Priscilla arrived at the village hall, the air crisp with the scent of pine from a towering Christmas tree stationed by the entrance. A faint glow of candlelight seeped through the frosted windows, promising warmth inside. She stepped out of her car with great caution, managing her synthetic skirts as best as she could, and clutching her salt-seasoned ghillies in her small dance bag with one hand, and the dance program in the other.
The faint crunch of snow underfoot was soon replaced by the warm hum of music and chatter as Priscilla stepped into the hall. But as she transitioned from the cold outdoors to the cozy interior, she became acutely aware of a troubling issue. Despite the festive charm of her gown, the material seemed determined to conduct its own miniature electrical storm. Something about the dry air of the hall and the friction from the lobby’s carpeted floor had created a significant buildup of static. Each step made the fabric hiss against her legs, and she could almost swear she’d seen a spark or two on the drive over. Priscilla frowned, considering her options. Perhaps she could find a way to discharge the charge before joining the dance floor—though how one discreetly grounds oneself in a crowded hall was a puzzle she had yet to solve. A quick touch to the radiator, maybe? Or the metal chair legs by the refreshment table? She added it to her growing mental list of challenges for the evening.
The hall was a lively swirl of excitement in tartan, twinkling fairy lights, and the rhythmic sound of fiddles warming up. She paused to take it all in, the knot of unease still tightening in her chest. For all its festive charm, the gathering also held familiar faces she would rather avoid, but knew she would have to inevitably face. It might as well be sooner than later.
And there they were, clustered near the refreshment table—Henrietta Fairfax, Louisa McCrae, and the ever-dashing Fergus Wallace. The presence of Fergus was actually a blessing as she suspected that he would have a mitigating influence on Henrietta and Louisa, who were constitutionally disposed to critique and criticize any dancer not in the top tier of the arbitrary social strata. They were respectably dressed, exactly in line with the understood dress standards of the branch, celebratory but not exorbitant, with respectable dark hues, and tartan sashes draped with a precision that mirrored their studied countenances. Their faces assumed a particularly non-inviting aspect as they looked haughtily and judgmentally upon the assembled crowd of personages they recognized, and completely ignored those that they did not. Henrietta wore a fitted velvet dress in a deep emerald green that looked like it belonged in a historical drama, complete with a brooch that sparkled like it could fund a small estate. Louisa had opted for a sleek and severe burgundy gown with sequins on the bodice, looking every inch the grande dame of the hall and Branch. Fergus, with his windswept auburn hair and roguish smile, leaned against the table with an air of studied nonchalance listening to the ladies with polite attention and nodding in a friendly manner to other dancers. As if on cue, Henrietta spotted Priscilla and waved with an open hand in a queenly fashion with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Priscilla took a small inwards breath, as she could not take a deep one, and instinctively brought her hand to adjusted the neckline of her gown which seemed to have taken on a bit of uneven tilt, steeled herself, and approached with what she hoped was an air of indifferent confidence. Her own gown, though eye-catching in its cherry red tartan glory, was starting to feel more like an elaborate sauna. The synthetic fabric, meant to mimic luxurious satin, trapped heat with ruthless efficiency, and she could feel beads of sweat forming under the lace trim of her neckline. "Plastic perfection," she muttered under her breath, wishing she'd opted for something less suffocating.
But before she could fully reach and engage the ladies, she need to pass by the welcome table at the front of the hall. The sherry table, placed directly at the entrance to the dance floor, was abuzz with activity, hosted by none other than Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Abernathy. Known for their peculiar tastes and unmatched enthusiasm for ceilidhs, the Abernathys had outdone themselves this year. Mr. Abernathy, with his astonishing tartan trews and a waistcoat adorned with miniature thistles, poured sherry into tiny glasses with theatrical flair. Meanwhile, Mrs. Abernathy, a diminutive woman with a wild mane of silver hair and a gown in a shocking colour between yellow and green that Priscilla couldn't remember the name of and wouldn't be caught dead in, greeted guests with exaggerated renaissance curtsies and snippets of folklore about the “magic properties” of fortified wine.
