She was walking down the aisle now beneath the seven crystal chandeliers that led to the paintings. Then she was standing in front of them. They were not only breathtakingly beautiful in color and artistry, but seemed to be a part of the Highlands they portrayed. Even part of the people who had lived and loved in these hills since Cira had come here from her volcano-torn land over two thousand years ago. The woman with the blue parasol sitting by the lake watching her child playing nearby. The young shepherd boy and his brown dog climbing a hill. An old, white-haired man sitting on a bench in front of a chapel.

You did good, MacClaren. It was too bad you couldn’t have taken these paintings with you. They’re almost all still perfect except for a ding here and there. But maybe there was a reason why you felt they should stay here. Or maybe we’ll have to think about a way to fix that.

But there was no question that she would take more than photos of these murals. She wanted to feel as if she belonged to the paintings and these Highlands in a special way. Perhaps in the same way as Fiona, MacClaren, and even Cira and her husband, Antonio. She spent thirty minutes taking the photos with painstaking care. Then she opened her sketchbook and sat down in front of the paintings.

Do you mind if I join you? I promise I’ll behave with all due respect.

No, that wasn’t…quite right. Jane went through the sketchbook and found the Mist Child and propped it on the seat next to her. That seems right. MacDuff said she looks like Fiona. She’ll be good company.

Then she started to sketch.

*  *  *

It was after dark, and Jane had already turned on the chandeliers when Caleb squatted down beside her chair. “How’s it going? Get a little carried away?”

She nodded. “But I expected that. I wasn’t trying to copy the paintings. I only wanted to add my part of the story so that it showed I was here for them, too. It seemed important, somehow. I think I’ve done enough that I can transfer it to canvas.”

He gave a low whistle as he gazed at the sketches. “I know you have. It’s going to be spectacular.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just me saying, Here’s how things have changed and yet stayed the same. Like all life.”

“That’s fairly profound.”

“Not really.” She was carefully putting the sketches away. “I believe it was what MacClaren might have been trying to tell all the people who had been here in the Highlands before him. I just added my bit.”