19. THE RECKONING

Mercifully Friday arrived before Minerva had gotten into any fights, though she came close in second period as Professor Binns droned his way through the history of wand-making. Raymie Sykes, looking pointedly at Minerva, volunteered in his loudest voice that not all new students bought their wands at Ollivander's. This prompted Binns to give it as his expert opinion that the handing down of wands from one generation to the next was a dangerous economy, likely to deprive the student mage of the best selection for his or her potential. This left Minerva seething and wanting badly to curse them both into oblivion. But Dugald grunted at lunch that it sounded like old Binns was getting paid off by the Wand-Makers’ Guild to plug their product, and her spirits lifted somewhat.

The results of the Quidditch tryouts were posted in the common room Friday noon, but Minerva had no need to look at it with the other eager candidates. Her name had been placed under 'Reserves--Chasers'. She and Stephen had agreed this would be best, a way of allowing her to work her way back onto the team after Christmas.

“Hey, Nerves, make the team?” It was Raymie Sykes. He scanned the list. “Well, cheer up, nobody gets on, first year. Not even my sister Jockie made it, and she the first ever to fly solo across the Atlantic.”

Minerva walked over, pretending interest in the announcement. She saw that the hefty boy, Danny Broadmoor, who had joked about wanting Stephen’s position, had been chosen as one of the Beaters, and Miranda Goshawk had taken her place as the third Chaser. “Mmmm--first practice Monday night.”

“So what?” said Raymie. “You going to sit in the stands and take notes?”

“Why’d you say that?”

“You’re getting like that batty Hildy Bagshot, scratching page after page in History class. Suze says you could be writing a novel, all the notes you take. You write faster than a tout at a Winged Horse race.”

“Susannah Yorke should mind her own business. She’d get better marks. Anyway, I’m not sitting in any grandstand. I plan to practice with the team�”when I get back.”

“Why? Where're you going?”

“Home. My ma’s back from Kirke’s, and I’m to help nurse her.”

~*~

“Is Ma here yet?” Minerva literally leaped out of the fireplace and shouted at Goodie Gudgeon, who was standing at the center table up to her elbows in dough. She recognized foreman Filch's wife Belda at the sink, tapping her wand against the sideboard as she supervised the peeling and slicing of a vast quantity of vegetables.

“Naw, child, she’s comin the morn’s morn. I thought yer Da told you that.”

“Aye, he did, but I thought maybe…”

“Och, ma dearie, it’ll be jist a wee. Come get out of yer school robes. I've got yer formal plaidie laid out on yer bed. We’re haein yer faither’s sisters ower at evening.”

“Oh, that’ll be fine, but why not wait until Ma’s home? Then we can really celebrate.”

“Yer ma needs her rest the noo. Healer Kirk wants us tae tak it slaw wi her. And the tea’s for business�”the Rackonin ye ken.”

Ah, the Reckoning. Every six months, after harvest and planting, Da and the aunts got together to pool their earnings and distribute the wealth. It was a custom the family had agreed to long ago. When Cadwallader McGonagall died, his wife having predeceased him, he willed the entire estate to his only son and left his equally deserving daughters out in the cold, saying they could just as lief marry and go live off their husbands. In fact it was said that the old misogynist had hung around just long enough to ensure that there was a male heir come of age to pass his property on to.

But Scots and Wizarding law both required that some share of property go to each sibling on a parent’s demise. Jupiter loved his sisters and wanted to be fair about it, not just give each one a token bit of the estate. And his sisters, except for Charlamaine, agreed that they didn’t want to divide up the estate anyway. Possession of a large tract of land was an important part of a Scots family’s influence and standing in the community, as it had been from medieval times. To give each of them a piece of the farm would leave them all the poorer. So they decided that Jupiter should keep the title of Lord of Connghaill Keep and each of them would husband a portion of the land as a tenant, but paying no rent. At the Reckoning each received a seventh of the pooled profits and Jupiter paid out of his share a salary to each sister. It worked well for all concerned. Even Charlamaine had difficulty finding a flaw in the system.

~*~

While she changed her clothes, Minerva thought about her aunts' unusual names. According to Goodie, they were a further reflection of their father's obsession with male offspring. Grandfather McGonagall had been confidently expecting a boy with every confinement. He'd picked 'Charles' for his first-born, after the beloved ‘Bonnie Prince.’ He hadn’t even thought to have a female name on hand and was quite perplexed when the bairn turned out to be a girl. His wife Johanna had come to his aid, suggesting 'Charlamaine' as a compromise.

When the twins were born, 'Philip' and 'Francis' were quickly turned into 'Philippa' and 'Frances'.

