It was time. Minerva dressed simply in her school robes with a tartan scarf. She would not contest the passing of the Lordship to Cuthbert Campbell. She had not the energy, nor the will. The farm held only the darkest memories for her, the Keep only heartbreak. She would be back in school soon, and there she would make her home, as much of a home as she could. Goodie Gudgeon, who knew nothing of this decision, trailed her through the Great Hall for support, as well as curiosity.

As usual, the Reckoning was held in the receiving parlor, just off the Great Hall. Lord Macnair stood in the midst of the gathering, flanked by his sons Walden and Conall, who looked like a pair of bodyguards, their wands jutting conspicuously from their robe pockets. He had with him an acquaintance of his, a legal scholar from the Ministry whom he introduced as Madam Bedelia Bones. She wore the plum colored robes of the Wizengamot, the High Court of the Ministry of Magic, and was treated with awe and deference by the whole McGonagall clan. It had been long known that Duncan Macnair sought to extend his influence outside the glen. Appointment to the High Court would be quite a feather in his cap. On this night, the Wizard Thane wore robes of sober black, with the Macnair plaid draped about his neck like a stole of office so long that its tassels swept the floor. Lord Macnair and Madam Bones settled into two throne-like chairs at one side of the room. The Thane called the meeting to order and asked if the whole family was present.

"Everyone, my Lord," said Charlamaine, the self-proclaimed Mistress of Ceremonies, "except for our youngest sister, Donald." There was a stir of unease. No one had seen Donnie all afternoon. "But it hardly matters, does it?" Charlamaine continued.

Lord Macnair started to reply that it certainly did matter and what did that young woman think she was doing, holding up an important meeting such as this? But his tirade was interrupted by the sound of music overhead, the skirling of bagpipes. Through the high arch of the double doors, Minerva could see the curving stairs that climbed from the Great Hall to the gallery. At the top, there stood a figure in Highland garb. For one crazy moment, she thought that Rowdie Flynn had donned kilt and plaid and somehow crossed the barrier between life and afterlife to stand in defense of the McGonagall fief. But, no--this figure was slight and decidedly feminine.

Now the figure moved in time to the music. Donald McGonagall, youngest daughter of Cadwallader the misogynist and the redoubtable Johanna Mcnair, marched down the steps like a warrior, a bright claymore at her waist, flanked by the MacCrimmon pipers, who were playing Cogadh No Sith (War or Peace.) She strode through the Great Hall with a slight smile on her lips and stepped up to the thrones. Her kilt and plaid was not the dress tartan of the McGonagalls with its cheery, bright colors, designed in Victorian times for peaceful and politic meetings and celebrations. No, this was the ancient hunting sett of clan Connghaill, its blues the dark underside of storm clouds, its greens not of sun-streaked forests, but of the shadows within them, with thick bands of black and a redder red stripe crisscrossing the crimson background, like a wound reopened and beaded with fresh blood.

"My Lord, Madam Justice, I hope you are both well."

Madam Bones inclined her head indulgently. Her eyes were bright and shrewd, and a slight smile twitched her lips. Lord Mcnair was not so complaisant. "We are, Mistress. Please take a seat, so we can begin."

"I will stand, if you don't mind," she replied, "here--" she crossed to take a place beside Cuthbert Campbell and his mother "--with the other claimants." Her own eyes were alight with mischief, as she surveyed her sisters' reactions. Gerry's face went red, and she looked about to burst with pride in her baby sister. Bobbie swore delightedly under her breath. The twins stared into their glasses as if the dregs might divine the outcome of this event for them. Charlamaine made disapproving sucking sounds through her teeth. Minerva kept a straight face, but she wanted to run across the room and hug her aunt for her mad scheme. For it was mad--and impossible--but wonderfully daring all the same.

"Excellent," said Lord Macnair sourly, "let us begin. We have here a dilemma. Your dear brother, your father"--he nodded to Minerva--"and my excellent friend, has died untimely, leaving all this." He gestured at the walls of the Keep and presumably the fields and buildings beyond. "In his will, Jupiter McGonagall stated that he wished the arrangement that you have all used these many years to continue, and he named his daughter to hold the title of Lord and take his place, representing the family as its head. But he could not foresee that he would die while she was still so young. Therefore, it is necessary to appoint a guardian for her and the estate until such time as she is ready to take over the reins of power."

