“Perhaps someone murdered her and made it look like a suicide.”
“Who would want to murder a maid?”
“Maybe a jilted lover.”
“She had no lover.”
“Asecretlover.”
Sir Evan regarded her silently, as if she were a conundrum he had no idea how to approach. He shifted slightly in his chair, then said, “It’s fine to amuse yourself with such fancies, my lady, but these are not things a countess concerns herself with. Lord Kincreag and myself have experience in these matters. You must trust that we know what we’re doing.”
Gillian leaned back in her chair and picked the icing off her cake, properly chastised. “Forgive me. It’s just . . . I’d only just met her, and she seemed so nice.”
“She was a strange lass—or so the other servants say. Kept to herself, was a bit too fond of the bottle. It’s a miserable life most commoners lead, especially unmarried women. It’s not surprising many of them take their lives to end the drudgery.”
“No, I suppose not. Forgive me for my ignorance.”
He inclined his head. “Forgiven.”
Gillian gave him a tight smile and vowed to never need his help again.
Gillian woke the next morning ready to explore Kincreag. She decided to start with a visit to her dollhouse. She fetched a candelabra and a tinderbox, and made her way through the mazelike rooms and corridors of the castle. She lost her way a few times and had to backtrack, but eventually she found it.
She paused at the entrance to the darkened room, her heart thumping. Memories of her first night here, of the strange whispers and the cold draft, assailed her. She scanned the room hesitantly. Thin streams of sunlight filtered through the edges of the shutters, casting the white lumps that filled the room in hues of dark gray. It was just a room, Gillian told herself firmly, and if she wanted to repair the dollhouse, she would have to brave it. If she got any headaches, she would have the men-at-arms move it to another room in the east wing and tell Nicholas later. With any luck, he would never know.
The room was very large, a sort of small hall, or meeting room. She removed the sheet from the nearest flat surface, a wooden sideboard, and set her candelabra down. She opened all the shutters and lit more candles. Her fear dissolved as the dark shadows disappeared. By the time she finished, the room was alight and she’d not had a single pang in her temples. When all the sheets were removed, she realized this was some sort of solar. Four chairs sat in a semicircle in one corner. On the seat of each chair was a musical instrument—a lute, a fiddle,a flute, and a harp. The instruments rested on the chairs as if their musicians had only left them there a moment ago.
Gillian wondered if this was the late countess’s solar. Had she listened to music while she’d embroidered? Did her ghost really walk the cliffs? Gillian longed to see for herself. It infuriated her that it would be possible if not for this curse.
She yanked the sheet off the dollhouse and gazed at the work of art before her, wondering who had actually built it. Had Nicholas’s son been old enough to play with it? Had Nicholas sat with his son and watched him explore the dollhouse’s many wonders? Was that why he now hated the sight of it?
Gillian bent to explore it herself. It was truly exquisite. Kincreag in miniature, right down to the dragon’s teeth portcullis. Gillian touched the gate wonderingly. It was cleverly stained to look discolored and well used. The top of the gatehouse could be removed, and inside, the tiny clockworks opened the gate. She turned the handle, and the gate rose. She laughed and imagined her own children playing with the dollhouse. Nicholas’s children. She placed her hand over her belly, recalling last night’s lovemaking. Even now a child might be growing inside her.
She sighed and circled the dollhouse. The table was split and hinged so it could be parted and the house could be opened with little effort. It was already partially open. Gillian pushed it wider. Several cushioned stools were situated beneath the table. Gillian pulled one out and seated herself in the table opening. Fromthis vantage she could see all the levels of the keep. In the kitchen, fireplaces lined the walls. Black pots hung on working iron swing arms, and working spits sat in the fireplace. In the larder, tiny ale casks and bags of grain lined the walls. Circles of cheese made from small yellow rounds of wax tied with string rested on the wooden shelves. Gillian moved on through the castle, pausing in the armory and exclaiming over tiny swords and working crossbows.