Roberta came next. She had been meant to honor Bobby ‘Ironpate’ McPherson, the great Creaothceann player, and she grew up tall and athletic, like her namesake. She tried to fulfill her father’s dream as best she could, despite her obvious femininity, and played Chaser for the mighty Montrose Magpies for years.

Barely nine months after Roberta came Geraldine, who had been small and sickly, and thought for a time to be a Squib in the making. She surprised everyone by earning nine NEWTs during her time at Hogwarts--the most of any of them.

And finally, just before Da, came the last girl. By that time it seemed to Minerva that Grandmother Johanna must have been tired of trying to fix her husband’s unfortunate name choices. She was too young to realize that having to care for five little children and a new-born, might have been a tad distracting. Donald McGonagall forgave her father his insistence on naming her after his father, and her mother's inability to fashion a distaff counterpart. She bore the name proudly and refused to be bothered by the teasing at school. In fact while she was there, said Goodie, she would answer to no other name--no nickname, no diminutive, no feminization. Only once had she had hexed a classmate--with everlasting warts it was said--when he persisted in calling her alternately 'Donette' and 'the beauteous and buxom Donalda.' Minerva alone had been permitted to call her 'Donnie'--starting from when she was a wee lass.

~*~

And over the years, each sister had found her own special niche in the family business.

Charlamaine, whose husband, Cameron Campbell, was an expert in Muggle relations, supervised the working of the coal mine on the estate and sold fuel to Muggle businesses. She had magical wards shoring up the mine shaft, and she used Blasting spells to effect some of the excavation rather than explosives. Insurance for her Muggle employees was nil and her prices were quite competitive.

The twins, Philly and Frannie, loved animals, so it was natural that they should take care of the sheep herd in the high hills; they also trained Crups and border collies and commanded a decent price for wool and mutton in both the magical and Muggle communities. Their current project was a Crup-Collie crossbreed incorporating the best aspects of each, but so far they hadn’t been able to get rid of the intense hatred of Muggles characteristic of the Crup bloodline, although they had managed to eliminate the forked tail and goat-like appetite.

Gerry was into cereal grains, herbs, and vegetables and raised most of the food for the clan's tables. Bobbie took care of the dairy cows and goats. Gerry and her young son had moved in with Bobbie after her husband had run off to be a magician in a Muggle circus. They lived in a converted mill within walking distance of the Keep.

Donald supervised the berry patches and an experimental fruit orchard.This left Da to manage the accounts, represent the family at meetings and sporting events, and tinker with the farm’s magical machinery.

Minerva got along with all of her aunts, more or less. The twins were a bit scatty and old-fashioned. They always gave Minerva sachets and lace handkerchiefs for her birthday and had recently taken to asking her whether she had a ‘young man’ yet. Gerry was nice, though distant; conversations with her tended to start and end with her son Argus. Minerva liked Bobbie, the former Quidditch star best, along with Aunt Donald. They treated her like an equal�”a real witch--even though she was only just coming into her powers.

She thoroughly disliked Aunt Charlamaine. She barked and bullied a lot. Also she had a son, Cuthbert, who treated Minerva like a half-witted younger sister--when he deigned to notice her at all. She hoped it would be Uncle Cameron representing the family that evening as he sometimes did when his wife had a conflict. She was on several committees, including that PLAGUE business, and was always off to one meeting or another. Her uncle was a bit stuffy, but not overly critical.

~*~

The meeting that evening was a swank affair. Everyone dressed formally. Da had borrowed some of Charlamaine’s house elves to help serve, so that Goodie could supervise the kitchen help. Minerva was designated to act as hostess. She had carefully rehearsed a little welcoming speech for each of her aunts, having questioned her father about their latest activities.

“Good evening, Aunt Donnie--um--Donald," she murmured nervously. “How are the new apple trees doing?”

Donald McGonagall, small and vivacious, was dressed in a kilt and an Argyll jacket with a double row of silver buttons. She had slicked her black hair, which normally hung down to the line of her jaw, severely back from her face. The mannish look contrasted with her silk blouse, which had delicate lace ruffling at throat and wrists, and a smart, dark red shoulder bag.

"Hello, dearie. They're coming along nicely, thank you. I know the Muggles have never been successful with them, but I've managed to shield the saplings from the worst of the damp, and you know anything will grow in dragon dung." She embraced her niece, and handed her a little package. “An early birthday present. Or if you like, a gift for the new student. How do you like school?”

Minerva tore at the wrapping paper. “It’s all right. We could do with a better Transfiguration teacher…”

“Is it still Tofty?” Minerva nodded. “Greatrakes alive, he was older than Merlin when I was there.”

The paper fell to the floor, revealing a porcelain figurine of a black cat, with a proud smiling face, and gilt eyes and whiskers.