"Hear, hear," rasped the two ghostly pipers, who had taken up stations at either end of the arched doorway.

"The only question is who should take on this task. I see that there are two who are willing. Is there anyone else?"

Silence. "Then, it would seem that the family members should vote on it... after appropriate discussion, of course."

"Hear, hear," whispered the ghostly pipers once more, and Lester Mor MacCrimmon, began a spritely tune, which Minerva recognized as a series of variations on Sweet Molly MacCleary. Not surprisingly toes started tapping. The MacCrimmons were said to be able to stop battles with their tunes. She could see Lord Macnair seething, but he dared not interrupt the preeminent exponents of the Piob Mor, The Great Highland Bagpipe. When the tune was finished, he went on quickly.

"It would be fitting for each claimant to state his case. Why don't you begin, Mistress McGonagall?"

Donnie flushed and cleared her throat. "You all know me. I've lived on the farm since birth. I've worked the fields with the rest of you. The orchards and berry patches are my handiwork. No other farmer in the valley, nor the entire islands can boast fruit so fine as our brambles, our Gonagolds and Purple Pippins, not even the McIntoshes across the ocean. And as you all know, I've been our brother's close associate in the running of the estate these last months."

"Well said, Mistress." Lord Macnair turned to her sisters. "Do you have any questions for her? Any comments?"

"You're a rare one, Donald. You've caught the Snitch, you have," said Bobbie.

"Aye to that," said Gerry. "You're our girl."

"Ye'd hae my vote," said Goodie Gudgeon, "if I hae'd a vote."

Everyone laughed at this.

"Master Campbell?"

Cuthbert strode to the center of the room. He smiled genially at the twins, who blushed and tittered, bowed smartly to his Lordship and the honored guest, nodded to Inachus Filch, winked at Goodie. His eyes were bright--with billywig juice thought Minerva unkindly.

"My Lord, Madam Bones, kinfolk, and friends. I do not pretend to have the years or the wisdom of my good Aunt Donnie, but I believe youth is an advantage here. Why? Because progress and far thinking are important to making the McGonagall estate yield its maximum profits. If you think you've a comfortable life now, just imagine what it could be like if you had the cash reserves to invest in... say... a hippogriff breeding station or new types of fruit trees or the like. It can happen you know. I have here in my hands the report of a friend of mine, one Master Colqu'hon of Worcestershire. He is a metal dowser and he detected on our land not only additional coal reserves, but iron and copper and... even silver. Yes, silver. If I had control of the farm, I could hand you within the year such a profit in precious metals that you would never have to raise another crop, never train another Crup, but sit and devote your efforts to the cause or avocation of your choice. And that's but a small part of my contribution, should I be made Lair--erm, Steward--of the McGonagall fief. As you all know, I also possess magical power in abundance, and though I am loath to boast, I can say I'd be able to do a better job of protecting you all from magical attack than your poor brother was able to do. For example, recently I learned the exceedingly difficult and dangerous Homorphous Charm from a famous werewolf hunter on the continent. You may have heard of him--Maitre Roydore Coeur-Serrure. So, if you're looking for a richer, safer life, you have only to look my way." He bowed and stood back.

Lord Macnair inclined his head and asked for discussion. Aunt Frannie gave it as her opinion that the guardian should be male, given that the Lordship had always been held by a wizard, and that it had been the wish of their own dear, departed father, who was a very wise man, that the Lordship should stay with the males of the line. Philly added that she always felt better when a man was in charge of things, especially a young, virile man.

Then Bobbie said their father didn't know everything and that it might be a good time for a change. Gerry agreed and added that there had, in fact, been several witch-lairds and that the fruit crop had never looked so good. Charlamaine looked as though she would like very much to comment, but restrained herself for a change. Discussion languished, and the Thane called for a vote. The twins and Charlamaine predictably voted for Cuthbert. Bobbie and Gerry sided with Donald. Minerva sighed. Cuthbert had won, three to two.

