Page 78 of The Tartan Trap

“You can see us?” Margaret said, aghast.

William finally lifted his head, frowning. “Was that ever in question?”

“Why did you let us stand there like this? Why didn’t you say anything?” Margaret demanded.

“Why would I have? You weren’t interfering with my work. You were being remarkably silent for once—it was a delightful treat. Why on earth would I have put an end to that?”

Margaret propped a hand upon her hip. “Because our dress was abnormal?”

“Who am I to question the whims of ladies’ fashion?” He flicked his wrist; a page turned in his ledger.

“Then perhaps you should have intervened because our behavior was odd?”

William finally glanced up, a smile dusting his lips. “It was odd that you were being so respectful, that you kept the volume below a dull roar. But again, why would I stop you? You obviously were engaged with your own pursuits that kept you amused—and silent—for over a quarter of an hour.”

Margaret scowled, though he probably couldn’t see that because of the sheet.

“Now that you’ve inevitably interrupted me and I’ve been required to speak,” William said, “may I ask what, precisely, you ladies were doing?”

“We were testing a theory,” Rachel said.

“Which one?”

“The idea that belief can create reality.”

“That experiment is already well in progress at Bedlam,” he said, turning another page.

“I suppose we didn’t truly believe.” Rachel shrugged.

“Could that be because it’s not real?” William suggested in a droll tone.

“Then why on earth didn’t Lord Shaw say anything?” Margaret asked, propping her ghostly arms on her hips.

“I’ll admit your timing was quite fortuitous. I had just told the man that the first rule of the silk trade is to be prepared for the unexpected, that one never knows what’s just around the corner.” William grinned. “You two walked in precisely after that.”

“Well, we’re happy that at least we made an excellent object lesson, at the very least,” Margaret grumbled. “Come, let’s see if Cook had better luck with her brand of magic than we did.”

“It’s not magic,” Rachel insisted. “It’s science.”

“I confess it’s difficult to take you seriously when we’re both dressed in old sheets.”

“Very well—let’s test a different theory⁠—”

William arched an eyebrow and interrupted, “How about whether a closed door will silence inane conversations?”

Margaret rolled her eyes and hurried Rachel out the door. Once it was closed behind them, she said, “What theory did you have in mind?”

“Whether I can eat all the biscuits before you!” Rachel sprinted down the hall, her ghost costume fluttering behind her.

Margaret chased her, laughing. In her haste, her eye holes became misaligned, and she groped and slapped at the sheet, trying to put it back into place. She was distracted and giggling, which explained how she ended up smacking directly into a wall.

No, it was not a wall, after all—just a very large, solid person whose arms came out immediately to steady her.

“Margaret,” he said.

Margaret would recognize that voice anywhere, with its deep timbre and rolling accent.

“Callum?” she squeaked, still floundering in her costume. “What are you doing here?”