“There you are,” Tracy said brightly, a touch of relief swimming in her voice. The small backpack she’d recently adopted as a purse swung gently as she moved towards her husband. “I thought you were behind me, but I reached the Morier exhibit, and–”
“I was. I’m sorry,” Curtis mumbled, still gaping at the scene before him, frozen for eternity: a noble in full regalia, likely a Highlander, stood triumphantly on two rocks, his white-gloved hand outstretched as if to claim all the lands that lay before him. The other hand grasped a short spear, not lengthy enough to be a pike. The noble’s cape billowed behind him like a plaid windsock, clamped in place by golden latches. An ornamental sash bisected the man’s torso, announcing his wealth and influence as clearly as if he’d boasted out loud. He wore a leather sporran tied around his waist, a high-feathered cap with plumage half the length of his arm, and a gleaming scabbard attached to his right thigh.
This man oozed destiny and purpose.
Curtis heard Tracy repeat his name. As he turned, he tried to vain to recall the last thing she’d said.
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