Then she came to the room she’d seen on her last visit here with Nicholas—her room. With the sun’s light, she could see that the wood was intricately carved with the same swirling pattern as the furniture in her real room. The bed had different hangings, but it was indeed her bed. There was a lump beneath the covers that she didn’t recall. Of course, ithadbeen dark that night. She pulled back the covers with her fingertips and found a small doll, swathed in velvet trimmed with gold. Its hair was made from fine, pale flax and its features were painted delicately on its wooden face. Tiny jewels adorned its hair. Was it supposed to be the late countess? Gillian frowned down at the doll, inexplicably disturbed by it. She did a quick study of the rest of the dollhouse but saw no other dolls. She stared back down at the blond doll, wondering where it had come from.
A cold draft blew through the room, disturbing some of the tiny furnishings. A miniature candelabra tipped over. Gillian set the doll aside and took the delicate candelabra between her fingertips, examining it with amazement. Such skilled workmanship. She’d never dreamed such things could be made. She stoodand went to the large candelabra, lighting each tiny wick. She would not let it burn for long, but she had a childish urge to see it burning in the replica of her bedchamber.
She returned to the dollhouse and set it on the sideboard. She leaned back, examining the little room. The smile froze on her face as her gaze passed the bed. The lump was back. She looked quickly to where she had set the doll down, but it was gone. Gillian stood abruptly, her heart hammering in her throat. She started to back away, then stopped.Courage!She pulled back the covers of the tiny bed and found the blond doll.
Gillian stared at it a long time before glancing fearfully around the room. Nicholas had said the servants believed the west wing was haunted, and she’d had pain in her head last night. But she didn’t today. She sat back down, unable to look away from the doll. Something very odd was happening, but Gillian could not comprehend what. She decided to leave the doll in the bed for now. She blew out the tiny candles and turned her attention to the west wing.
She cocked her head, examining the damaged section of the miniature Kincreag. Someone had apparently hit it with something. One of the walls had splintered and caved in, buckling the top floor, but that was the only damage. Surely a good carpenter could repair that.
Something rustled. Gillian turned sharply, her gaze snapping to the doll. It was still where she’d placed it. She scanned the room, eyes narrowed and watchful, body tense. She was alone. Still, the uneasy feeling waswith her now, and she decided she’d seen enough of the dollhouse for today. She took the doll and put it in her pocket. She would ask Nicholas about it later.
She was blowing out the candles when a thump startled her. It came from deep in the west wing. She took a candle from the candelabra and walked cautiously through the doorway. Darkness closed around her like a musty cloak, weighing on her. She raised her candle higher. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in a faint, cool breeze.
She passed several open doors, peering inside each one, but she could see little except shapeless white lumps. She had just decided that it must have been her imagination when the low murmur of voices froze her in her tracks. Her heart throbbed so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t make out what the voices were saying. She had no headache, so the voices couldn’t be ghosts. That calmed her somewhat. She wove her way through the maze of sheet-covered furniture that filled the room, straining to understand what was being said. It was a man and woman talking, and though she still couldn’t understand them, it didn’t sound ghostly. She extinguished her candle as she neared the doorway.
It was good that she did, for she soon discerned a soft glow of candlelight coming from the open doorway. Gillian pressed herself against the wall and peered around the frame.
She was barely able to contain her gasp of astonishment. Sir Evan stood in the next room, a small bedchamber. He held a woman in his arms. She wore a long velvet cloak. He kissed her roughly, and it fell backfrom her head, exposing the gleam of golden hair. Gillian tensed, wondering if he was forcing himself on her, but her arms were around him, and she pressed herself close in a way now familiar to Gillian.
Apparently he wasn’t as cold and emotionless as he appeared. Gillian eased out of the room. None of her business. He wasn’t married, after all, and she didn’t recognize the woman—not that she would in the short time that she’d been here.
Ghosts.Gillian scoffed to herself as she returned to her chambers. She was sure Sir Evan liked everyone to believe the west wing was haunted: It kept them away from his little rendezvous. But by the time she was in her chambers, she felt a sense of amusement about what she’d witnessed. The stone-faced knight had a lover. Perhaps she would tease him about it.
