Sir Evan left.
Broc barked and scratched at the connecting door, reminding Nicholas of the last time he’d seen Gillian. Curled in bed with Broc, sleeping like an angel. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fists into them to gouge out the memory.
Broc’s barking grew monotonous, so Nicholas let the dog in. Broc raced past him, sniffing frantically at all the furniture, then bounding to the door leading to thecorridor. He scratched at it, whining and barking frantically. The dog was in a frenzy, and Nicholas wondered if he somehow sensed what had happened.
Nicholas sat heavily in his chair and called the dog. Broc came to him, but when Nicholas tried to pet him, he ran back to the door, yipping and turning in circles. He raced back to Nicholas again, repeating the ritual.
Nicholas had a sudden recollection of when Broc had arrived. He had done something similar and had eventually led him straight to Gillian, sitting in the garden. The memory of her, sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by flowers and smiling up at him, knifed through him. He stood with a surge of hope.
“Come on, Broc— you’ve something you’d like to show me?”
What Gillian couldn’t understand was, if she was dead, why did it hurt so much? Her head ached so that she couldn’t open her eyes, her hands stung, her face throbbed, her right arm burned like a brand, and the rest of her body was filled with a general pulsing ache.
She couldn’t stop shivering either, it was so cold. Wind lifted her hair as it blew across her, the strength of the breeze at times nearly rolling her over. Something squawked loudly in her ear. Where was she? She curled the fingers of her left hand and felt grit beneath them, followed by a harsh sting that shot through her abraded palm.
Memories came to her, disjointed. She’d been on the path . . . she’d seen the ghost . . . pain . . . the pain had come back. The counter curse had failed. She’d beenstruck with pain and had fallen. No, someone had pushed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach rebelling, pain splintering through her head until the blackness returned.
When she woke next she was reasonably certain she was alive, which seemed rather unfortunate, as the sunlight tried to burn her eyes out. The squawking had started up again—a cyclic sound, growing louder and then fading, only to come very close moments later. Gillian tried to move, but her right arm was a fiery limb of agony and refused to obey. She pushed up with her left arm.
Distant mountains surrounded her, and below, a sheer drop. Gillian stared downward, her stomach lurching. Something screamed and dove at her, tangling in her hair. She shrieked and tried to scrabble away, falling flat again and wrenching her right arm. White-hot agony exploded through her.
She was under attack from a very large, very angry bird. It clawed and tore at her hair. A sudden frigid breeze blew as she tried to protect her head with her left hand, only to have it brutally slashed. The bird abruptly left with a squawk of terror. But now Gillian’s head throbbed so she could barely see. Ghost birds? Just her luck. She waited for the pain to subside, but it didn’t. She moaned, pressing her cheek into the ledge, staring at her ravaged and bloody left hand, half curled beside her face. Her mother’s ring glinted in the sunlight.
Her mother’s ring. And suddenly she understood. Gillian had never been cursed. But her mother’s ringhad. Using her teeth and lips, she wrenched the cursed thing off her finger. It tinked onto the ledge. The pain immediately abated.
Gillian peeked back out at the vista before her. Two large birds soared nearby—not vultures but eagles. They circled, calling angrily to each other or at her, she didn’t know, but for the moment, they were staying away.
“They’ll not harm ye, so long as I’m here.”
Gillian screamed again and rolled toward the edge, catching herself before she rolled off into nothing but air.
A man was with her. Gillian had slowly deduced that when she’d fallen, she’d not plunged to the river or rocks below but had landed on a ledge, apparently home to a pair of angry eagles. She had a hazy memory of hitting a bulge in the side of the mountain as she’d fallen and scratching desperately for purchase, only to roll and slide off it before crashing to the ground . . . or to this ledge.
The man sat against the cliff side, a plaid wrapped around him. It was very cold, and a strong breeze blew, yet it didn’t ruffle his dark auburn hair or make the ends of his plaid flutter. A ghost.
Gillian struggled to catch her breath as she stared at the man. He seemed a kindly enough ghost, his dark green eyes warm and friendly.
“Who are you?” Her voice was a croak, and her lips cracked painfully when she spoke. Her mouth tasted of grit and dried blood.
“Tomas Campbell, yer servant, my lady.”
“Oh, aye?” Gillian said, looking upward. The top ofthe cliff was completely hidden from view by the bulging rock she’d hit on her descent. It cast a partial shadow over the ledge.
Tomas Campbell hunkered in the shadows. “I tried to warn ye, but ye wouldna listen. I tried to help, but it’s no so easy anymore.” He held his hands up and frowned at them. “If I concentrate verra hard, sometimes I can feel ye and know I’m doing some good.” He sighed and dropped his hands. “But this time it wasna enough. I havena a body, after all.”
“It’s been you all this time? The doll . . . the ballast . . . the writing?”
Tomas shook his head. “The ballast and cliff, aye that was me. I know nothing about a doll. The writing was a lad. I saw him briefly, but he didna see me. Most canna see me . . . and to be truthful, I canna always see them, either. It’s as if I see them from the corner of my eye, but when I turn, they’re gone, or just shadows. I hear their voices clear sometimes, and others it’s but whisperings. But you . . . I saw ye clearly from the time ye set foot in the castle. Ye’re like a blazing torch. I kent that if I saw you, you must see me . . . but it didna work the way I thought. Till now, that is.”
Gillian’s sluggish and anguished brain took a long moment to digest this. “What happened?”
Tomas leaned forward, face grim. “You were pushed, my lady. I tried to stop ye from falling as I’d stopped the ballast from causing ye any real harm, but yer attacker was most persistent.”
“Who attacked me?”
“I know not, my lady. I told ye—as most canna seeme, neither can I see them. I only know the one who did this is a dark man . . . dark skin, dark hair . . . that is all I can see, I catch snatches of him from the corner of my eye . . . but when I turn, there’s naught there. But he watches you, and his intentions are dark.”
Gillian glanced back over the side of the cliff, at the soaring eagles, then back at Tomas. She decided he was harmless, so she painfully dragged herself away from the edge of the cliff. She shivered from the bracing wind.
