She made it to the theater by midafternoon, a miracle in itself. She’d looked in the coffee shop up the street and hadn’t seen Gerard there mainlining mocha lattes, so it was a safe bet Fred had straightened him out. She didn’t dare hope Gerard had returned to finish the packing. She sighed, then walked into Tempest in a Teapot and greeted the owner, Moonbat Murphy.
Moon’s smile was strained.
Victoria paused at the counter. “What’s wrong? You haven’t been seeing spooks in the basement, too, have you?”
Moon wouldn’t meet her eyes. “No, Vic.” Then she busied herself scooping tea out of recycled glass containers and putting it into hemp sachets.
Victoria considered. Was Moon upset because Victoria wasn’t going to be doing shows upstairs over the summer? Was she worried about the potential fallout for her business? Was she upset over a bad batch of chickweed?
Victoria discounted most of those reasons. The stage upstairs had been rented to some yoga outfit for the summer and Victoria had already paid rent on the prop room through the end of the year, plus she had already reserved the upstairs for her fall season. They’d been doing the same drill for five years now. If Moon had been unhappy with that, surely she would have lit a little incense and gathered her courage for a direct complaint.
Victoria almost paused to ask more pointed questions, then decided it was probably more than she wanted to know at the moment, so she shrugged to herself, then made her way through the shop, back through the kitchen, and down the stairs to the cellar.
Then she came to a halt in front of the prop room door. Taped there was a note. Victoria took it and unfolded it. Handmade paper, apparently. But somehow, that just didn’t improve the message.
Vic,
Sorry, but we can’t do your theater upstairs anymore. The guy who’s renting the stage this summer offered to buy Tempest in a Teapot and open a yoga studio upstairs forever. Just Say Yes to the right price, right? I knew you’d understand.
Moon
P.S. Can you get your stuff out by Monday? Mr. Yoga says your costumes throw off his chi.
Victoria looked at the note. No, she gaped at the note. No wonder the Bat hadn’t wanted to look her in the eye. Victoria could hardly believe it. Moon was no doubt planning a very long stay on a tropical island, where she could drink green tea and practice Downward-Facing Dog in peace.
Victoria wanted to wrap her and her newly acquired fistfuls of cash in her damned yoga mat and drop her in the Hudson.
Well, maybe it was for the best. Maybe the show would be such a hit in England, she would be asked to stay and set up shop there. Shakespeare had made it in London; why couldn’t she? She’d think about that later, when she’d finished packing.
If she thought about it now, she might be tempted to do someone bodily harm.
She shoved the note into her bag, then took her key and opened up the prop room. She looked around for a minute, then indulged in a few less-than-ladylike comments about costume designers in general and Gerard in particular. There was nothing in the room in front of her besides Hamlet costumes and props, all of which she would have to pack herself, damn it, anyway. Where were the manly men when she needed them?
She rolled up her sleeves and looked on the bright side as she got to work. At least there wasn’t really all that much to pack. Most of her theater gear was in storage. It could have been a lot worse. She could have been looking for members of her crew willing to come down on their last weekend of freedom to help her pack. She could just imagine the complaints—
The costumes rustled.
Victoria looked up from where she knelt in front of a box, packing shoes. She frowned. Wind? Too much gusty sighing on her part? She stared at the medieval-looking clothing hanging on the rack above her. Well, nothing was moving now. She snorted to herself. Too much talk of ghosts. Either that or sleep deprivation was catching up with her. She turned back to her work.
One metal hanger clanked against another. Victoria looked up sharply. She wondered, a little desperately, where the breeze was coming from.
But there was no breeze.
And she could see now that one of the capes was definitely moving.
All by itself.
Victoria dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed vigorously. When she could see again, she looked at the spot where the clothing had been moving.
Only now she could she what had been moving it.
