Page 97 of Love at First Fright

But now she swept forward, one hand pressed to her chest in mock surprise. “Master Charlie! You return bearing gifts!” She performed a little curtsy, the kind reserved for visiting royalty. “How extraordinarily kind.”

Charlie, bless him, played along. He set the books on the reading table with a flourish. “For you, my lady. I hope they meet your approval.”

Lady Grimthorne descended upon the Outlander collection like a woman starved. She picked up the first book, running translucent fingers over the cover. The kilted man stared up at her, with that smouldering intensity I myself could never manage.

She fanned herself dramatically. “Oh, my.” Her eyes flicked to Charlie, sparkling with mischief. “It appears you and I share the same taste in men.”

“Excellent taste,” Charlie agreed, grinning.

I grumbled something about brains over brawn that neither of them paid attention to. Not that I was jealous. I wasn’t. Just because I didn’t have bulging muscles or look like I could toss a caber didn’t mean—

“Anyway,” I cut through, bored of fictional Scotsmen getting more attention than me, “more importantly, Charlie found this stupid book in town. The Grim History of Grimthorne by Alan Cromwell. It’s got a load of bollocks in it about this manor being haunted by a witch. Now his partner Brad is obsessed with tracking her down to rekill her.”

Lady Grimthorne’s eyes widened. She made her way back over to her armchair, settling into it with a deliberate care that suggested she needed the support.

“Really now?” Her fingers drummed against the armrest. “What does it say?”

“The usual witchy rubbish,” I said. “That she terrorised the town with curses and hexes. Missing livestock, sick children, failed crops.”

Charlie nodded. “Says her name was Margery Darke.”

At the sound of that name, Lady Grimthorne flinched. Just a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but I caught it.

“Well?” I gestured at her. “Aren’t you going to tell Charlie that there’s no witch here?”

Lady Grimthorne opened her mouth. Then snapped it shut. Her gaze drifted to the fire, watching flames that gave off no heat.

Confusion prickled through me. “Lady G?” She ignored me. “Well…” I said, turning to Charlie, “I know all the ghosts in this residence. Every single one. And there’s no Margery Darke.”

Lady Grimthorne’s shoulders tensed.

“Is there?” I pressed.

“You’re quite right, Bartholomew.” Her words came out sharp, brittle. “Have you seen any witches?”

“No…” I floated closer to her chair. “But you’re the oldest one here, so—”

“That doesn’t mean I know everything!”

The flames in the fireplace roared upward, crackling and spitting. Charlie jumped back with a yelp, stumbling into the bookshelf behind him.

I didn’t think. Just reached for his hand.

To my surprise, he took it. Gripped it tightly, fingers threading through mine like I was something solid he could anchor himself to.

The contact sent a shock of static racing up my arm. I squeezed back, probably harder than necessary, but I didn’t care. He was warm and real and holding my hand.

“But… you take great pride in knowing everything and anything about this manor,” I said slowly, keeping my voice level. “Every story, every secret. It’s what you do.”

Lady Grimthorne’s face twisted. She jumped to her feet, gathering her skirts in agitated fists. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She swept toward the door, back ramrod straight, chin held high like she was off to take tea with the queen rather than fleeing an uncomfortable conversation.

The door didn’t slam. She passed straight through it.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

“That was weird,” Charlie said finally, still holding my hand.