, but you’ll not open yourself to other things, will you?”
Marcail sighed. “I just don’t know what’s what. What is next?”
“Our birthday is part of the what’s next. Will you promise me one thing, Marcail? That you drop any prejudice and listen to what is told to you? I beg you. For if you don’t, someone we both love will never get the chance to properly be. Will you?”
Marcail looked into the woman’s deep, mesmeric eyes. It all sounded double Dutch to her. Totally unintelligible. However, something in the woman’s tone appealed to her. “If I say yes, will you tell me who you really are? Your name?”
“Will you promise me?”
Slowly Marcail nodded and because she felt it had to be vocalised, spoke out loud. “I promise.”
The sun broke through the ever-increasing clouds and sent a halo of warmth and brightness around the two of them.
“Bless you. So will he.” The old lady appeared to shimmer and fade.
“Your name,” Marcail said urgently. “Your name.”
“Marcail…” The word faded as the woman disappeared. “We came from Morven. I’m Marcail…”
Marcail shivered and looked at her watch.
How had three hours passed? The air was more than chilly, and the sky had a browny-grey tint to it that she knew so well. Had she dozed off? It wasn’t like her, she would normally never sleep during the day, but then, what was normal? That was a question she seemed to be asking a lot lately.
Whatever had happened, it was time to make a move. Marcail opened the flask and sniffed. As she’d thought, the contents were barely lukewarm, but she put the lip of the flask to her mouth anyway and swallowed some soup. It would do until she arrived home. Once she’d had enough, she screwed the lid back on, gathered her things together and wondered about the mug. A sticky trail showed its path to the cliff edge, and a quick glance confirmed it hadn’t caught on a tussock of grass or an outcrop of rock. Lost forever. At least it was an old tin one her dad had used when he went fishing, and not one of the newer ones her mum loved. No one would miss a battered, chipped tin mug.
“I would.”
“Well tough,” she muttered. “It’s gone over the edge and I don’t intend to do so as well. Let the fishes have it.”
“Or the kelpies?”
She smiled. “Trust you, Cyril. Or the