A man stood there, dressed in what she could only identify as medieval Highland gear. His hair was a flaming red not unlike her own. He had a very large sword hanging down by his side. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and had a heavy plaid blanket of sorts pleated around his waist, with one end thrown over his shoulder. It was fastened with an enormous silver brooch that sparkled with emeralds and rubies.
He was fondling a purple velvet cape and making noises of appreciation. He stood on tiptoe to reach the caps on the rack. He lovingly caressed one with a long, luscious feather on it. Victoria felt her jaw go slack. She pinched herself.
“Ow,” she said involuntarily.
The man whipped around to look at her, squeaking in surprise.
Victoria couldn’t seem to retrieve her jaw. She could only manage garbled sounds of surprise and disbelief.
The man shifted nervously.
Victoria clamped down on her raging imagination with an iron fist and forced herself to speak. “Are you a ghost?” she demanded.
The man gulped, then took off his own cap and clutched it nervously between his hands. “Hugh McKinnon,” he said. He made her a low bow, then promptly vanished.
Victoria felt herself start to go numb. It began at the top of her head and traveled downward. She realized in horror that she was going to faint. She didn’t have time to faint; she had to finalize production arrangements. She had to get the last of her stuff out of her apartment for the summer. She had to make sure Michael Fellini had everything he needed and would enjoy that first-class flight she had booked for him. She had to empty out the prop room that she no longer had rights to—but that was okay because she now knew for a fact that it was haunted. Let Mr. Yoga Man put that in his feng shui and smoke it.
She felt herself keeling over. At least she was close to the ground and it wouldn’t hurt so badly when she landed.
She looked up at the ceiling as consciousness began to fade. She was greeted again by the sight of one Hugh McKinnon, dressed in his Highland gear, leaning over her and watching her with consternation on his face.
She sincerely hoped that this wasn’t some kind of cosmic foreshadowing. Her dad had warned her there were otherworldly things going on both at the castle and the inn Megan owned down the road from that castle. No wonder Thomas had laughed out loud every time he heard her mention doing Hamlet.
She wondered if, for the first time in her life, she might have leaped where she should have looked.
Too late now . . .
Chapter 2
Connor MacDougal stood on the parapet of Thorpewold Castle and stared out over the bleak landscape before him. It wasn’t in his nature to be overly sentimental, but in times like these, when the tourist season was coming on and there were hauntings and otherworldly things going on at all hours, he found himself longing for the quiet of his hall in the Highlands.
Of course, in his day there had always been a bit of bloodshed with neighboring clans to enliven what might have otherwise been a dull spring afternoon. And, true, there had invariably been the excitement of a properly executed cattle raid to hold his interest for a day or so. But for the most part, he had enjoyed the sound of wind and rain and the odd curse from his men echoing in the silence of the hills.
Somehow, the bloodcurdling screams that echoed from time to time in his present keep didn’t satisfy him in like manner.
But a shade did what he had to and took what pleasure he could. Thorpewold was not Connor’s preferred location, but he had no desire to return to his hall in the Highlands, so it would serve him wel
l enough. Besides, he’d waited a bloody long time to call the stones beneath his feet his. He hadn’t paid for it with his blood, nor had he paid for it with his gold, but he had paid for it with his very will to have it, and have it he would.
And hold it he would, as well.
At least now he no longer had houseguests. He’d managed to rid himself of Thomas McKinnon and several other annoying shades with one deft move during the fall.
He paused.
Very well, so Thomas McKinnon had wed himself a MacLeod wench and departed for safer ground without any of Connor’s aid. Connor was certain he would have driven the man away on his own, given time. It was enough that Thomas was gone. If he never had to set eyes on another McKinnon, it would be too soon. They were trouble, that family, and though he had no fear of trouble, he also couldn’t deny that a little peace, such as it might be in a hall full of chattering tourists, would be a welcome thing.
And peace from Thomas McKinnon and anyone else of his ilk could not be prized too highly.
