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Evaine gasped.
Light footsteps and a girlish giggle retreated into the far side of the attic.
“Go. Now,” he whispered raggedly. Marina. She was back.
Evaine clutched her statue and hurried back to the stairs. She trotted down them double-time. Still not fast enough. Gareth stayed glued to her back as far as the top of the stairs. There, he turned around, summoned his courage, and called out, “Marina?”
Another faint giggle.
He held his breath. Was she trying to communicate with him? If so, what was she trying to say?
Heavier footsteps thudded forward.
Gareth gave up trying to reach Marina and slammed the attic door shut. He all but jumped down the steep, short set of stairs.
Pain shot up his ankle upon landing. Wincing, he pulled himself upright and glanced apprehensively behind him. The attic door stayed shut.
Evaine stood wide-eyed, and pale-faced a few feet away. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her precious statue with both hands.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
He winced as he pulled himself upright and put weight on his injured ankle. “I’ll be fine,” he said curtly. He reached for the statue sitting on the windowsill.
“Let me.” Evaine tried to grab it, but his arm was longer and he snagged it first. She frowned and said, “I do believe you have not one, but two ghosts, my lord.”
He scoffed. She was right. He didn’t want to admit it. What right did his father have to haunt this place, anyway? He hadn’t been the one to suffer. He had been the cause of so much pain. The least his father could do was leave them the fuck alone.
“I’m serious,” Evaine said. “That is twice now I’ve heard those light steps and that girlish laugh. The first time was when Marina left her diary for me to find.” She scowled. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I do.” If he hadn’t before, he certainly did now. Gareth had known that night when he saw Marina’s still form standing at the window before a raging blaze that the violence of her death, and the one she had dealt to his father, would leave a scar on this place. Just as their actions had left scars on his body.
He refused to believe hers was a malevolent force—but she might consider him her foe for having failed to protect her so profoundly.
Could she be jealous of Evaine? Did ghosts feel emotions like envy?
“We should check on your grandmother. It’s been a few hours since we last saw Hazel,” he said calmly. He wasn’t trying to frighten her, but Evaine’s beautiful eyes flared wide.
“Gran,” she whispered, and took off down the hall, forgetting that he had just sprained his ankle in a terrorized leap down a flight of stairs. He limped after her.
“I’m sorry, Gareth. Here. Let me help you.” She turned back. Worry for her grandmother radiated from her in waves, but he slung one arm around her shoulders and used her as a human crutch, relishing the closeness of her body to his.
A hopeless romantic to the end.
Chapter 20
Evaine
Getting down to the lower levels took eons. Gareth leaned heavily on her. His face was ashen and his lips pressed thin against the pain. Her impulse was to run, but she reminded herself that there had to be a rational explanation for these events with each laborious step.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the scent of dinner simmering on the stove met her nostrils. Relief cut through her like a northern wind of cold relief.
“Gran?” she called out.
“In here.” Hazel stood at the long marble-topped island, up to her elbows in chopped vegetables. Savory meat cooked in a pot. Ham, from the smell of it. She glanced up and did a double take. “You look a fright. What happened?”
“You shouldn’t be pushing yourself,” Evaine scolded.
“Pish. I felt right as rain after my nap. Let me be useful while I can be. Especially since this one looks as if he will be out of commission for a while. Sit.” Hazel pointed at a chair. The duke plopped into it, which was a testament to how much his ankle hurt.
