Excerpt
Isle of Skye, 1 Jan 2149 CE
It was just past midnight when the woman in wet, torn forest green saw what had to be the light from windows of a small house. She stumbled toward it gratefully, hoping for warmth and some sort of communications. Dammit, equipment failure and a plane crash were no way to start New Year's Day!
As she neared the house, she heard party sounds, and grinned. It seemed that someone, at least, was having fun here on—if she remembered her charts right—the Isle of Skye. The North Sea in winter … yes, she was lucky to be alive.
When she knocked on the door, the party sounds got louder—until the door opened, and someone saw her.
"Och, we have a soaked lass out here!" the young man exclaimed. He turned back into the house, called for blankets and a hot drink, then put his arm around the woman, led her inside, and saw her settled into a comfortable seat beside the fireplace.
"Our first visitor, with no coal or whiskey," an old man said ruefully. "No good omen for the New Year, no warmth for heart or hearth."
"Och, uncle, 'tis no fault of hers," the young man said. "It's cold and wet she is, in need of help." He held a glass of whiskey to the woman's lips, nodded as she sipped. "That's a good lass," he said approvingly. "I'm Geordie MacGregor, and who may you be?"
The woman hesitated, hiding it with another sip of whiskey. They hadn't identified her from her uniform; should she … no. See what they were really like, first. "Lindner … Sue Lindner. My plane went down, and when I made it ashore, I saw your lights." She turned to the old man Geordie had called Uncle. "I'm sorry to be a bad omen, sir, but it may be I won't be that bad."
"Ach, lass, I'm the one to be sorry," Geordie's uncle replied. "'Tis superstition, I know, but 'tis tradition as well. It's rest you should be getting."
"I would like to warm up a bit, then if you have a phone, I should call and let the people expecting me know where I am. I'll pay for the call, of course; it's long distance."
"You'll do no such thing," the old man retorted. "I'll not have it bruited about that Donal MacGregor's lacking in proper hospitality. A plane crash, you say, and your clothes half gone … are you hurt? Will the Rescue Service not be looking for you?"
"I doubt it; my flight wasn't scheduled. And I'm not hurt, except for a few scratches and bruises. There's no need to disturb your party." She'd discarded her boots and equipment belt for the swim ashore, and sometime during that swim or her wandering—probably coming ashore over those rocks—she'd lost her badge and pretty well shredded her uniform. It was no wonder they didn't recognize her; she doubted she'd be able to recognize herself, huddled under a blanket with her hair plastered down by salt water.
Another knock on the door brought laughter, especially from the woman who opened it to admit a kilt-clad man bearing a piece of coal and a bottle of whiskey.
"'Tis a few minutes late you are, Angus," Donal MacGregor called. "Our first guest of the year is this poor cold lass here."
"And half drowned, by the look of her," Angus replied....