“Drink up, my dears!” Mrs. Abernathy declared, holding up a glass of sherry as if it were the Holy Grail. “A wee dram of this, and you’ll be dancing like the fae themselves!”
Priscilla couldn’t help but smile as she approached the table. “Good evening, Mrs. Abernathy. It looks like you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Ah, Priscilla, a vision in cherry red!” Mrs. Abernathy replied, her sharp eyes twinkling. “You’ll be needing this for Dutch courage, I expect.” She handed Priscilla a glass, leaning in conspiratorially. “And watch out for ladies tonight. They're the reason we're running low on supplies, those two."
Priscilla stifled a laugh, grateful for the Abernathys’ unabashed eccentricity. She sipped the sherry, which was surprisingly potent, and took a breath, and turned about to face the inevitable. In her overheated state, she could practically feel the two ladies stares burning through the back of her gown.
“Priscilla, darling,” Henrietta cooed, her voice dripping with an acid saccharine sweetness. “You look positively glowing tonight. Is that… last year’s tartan?”
“Good to see you too, Henrietta,” Priscilla replied smoothly, her smile not faltering. “And no, this is a MacGregor variant. I call it 'Knives Out', based on the famous R.R. McIan portrait, you know, where the MacGregor swears vengeance on his enemies." She blinked sweetly, inwardly impressed with herself by this bit of improvisational banter and combative keywords. She resisted the urge to tug at the sticky fabric clinging to her back, instead squaring her shoulders and making an effort to look cool and collected.
“Timeless indeed,” Louisa chimed in, her tone honeyed but with a sharp edge. “Though I do wonder how you’ll manage The Silver Stag’s Escape with a skirt of that width. It’s not for the faint of heart and you know how crowded the sets can be.”
Priscilla gave an inward shudder at being so sartorially chastised but managed to blurt out, “I suppose we’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” struggling to keep her voice light and even. Fergus, meanwhile, looked amused, his dark eyes flicking between the women like a spectator at a particularly riveting tennis match.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Henrietta said, her tone dripping with mock reassurance. “After all, you’ve always been… so creative."
Fergus, who had been observing the exchange with mild amusement, stepped in. “Save me a strathspey, Priscilla. I’ve a feeling you’ll manage just fine.”
Before she could respond, a commotion at the nearby refreshment table drew everyone’s attention. A man in a far too-long kilt had managed to snag his sporran chain on the tablecloth of the buffet table, sending a tray of miniature star-crusted mince pies tumbling to the floor, their tin tray rattling as it hit the ground. Powdered sugar and loosened currants scattered like snow, and the man’s apologies were nearly drowned out by Henrietta’s audible gasp of dismay as a sticky raisin landed perilously near her shoes.
Priscilla bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as she bent down to help retrieve the fallen pastries. In the process, her fingers brushed against a small, crumpled piece of paper that had fallen unnoticed. She glanced at it, curiosity flaring, and unfolded it, assuming that it was associated with the Christmas treats.
“Meet me behind the hall near the kitchen at the interval. Important.”
Her pulse quickened. Who had written this, and what could be so urgent? She glanced back at the man, who was now frantically trying to clean up the mess with willing helpers, but he seemed entirely unaware of the note’s existence.
The band struck up the first reel, pulling her attention back to the dance floor. Priscilla made her way to a chair, wiping her sticky fingers discreetly on an obliging table covering. As she bent down to sit and slip on her ghillies, the static electricity that had built up in her gown finally reached its crescendo, and delivered a sharp zap as her skirt brushed the metal frame. She straightened with a small wince, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Other dancers, busy with their own preparations, turned their heads at the snapping sound, but found no reason to keep looking.
As a gentleman approached to claim her for the opening dance, she composed herself with a steadying breath. Taking her place in the first set, she patted her skirt pocket to ensure the folded note was still there. The mystery could wait—just for now.
Whatever the night held, it was already shaping up to be more than she’d anticipated!
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