“What’s this?” asked Minerva.

“A cat.”

“Yes, I know. What does it do?”

“Nothing, so far as I know. Don’t you like it?”

“Well, I don’t much care for cats, but this one’s pretty enough. You’re sure it doesn’t double as a Remembrall or something for school?”

“No, it’s just for fun. It somehow reminded me of you.”

Minerva looked at the figure. On closer inspection in the light, she could see that its coloring was uneven. “It’s blotchy,” she said.

“Those are tabby markings,” said Donald.

Just then, Minerva’s twin aunts, Philly and Frannie, came into the room. Minerva made a face.

“Buck up, my girl,” breathed Donald, “I’m right behind you.”

The twins, frilly robes softening their thin, angular bodies, nodded approvingly at Minerva’s greetings.

“How’s our fine young lady? Any of the local lads coming courting yet?”

“Patience, Fran,” said Donald, seeing a blush starting on Minerva’s cheeks, “she’s not yet twelve years old.”

“We know. Her birthday’s the fourth."

Philly cut in. "A Libra, my dear, the most congenial of signs: idealistic, peaceable, tolerant, sensitive to the needs of others…she’ll make a fine wife for some lucky mage.”

“My last beau was a Libran," countered Donald. "He was thoroughly intolerant of any opinion but his own and had a raging temper besides."

“But dear Minerva has none of those qualities..."

"...And it’s never too early to start thinking of marriage, especially when a lass will have such a burden of responsibility to bear." Aunt Fran fixed Minerva with a beady eye. "It takes a man to shoulder those burdens, Minerva. You should be thinking of that.”

“Wheesht, Frances!" cried Donald. "Let the lass get through her schooling first."

Fortunately at that moment, Da approached, looking very handsome in kilt and coatee. "Donald, you look quite the Highland laird, my dear." He shook her hand. "Philly, Fran, welcome! I haven't seen you in a while. What have you two charming witches been up to lately?”

“A moon zodiac, brother,” gushed Philly, seizing his arm and nodded sagely about the group.

“Yes,” said Frannie. “Even more accurate than sun signs. Because of the closeness of the moon to our own mother Earth, you ken." Minerva sighed with relief. She would have no need to make small talk once the twins started in on their favorite subject.

"Many’s the time we’ve consulted it before making an important decision,” said Philly.

“…as when we were trying to decide whether to enter Chauncey Croptail in the Krup obedience trials…”

“…or the time we were thinking of investing in fancy hippogriffs.”

“We actually consulted with one of the Hogwarts professors about it…”

“…the Italian one, Porpentina Cavallo-Grifone…”

“…Have you had her yet, Minerva dear?”

Minerva shook her head. She'd seen the 'Creature Teacher', as Madam Cavallo-Grifone was known, talking to Mina Grubbly once. And of course, she sat at the teachers' table most evenings. She was dark--Latin-looking--and went in for beautifully cut robes that showed off her Rubenesque figure. All her robes were some shade of not-quite black: a deep midnight blue, a wine-dark red, a rich, peaty brown, a green of forest shadows. A real individual. Minerva liked that.

“...and rumor has it, she’s seeing that Scamander fellow..."

“...You know the one who wrote that book?"

"So popular. Well anyway, a reading of the signs confirmed our instincts…”

“…yes, Luna rising in full glory at sunset…”

“…following the Bull across the sky…”

...and setting in his tail...

“…most propitious for financial ventures…”

“…we decided to take the plunge...”

~*~

And so the evening went. Aunt Donald was always but a few steps away, for which Minerva was grateful. To her discomfort, Aunt Charlamaine did show up--on Cuthbert’s arm. He looked more like his father than ever, but heavier than Minerva remembered, with a scruffy growth of beard on his cheeks. But that couldn’t hide jowls and an incipient double chin.

“And how is your schooling going, Minerva?” he asked, addressing the top of her head. He never quite looked anyone in the eye, she noticed. “Learned any spells yet?”

“A few,” she replied.

“Lumos and Nox, I suppose. And the ever-helpful Transparencia.” He laughed. Minerva couldn’t see what was so funny.

Charlamaine interrupted. “If you have any questions about magic, Minerva dear, just ask your cousin. He knows all the latest incantations. Studied all over Europe, you know. And he read the Emerald Tablet of the great Hermes--in the original!”

“Emerald Tablet,” murmured Donald in Minerva's ear. "Isn't that an Irish cure for hangovers?"

Charlamaine then announced proudly to everyone within hearing distance that Cuthbert had just completed an apprenticeship with the famed alchemist, Nicolas Flamel, and would now be taking a greater part in the family business. The twins oohed and ahh-ed as he demonstrated the latest in Stunning and Manipulation hexes to the room at large.

