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“If that’s what you want.”
His eyes fell to the diary. “What are you reading?”
“About Walter and Anne. The derring-dos of Duncroft’s only pirate and the damsel who waited breathlessly in their home for him to return from his adventures on the high seas. I think I dreamt about them last night. Though, their outfits were wrong. They were all medieval.”
“You dreamt again last night?”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“It wasn’t a bad dream. It started with me having a conversation with Dorothy, however. She was kind of a hoot.”
It appeared he didn’t like that. “A conversation with Dorothy?”
“Yes. We were sitting in a void, and she told me Rose didn’t kill her, neither did David.” I grinned. “I think she liked me. At least she told me so. Then again, as you well know, I’m highly likeable.”
Ian didn’t shift with my mood.
He demanded, “What else did she tell you?”
I sobered and shared, “That she was in love with William. That he hurt for Rose. It all faded away and I was in the bailey of a castle, just inside the gate. Some woman, presumably Anne, ran out to meet her husband when he came home from somewhere.”
“The castle was gone before Walter’s time. Dismantled. Some of the stone was used to build Duncroft. He and Anne lived in this house.”
“I know. The dream got it wrong.”
His gaze coasted to the drinks cabinet, down to the whisky in his hand, and he muttered, “I don’t like these dreams.”
“A lot is happening in my days. It stands to reason my mind would process it at night.”
He looked back to me. “Who did the Dorothy in your dream say killed her?”
I shrugged. “She didn’t. She said it was more important for me to worry about what’s happening in this house. I didn’t disagree. Oh, and she told me to tell you about the flute.”
He grew very still, and his words were vibrating strangely when he asked, “The flute?”
I didn’t like his affect or his tone, so it was hesitant when I said, “The flute up in the Music Room, on the second floor.”
He remained perfectly still for a long, tense moment.
Then he surged forward and crushed out his cigarette, his glass went down with a crash, and he was up and moving.
Heart already racing, I got up and followed him.
Thirty-Three
THE MUSIC ROOM
I had to run.
Ian took the stairs two at a time.
To keep up with him (which I didn’t, entirely), I was winded when we hit the second floor and he took off at a jog to the end of the northeast corridor.
He threw open the door to the Music Room and prowled in.
He stopped and looked around.