The Thane spoke. "Good friends, it seems you have made a wise choice..."

Donnie cleared her throat and spoke. "Pardon me, my Lord, I believe there is one vote not yet counted."

"May I remind you, Mistress McGonagall, that claimants may not vote for themselves."

"I don't mean myself, but the legitimate heir to my deceased brother's portion, Minerva McGonagall."

"I'm afraid she's underage."

"As a magic user, yes, but as the declared heir of a Scottish Lord, I believe she qualifies."

"Hear, hear," whispered Lester Mor MacCrimmon.

"'Tis so," said Evan Mor MacCrimmon. The ghostly piper laid down his pipes and floated up to the thrones. His wispy hair waved in an unfelt breeze. "Begging my lady's pardon." He made a little bow to Madam Bones. "In the days of my father, a similar thing occurred. Although it involved not only land, but the protection of the Piob Mor itself, did it not Lester?"

"Aye, brother," Lester wheezed. "The Great Highland Bagpipes were ever our care since the days of Donald Mor, and also the school and its lands as granted to us by the King of Scots himself."

Evan explained, "When the first Laird died, leaving the fief to his infant son, a vote was taken among the septs to decide who would be chieftain until he came to maturity. The vote was tied between my father and my uncle. 'Twas thought they'd have to fight to settle things. But just as they were getting out their wands, the nurse brought up the babe to be kissed for luck by both participants. When my father touched the babe, it cooed and clapped its hands. When his brother approached, it cried and wouldna be consoled. It was decided then and there that the bairnie's vote should count, and my father became his guardian."

"Well that may be the rule on Skye, but--" said Lord Macnair.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord." It was Madam Bones. She had not spoken much since she arrived, and not at all since the official proceedings began, but her voice rang out clearly now. "I believe it is necessary to read the will to determine if Miss McGonagall has the right to cast a vote in her father's... absence."

It took but a few moments for Goodie Gudgeon to find the will. It appeared to Minerva that she deliberately entered by the door nearest Madam Bones, though it meant going the long way round, as though she was fearful that if she got too close to him, Lord Macnair would snatch it from her hands and fling it in the fire.

"Ah, yes, it is clear," said Madam Bones after a careful perusal of the parchment. "The intention is that the heir, regardless of her age, be required to take on the responsibilities and privileges incumbent upon the estate until such time as changes are made by agreement of all parties concerned. That includes voting, I'm certain."

Lord Macnair, possibly envisioning the plum robes of the Wizengamot in his future, reluctantly agreed.

"Well, Mistress McGonagall, how do you vote?"

"With Donnie...I mean, Aunt Donald, of course."

"Then we are tied, and unless one party yields voluntarily, there will have to be a Wizard's Duel."

"Naturally," said Lester Mor MacCrimmon. And the two ghostly pipers broke into a chorus of The Desperate Battle.

~*~

It was determined that the best place for the duel was the open space just beyond the courtyard. It was quite large, almost as large as a Quidditch pitch, and grassy and flat. The two combatants retired for a time to make their preparations, then met at the edge of the greensward with Lord Macnair. Cuthbert had been given the choice of weapons, and, not surprisingly, picked wands at a hundred paces.

Lord Macnair turned to Donnie. "Mistress, have you chosen your Second?"

"My Second?"

"Your back-up."

"I don't understand."

"Lord Macnair heaved a sigh. "It is customary to have another mage to help you, should you falter in battle. Master Campbell has chosen my son Conall to be his Second. Whom do you choose?"

No wonder Walden was looking so hang-dog, thought Minerva. Lost out to his sainted brother again.

"Well, I haven't given it any..." For the first time in all the long evening, Donnie seemed at a loss.

Minerva surveyed the possibilities. Could Donnie ask one of her sisters to do this? The twins obviously did not approve and would likely refuse--on grounds of feminine delicacy of course. She could not take a chance on Gerry being injured, for then what would happen to Argus? And the best that could be said about Bobbie's spell work was that she was a great Quidditch player. There seemed only one solution. "I'll do it," Minerva said.

