"I was asking the questions, Nigel," a gray-haired, no-nonsense woman said briskly. She pinned the couple to their seats with a steely gaze. "Did you witness anything else untoward?"
"Duuude," said the male Colonist, "isn't that enough? What kinda special effects do ya want out here?"
"What we saw was enough," the girl agreed with a shiver.
"Note that, Gerard," the gray-haired woman said, elbowing a plump man sitting next to her. "We've definitely a ruin in pristine condition."
"I am endeavoring," the scribe said, dragging his forearm across his perspiring brow, "to note things as quickly as I can, Constance!"
The man named Nigel slapped his hands on the table and stood. "I daresay we need no other evidence," he said enthusiastically. "The castle must be preserved in its natural state. Come, Constance! Come, Gerard! Let us away to plan our strategy!"
Ambrose lifted one eyebrow. So these three were bent on preserving the castle up the way. An interesting idea, but he wondered how the souls loitering in the keep would feel about their home being chosen for such an honor. He watched as the trio rushed from the dining chamber, their petards mightily hoisted. Ah, well, if nothing else, they would provide a chuckle or two for those who would be watching.
He left the Colonists to their tea and uneasy whispers and made his way to the kitchen. A flick of his wrist lit candles and lamps and stoked a hearty fire in the stove. He pulled out a chair, sat, and prepared to pass a pleasant evening pondering his next matchmaking task. He had just returned from a lovely pair of months at his home in the Highlands, but he couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at being back at the inn, ready to turn his considerable energies to the task at hand: a task that he suspected might tax even his substantial stores of cunning.
He had just settled back in his chair with a hefty tankard of ale when the back door blew open. Lamps flickered wildly, and several candles extinguished themselves altogether. Ambrose looked up with a faint bit of annoyance and relit the abused tapers with another flick of his wrist.
"Wet out," the other man said as he stomped the water from his boots and cast aside his cloak. He slammed the door behind him. "Never should have left France."
Ambrose looked at Fulbert de Piaget and couldn't help briefly agreeing with the last sentiment. But the man was, after all, his own sweet sister's husband, so Ambrose forbore any nasty remarks.
"Lovely holiday?" he asked politely.
"Could have been longer," Fulbert grumbled. "But I heard that the McKinnon lad was set to arrive soon, so I knew I'd best come back and lend some good sense to this venture."
The McKinnon lad in question was Thomas, Megan's brother. Megan herself had found very little favor with Fulbert before she had married his nephew (many times removed, mind you). Unfortunately, not even her marriage to Gideon de Piaget had improved Fulbert's opinion of her much. Even with his own wife having been a Scot, Fulbert never seemed to find much to recommend anyone related to anyone who had ever sported a plaid.
"Should have never allowed me nevvy Gideon to have wed with young Megan," Fulbert grumbled.
Ambrose ignored the expected slander and placidly took another drink of his ale.
Fulbert scowled. "I can scarce wait to learn what poor lass you have found to foist your grandson off upon."
" 'Tis a bit of a tale—"
Fulbert reached out and grasped a suddenly materialized mug of ale and downed it in one long pull. "Leave me to me fortifying before you begin—"
The back door burst open a second time, and Ambrose felt his jaw slide down of its own accord.
"Foolishness," Fulbert said, choking on his ale.
Ambrose, for once, had to agree with him. He looked at the newest arrival, who currently struggled to balance all the paraphernalia he was holding and shut the door behind him at the same time.
"What," Fulbert managed in a very strangled voice, "have you done to yourself?"
The third man beamed a rather gap-toothed smile at them and placed his burdens most carefully on the worktable near the door. Ambrose glanced at the pile and saw all manner of souvenirs there, things a body might have acquired in a... nay, he couldn't bring himself to think on where they had been acquired.
Then the man turned back to them and held open his arms wide so they could admire his clothing. Gone were Hugh McKinnon's manly plaid and rugged boots. Gone were the well-wrought saffron shirt, the sword buckled around his waist, and the cap tilted with a goodly amount of jauntiness atop his head. In its place were mouse ears, a red shirt, suspenders, blue trews, and, the most appalling of all, a tail.
"California," Hugh said proudly.
"Southern region?" Fulbert asked in horror, his hand to his throat.
"Aye," Hugh said, nodding enthusiastically and causing his ears to bounce wildly about. "Passing pleasant there. No rain. A goodly amount of sunshine."
Apparently the lack of clouds had caused Hugh's brain to catch fire. Ambrose could find no other explanation for his cousin's (by way of several intermarriages) sudden departure from good sense. He'd had his own trip to the Colonies and loitered where no sensible shade ever should have found himself, yet he'd returned home as quickly as he could, hoping none of his proud and illustrious ancestors had been watching what he'd been forced to do.
For he, too, had made that harrowing journey to the western coast, and he, too, had ventured inside that theme park's gated enclosure.
But he certainly hadn't gone so far as to wear any of the cartoon creatures he'd found there.
"Hugh," Ambrose said, feeling faint with dismay over what he was seeing, "what have you done?"
Hugh suddenly shifted from foot to foot uneasily, causing his tail to sway in a most unsettling manner. "Nothing I shouldn't have," he said.
"I meant your clothing ..."
"Ah," Hugh said, looking vastly relieved. "Well, you see,