“And this one, Aunt Fran, you can use to hold down a Krup while you take off its tail.” Cuthbert pointed his wand in the direction of a passing house elf. The spell flipped the poor creature over and mashed its face into the rug. But when Cuthbert finally let it loose, it just cupped its hand to its nose, bowed, and said, “Thag you, Baster.” Fortunately the elf wasn’t carrying anything, so the floor suffered only a few blood stains, which Charlamaine removed discreetly with a whispered "Scourgify."

Housemates Bobbie McGonagall and Gerry McGonagall Filch showed up late. It had been hard getting little Argus to bed, Gerry explained. He had so wanted to come to the party, and the older he got, the more stubborn he acted. Tonight they had left him in the care of his Aunt Filch, the foreman's wife.

Argus didn't much like his aunt, Minerva remembered. That was probably the reason for the 'stubbornness'. Belda Filch was a big woman, with a shrewish voice. She and Filch seemed an odd match, he being taciturn and at least two inches shorter than his wife. They'd been married a long time, but were childless. Considering she had so little experience in that regard, Minerva had been surprised once to overhear Madam Filch criticizing Aunt Gerry's mothering instincts. "She spiles the lad rotten," she complained to Goodie, one afternoon while they were shelling peas out on the back stoop. "He'll come to nae airthly guid, mind ye." Fortunately Argus had only occasionally to be in his aunt's carping care. Otherwise, Minerva thought, he might surely come to no earthly good.

She escorted her tardy aunts into the Great Hall, where the others awaited them at a grand mahogany table, set with lead crystal goblets, glazed stoneware, and gleaming steel. The food was delicious, with contributions from all parts of the farm: cock-a-leekie soup, roast grouse, jugged hare, tripe, Clootie dumpling, clapshot, soured kail, a medley of buttered vegetables, and a gooseberry tart. Afterwards the family retired to the library to sip Drambuie and single malt whisky and share their reports. Throughout the proceedings, Jupiter stood regal at the mantel of the huge fireplace, glass in hand, a fine lawn shirt billowing out over waistcoat. Gold buttons at his cuffs glinted in the candlelight. A handsome dragon-hide sporran, tooled with the Connghaill Gryphon, hung from his waist, framed by the kilt in the dress plaid of red, blue and green. He looked magnificent, and knew it.

When the reports were over and the accounting approved by all, Aunt Charlamaine cleared her throat.

“Ah, there is one small thing we need to discuss. Ah, the order of succession.” They all looked at her politely. “The will, Jupiter. I’ve been consulting with…er…Laird Macnair… and he is somewhat concerned about just what happens to all this,” she waved her hand airily about, “when you are no longer with us.”

Jupiter thought it a jest, but he was willing to humor his humorless eldest sister. “Why Minerva is my next of kin and she will take over as head of household, of course. So long as everyone is still agreed.” There were nods around the room.

“How can that be? She is a witch, and so young. Whereas Cuthbert here-- just as an example, you understand--is in his prime and knows the workings of the estate…”

At that point Donald chimed in. “Why not one of us then, Charlamaine? We’ve a great deal more magical experience than either of them, Cuthbert’s umpteen years of study notwithstanding.”

“Well, that’s what I mean…”

“And each of us has a great deal more knowledge of the farm, if it comes to that,” said Bobbie.

“Oh, no,” protested Philly.

“The Head of house should be a wizard,” said Fran.

“It’s what Father wanted....”

“It’s the way it’s always been…”

The twins' comments were left hanging while Jupiter downed his drink, and poured another. He walked over to Charlamaine and took her hand. “My dear sister, I am touched at your concern for my well-being, and that of the estate.” He grinned impishly. “But I’ve no intention of popping off for a good many years yet, so if we can leave off this topic for the time being, I’d like to make a toast.” He looked about him and winked in his daughter’s direction. “To the McGonagall Clan--all of us�”united and happy, now and forevermore.”

There was laughter at his lighthearted jest and murmurs of agreement, and then some answering toasts. No one leaped into the vacuum and urged a continuance of the discussion, so Charlamaine retrieved her hand from her brother’s, pursed her lips, and sat down. Minerva was glad that was settled, although she was a bit uneasy about the weight Da’s statement laid on her shoulders. Aunts Frannie and Philly were always going at her about her ‘burden of responsibility’ but up to now she had not taken it seriously. She never thought much about the running of the farm, though she was sure that Da would teach her all she needed to know. She only hoped she could live up to his confidence in her. In any case, she didn’t want to see the Keep fall into Aunt Charlamaine’s hands. For that, she knew, was what would happen if Cousin Cuthbert became Lord of the Manor. His mother would run things, of that she was sure.