"What?" said Donald. "You can't. You're underage."

"You said it yourself--and Madam Bones. I am the declared heir of a Scottish Lord, and I claim the right--"

Donnie's face turned crimson. "Excuse me, my Lord, may I have a word with my niece?" And without waiting for his reply, she grabbed Minerva's arm and steered her into the shadows of the beech tree.

"Please, Aunt Donnie," Minerva whispered, "it's the least I can do. I feel like this is all my fault. If I had spoken up right away and demanded the Lordship, Cuthbert would never have had an opening."

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into. Duels are serious business, and you've only had one year of schooling. Conall's of age now, and I understand he was a top-level student."

"But you've seen what I can do in Transfiguration, and I have other skills as well. Please trust me on this. I--I can't let Cuthbert and Charlamiane take Da's place--without trying to do something to help."

Donnie looked up at her niece for a long moment. "I understand how you feel. Very well." She walked back to the dueling ground and announced her choice.

Lord Macnair's eyes held a triumphal gleam. "Very well, but you understand that as an underage witch, she cannot wield a wand out of school."

"Um--my Lord," said Minerva. "Cuthbert got to choose the weapons for himself and my aunt, isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"Then I should be allowed to choose for the Seconds. Isn't that fair?"

"It is the norm, in fact. Of course, the use of wands is practically de rigueur. But what is your pleasure, my lady?" Lord Mcnair smiled at her, almost sweetly. He had good reason. There were few other magical weapons available.

Minerva looked straight at Conall and said, "I choose... broomsticks!" There were surprised murmurs all around. And a 'Tch' of what she hoped was dismay from Conall.

"I--well--I don't know about that--" blustered Lord Macnair.

"Broomsticks... och aye, they've been used before," intoned Lester Mor MacCrimmon.

"As have staffs, cauldrons, capes, and athames," said his brother. He looked around at the crowd. They all--except for Lord Macnair, Cuthbert, and Charlamaine--seemed to want to hear more. "I remember the time a Campbell challenged a MacDonald over a tax dispute. Neither was much good with a wand, and they wanted to give a good show, so they chose dragons. Well, they are magical creatures, you ken."

"That was an exciting battle, that was," said his brother. "Neither lad survived."

"Aye, Angus Campbell fell to his death when his Hebridean Black made a sharp bank right, and when Ronald McDonald alit to celebrate, he was roasted alive and eaten by his mount."

"A Swedish Short Snout, it was. Bad choice."

At this point, Madam Bones cut in. "I too remember such a precedent. A relative of mine, Sir Grimbauld Pauncefoot, chose broomsticks as Second to his brother Chauncy. And interestingly enough, the principals used, not wands, but Lobalugs at thirty paces."

"All right!" Lord Macnair was now almost shouting. "Broomsticks it is. But you may not Summon them until a contestant is down: either through grievous injury or having lost her... or his... wand. And after Summoning your broomstick, you must give your wands into my care."

Madam Bones added, "And the Ministry will excuse Miss McGonagall if she uses her wand just this once for a simple Accio."

Donnie and Cuthbert took their places on the field. Conall and Minerva stood straight and grim, flanking Madam Bones and Brianag Doohan, who had been called in to help with casualties. Nearby, the aunts' poses showed their personalities to the full: Bobbie, the Quidditch player, leaning forward, mouth open, eager and approving, Charlamaine, the mother, seemingly confident of the outcome, yet clasping and unclasping her hands in a worried, maternal way, the twins, clinging to each other, torn between wolfish glee and feminine horror. Only Gerry was missing. She and Goodie had taken Argus up to bed, kicking and crying that he wanted to see the show. A duel was not a thing for a small child to witness, no matter how much he protested his wizarding maturity.

Lord Macnair stepped between them and muttered, "On my mark." Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva could see the ghostly bagpipers shouldering their pipes. Lord Macnair waved his wand and a stream of sparks spurted out, spelling the word 'GO!' As he hurried out of the line of fire, the strains of Black Donald's March wafted through the air.