The Pictish Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

ran out onto the cobbles.
    â€œCome here, child,” Gran called. “Or ye’ll be run down.”
    Luckily no car came by while they coaxed her back onto the sidewalk, but she would not walk under either of the umbrellas. Indeed, the very sight of them seemed to send her into a panic. So Gran stayed behind with her while Molly and Jennifer walked on ahead.
    As quickly as the rain had begun it ended, and a fiercely hot sun came out from behind the dark clouds. First Jennifer, then Molly shut their umbrellas, and only then could Gran convince the Pictish girl to close ranks with them.
    â€œHas she never seen an umbrella, Gran?” asked Molly.
    â€œNo, my sweet,” said Gran. “And what she will make of cars and stone houses and running water and electric lights, I canna begin to guess.”
    â€œAnd the telly? Has she seen a telly before?” Molly asked. She had already picked up more Britishisms than the rest of the family combined, and was using them interchangeably with her American words.
    â€œOf course she hasn’t seen a TV before,” Jennifer said.
    â€œHow can you know, Jen?” asked Molly.
    â€œBecause TV was invented in this century. And that girl is hundreds of centuries old,” Jennifer said.
    â€œShe doesn’t look hundreds of centuries old,” said Molly. “Only a little older than me.”
    â€œShe … her … the girl …” Jennifer shook her head. “Gran, we can’t keep calling her that. Does she have a name, do you suppose? I mean, one that we can pronounce!”
    â€œI dinna ken how to ask her,” admitted Gran.
    â€œI do,” said Molly. She turned to the dark girl and put her hand on her chest. “Me Molly,” she said. Then she touched the girl on the arm. “Who you?” She turned back to Gran, grinning. “I saw that in a movie.”
    â€œMe Molly!” the girl said seriously.
    â€œNo, no. Me Molly!” Molly’s face got red. “Not you.” She stamped her foot.
    The girl put her hand—the one without the talisman—over her mouth. Her dark eyes were full of laughter. When she had control of herself again, she touched Molly’s arm. “Me Molly,” she said. Then she put her fist, thumb side in, on her own chest. “Ninia.”
    â€œNinia!” Molly crowed. “Her name is Ninia!”
    The dog growled, “Or her chest is Ninia. Or her heart. Or—”
    â€œShut up, dog!” Jennifer said. “If Molly says that’s the Pictish girl’s name, that’s her name.”
    â€œQuite right,” agreed Gran. “At least that is what we will call her.”
    They walked on to the junction where Burial Brae turned into Double Dykes Road, and—luckily—no cars went by. Gran hurried them along so that they got safely and quickly to Abbot’s Close. Gran’s house, whitewashed and welcoming, stood but a little way down the lane.
    Sitting on the doorstep was Peter, his face as long as a ruler.
    â€œWhat took you all so long?” he asked. “I didn’t have a key.” Then, catching sight of Ninia, he added, “Who’s she?”
    Jennifer tried to explain, and then Gran. Even Molly had a try at it, but Peter just shook his head.
    â€œA Pict? How can she be a Pict? Weren’t the Picts all dead hundreds of years ago?”
    â€œMillions,” Molly said.
    â€œExactly,” Gran replied.
    â€œExactly … what?” asked Peter. His lips shut tight, as if locking up his entire face.
    â€œI expect it has to do with the back end of history,” Gran said.
    â€œAnd what’s the back end of history?” Peter asked reluctantly.
    â€œWhat a glundie,” said the dog. “Everyone kens that.”
    â€œGlundie or not, I don’t know it,” said Peter.
    â€œMe neither,” said Jennifer stoutly. Peter was, after all, her twin. And if he was to be a glundie—whatever