Page 5 of Some Like It Scot
I raised my camera for a shot of the amazing display of art and architecture.
“Merlin,” came the cry again, except from an older voice. Very English and with a McGonagall-type authority. “I command you to appear at once.”
My body froze at the incantation. And from an Englishwoman too.
I’d read my Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so séances and weird magic fit into the Edwardian vibe, but I’m not sure I wanted to be a part of bringing Merlin back from the... wherever he’d gone.
I frowned. But wasn’t King Arthur the legendary one who was supposed to rise from the dead?
I shouldn’t have paused to contemplate. I should have headed directly for Archie and his overpriced taxi, but when I turned in the direction of the voice, my feet froze to the stair.
Coming toward me, wings outstretched and beady eyes capturing mine, flew a massive blue-and-yellow macaw holding a red hat in its talons.
But that wasn’t the most alarming sight.
Running from the entryway in pursuit of the macaw emerged a small collection of three women. The lead woman wore a stylish Edwardian day suit and waved a broom in the air. The younger woman wore some sort of vintage gown with a red feather boa that flapped behind her like—forgive me—a broken wing. And the third woman was the maid who rushed ahead raising a sword.
What on earth was happening?
Or perhaps I wasn’t on earth... and I’d opened the front door into another dimension.
My camera flashed as my finger reflexively squeezed.
The macaw closed in.
So did the women.
Keeping a firm hold on my camera, I pressed my body against the railing to give both the bird and the women as much access to pass as the stairway provided.
“Catch him!” The lead woman screamed. “That hat was given to my mother by the King of Spain.”
Her English accent lengthened the vowels in an exaggerated way as she rushed forward, but my full attention focused on the macaw, who, without any hesitation, landed on my shoulder.
I held my breath, his weight surprising and the prick of his talons intimidating. With the slightest whimper, I pressed a little farther back into the stair railing, gripping the wood with all my might to keep from moving.
“Don’t move.” The elder lady slowed her pace, one palm outstretched and the other holding the broom.
“The broom will not work, my dear.” A male voice sounded from somewhere above, much too calm for the situation. “It will only annoy him further.”
The talons pinched more tightly into my shoulder as if to confirm the man’s words, and two things happened at once. The bird took flight and a resounding crack reverberated through the room.
The railing gave way.
The nonexistent heels of my flats scraped the wood step in a vain attempt at slowing my demise, the English woman released a loud gasp, and my body lost its fight with gravity, sending me hurtling backward toward the ground.
My life flashed before my eyes, just as the sun split the clouds out the windows and haloed my face. My twelve-hour romance in Italy. An escape from a killer monkey in Africa. Grandpa’s laugh. Gran’s chocolate cake.
I resigned to my end, only disappointed that the last photo anyone would find on my camera would be of an oversize macaw carrying a hat with a barrage of Edwardian ladies in pursuit.
I hugged my camera to my chest with one arm—at least the photo of Dad wearing a duckbill for my nephew would survive—and tried to remember what I grasped in my other hand.
My body tensed for impact, but the back-breaking strike of the floor didn’t come. Instead, I hit something firm and somewhat soft at the same time.
Another terrifying masterpiece by a taxidermist?
A grunt proved I’d hit something more human—and probably male—than stuffed and exotic. We both crashed to the floor, or rather, he crashed and I landed on top of him. I glanced up at the beautifully ornate ceiling and prayed to God I hadn’t just squished a frail gardener or tenderhearted grandpa.
I wasn’t the smallest of women.