He turned and walked along the wall, surveying the goings-on in the inner bailey. There was nothing remarkable there. Men milled about, doing what men did on a pleasant morning when there were swords to be used and enemies to use them on. He looked at them and nodded to himself. Aye, those men would all call him laird in the end. He would make certain of that.
Now if he could just find himself a decent garrison captain, he might have an enjoyable and smoothly running afterlife.
“My laird?”
Connor turned and looked at his first aspirant, Angus Campbell, a shade of goodly skill, but not one overendowed with wit. But when looking for a captain, one had to begin somewhere.
“Aye?” Connor asked, vowing to begin the day with a bit of patience.
“I’ve tidings, my laird.” Angus swallowed with difficulty, as if he could barely contain his fear.
Were the tidings so terrifying, then? Connor frowned. “Well?”
Angus shifted nervously. “There are souls intending to assault the keep.”
“Tourists?”
“Nay, my laird, I think not.”
“You think not,” Connor repeated slowly. “Perhaps you should think less and use your eyes more. If they are not tourists, what could they possibly be?”
“Other sorts.”
“Other sorts?” Connor echoed. “What kind of other sorts?”
Angus began to tremble. “Well, you see, my laird, it is thus that I understand it . . .” He paused dramatically, in spite of, or perhaps because of, his shaking. “There are preparations for guests at the inn.” He paused again. “The Boar’s Head Inn, my laird. The one down the way there.”
“They are always preparing for guests at the inn. That one down the way—aye, I knew which one, you imbecile!”
Angus cowered. “But gear has been sent on ahead of what looks to be a full assault of many guests upon the inn, my laird. The shed is full to the brim and old Farris’s barn down the way has been filled as well. I watched a large lorry move in items of strange and ominous portents.”
“How do you know those items belong to the guests at the inn?” Connor asked in a measured tone.
Angus blinked. “I eavesdropped, my laird.”
Well, that was something useful, at least. “What else did you hear? And pray that ’tis something I will find to my liking,” Connor said with a growl.
“I heard the name McKinnon mentioned, my laird,” Angus said, his teeth chattering.
“Impossible!”
Angus trembled violently. “ ’Tis so, my laird.”
“I thought I’d rid myself of that bloody family!” Connor bellowed. He turned his most ferocious scowl on the man before him. “I’ve no liking for these particular tidings. You’re dismissed. Send up the next candidate for captain.”
Angus bowed, scraped, and backed up. Apparently his sense of direction was as lacking as his good sense, for he fell off the parapet.
There was soon a quite audible “Ach, that hurt,” floating up from below.
“Impossible,” Connor muttered. “He must have heard it awrong.”
“Actually, my dear fellow, I daresay his ears were functioning quite well.”
Connor spun around to find another shade boldly occupying the same parapet. “Get off my roof, you frilly bugger,” he said.
“You know,” Roderick St. Claire drawled, “it had so much more, oh, I don’t know, élan, I suppose, when Dun-can MacLeod used to say the same thing to me.”
Connor scowled as he drew his sword. “Perhaps my delivery is not as good, but I daresay my sword is just as sharp.”
Roderick only smiled pleasantly. He fussed with his lace-bedecked shirtfront and brushed a speck of nonexistent dirt from his trouser leg. “I say you put your sword back where it was and we call a truce. You might need me on this caper.”
“Caper?” Connor echoed. “I’ve no intentions of being involved in a caper!” By the saints, he most certainly did not—and especially not with the frilly, long-winded, irritating Victorian fool before him!
He paused, unwillingly. It was possible, he conceded, that Roderick might know something useful. If so, wisdom dictated that he not do damage to the man before he spat out his tidings. Connor resheathed his sword with a curse, vowing to himself to use it without hesitation if the situation warranted it.
“Very well,” Connor said gruffly. “What do you know?”
Roderick examined the volumes of lace dripping from his wrists. “I understand there is a rather large group of mortals intending to descend on our poor home. Angus did rather feebly describe what I have seen for myself to be great activity in the village.”
“It means nothing,” Connor said, suffering a brief but unsettling moment of unease.
“Doesn’t it?” Roderick mused. “Well, I suppose we’ll see when they arrive at the keep. Ah, look you there. Here comes someone now.”
Connor looked down the way and up the road to find a lone man walking toward the castle.
“Bloody hell,” he said, scratching his head. Then he remembered himself and his position. “Not to worry. ’Tis but a tourist.”
“Let’s go see, shall we?” Roderick suggested. “We’ll collect the new candidate for your captainship whilst we’re about it. Oh, look at all the men lining up for the pleasure.”
Connor looked to where Roderick was pointing. Well, men were certainly scurrying about, but it was hard to tell if they were trying to get in line, or out of it.
He gave Roderick a shove off the parapet, just on principle, then made his way in a more dignified fashion down the stairs to the floor of the bailey. Roderick was cursing him fluently as he dusted himself off, but Connor ignored him. He had more important things to see to.
Mainly, the man coming inside the gates, gaping like a slack-jawed fool who had never been farther from his cooking fire than his village green.
“Well, this one looks to be impressed by our idyllic little pile of stones, doesn’t he?” Roderick remarked.
Connor grunted, then took up a position in the middle of the bailey. He folded his arms over his chest and watched as the man took a lengthy tour of the castle, still wearing that look of amazement.
Not a tourist, Connor noted without hesitation. No sketchpad, no National Trust Handbook with sights to be seen marked in red, no video camera ready to capture Thorpewold at its best. Who, then, was this simpleton who couldn’t seem to shut his mouth as he stared at everything around him?
The man looked nothing like Thomas McKinnon, so Connor thought he might be safe on that score. To be sure, no McKinnon Connor had ever known would have been caught sitting down on a rock and staring off into space as if all his wits had suddenly vacated his poor head.
Then the man leaped up and began to pace.
Connor glanced at the men gathered in the bailey. To a soul, they looked as baffled as he felt. They stood in huddles well away from the madman as he walked, stopped, counted, then walked some more. He made litt
le writings in a notebook he produced from a pocket on his shirt.
Connor watched with growing alarm as the man continued to perpetrate his unfathomable activity. What did it all mean? Striding here and there, scribbling, muttering, holding his hands up as if he framed bits of the castle between his fingers? Indeed, he even managed a chortle or two, as if his discoveries were so delightful, he couldn’t stop himself from letting everyone within earshot know of them. By all the saints above, what was this man about?
Connor wondered.
He didn’t care to wonder overmuch, actually. He wanted peace and quiet, not a mortal cluttering up the inner bailey and distracting his men with his antics.
The man finally ceased his strange and unfathomable behavior. He gathered up the sheaves of paper he’d scribbled on and made his way out the front gates. Connor looked after him, then slowly turned back to the bailey.
A single sheaf lay there, discarded.
Connor felt doom descend.
He strode over to it and looked down. It galled him to the very depths of his soul to admit it, but he could not make out the scrawls scribbled there. He should have learned to read. He’d had the opportunity, a year or so ago. Many men in the keep had submitted to lessons from another of their kind trying to master the skill, but Connor had kept himself aloof, feeling it too far beneath him to engage in such foolishness.
Now, he wondered if he might have been the foolish one.
He looked unwillingly at Roderick, who stood next to him, waiting patiently.
“Well, damn you,” Connor snapped, “what are you waiting for?”
“An invitation?”
“You’ll have a skewering—”
“I can’t read if I can’t breathe,” Roderick said pleasantly. He leaned over and peered at the paper. “It says, ‘Hamlet, produced by V. McKinnon.’”
Connor only heard McKinnon.
He roared.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Roderick complained. “You don’t know that it’s one of those McKinnons.”
Connor unclenched his jaw. Roderick had it aright. There was no sense in aggravating himself without cause. “What means the rest?” he said, gesturing impatiently toward the ground.