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“Do spirits usually dislike you?”
They typically ignore me altogether. But she’d read enough of her grandfather’s writing to understand why everything went awry, and what she needed to do to fix it. Ironically—and painfully—she’d have to start with honesty.
“I gave her good reason. The first night you were here… the noises you heard in your bedchamber?” He nodded once, his eyes narrowing. “That was me.”
His lips flattened, but otherwise he did not move.
Her pulse spiked. “I made the thumping sounds, and the cold blasts, and—and the mirror moving—”
“How?” He didn’t seem angry, which was even more unsettling.
“There is a thin passage between the blue room and the next room. The floorboards extend under the wall and creak when they’re stepped on.”
He blinked several times but did not look away. “And the cold?”
“A hole in the wall and a sliver in the back of the armoire.” She swallowed hard. “Ice from the kitchen and a set of bellows.”
One severe brow arched. “Clever. The mirror?”
“Fishing line and a weight.”
His lip curled up into a wicked smile, and he huffed a soundless laugh. “I knew it was you.”
“How?” She’d used that trick for years without detection.
“The rice powder on the mirror.” He leaned forward the barest amount. “It was the same scent you wore at the tavern.”
She swore an oath—yet another habit her grandmother attempted to train out of her routine years ago—and pressed her hand over her face. She’d been struggling for hours with how to admit her deceit, and he’d already known? “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t have proof. Until now.”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll deny it if anyone asks. My word against yours.”
“Who is the more reputable person here?”
She wanted to smack the self-satisfied look off his face. Instead, she ground her back teeth together. “I’m not debating that with you now.” Likely, she’d lose, and she hated that. She also hated the weight of his gaze, how it caressed her like his touch but also pinned her in place. “If I summoned your wife—”
“My late wife.”
“Your late wife,” she echoed bitterly, “and then I… bothered you while you were sleeping.”
“Terrorized is more accurate.”
“Will you please shut it?” she barked, and the smug expression fell from his features. “What I’m saying is that her spirit is angry.”
“You think it was some ice and fishing wire that angered her? Not…”
His attention drifted from her face, down the length of her and up again, trailing heat wherever it touched. Was he remembering what happened in the cellar? Did he want it to happen again?
Did she want it to happen again?
Of course, she didn’t. Those stolen moments were likely what put them in this situation to begin with.
“We’re not discussing that.” Definitely not thinking about it either. “If we want to get out of here, we need to appease her spirit.”
His nod was short and skeptical. “How do you propose we do that?”
She grabbed the open book closest to her, the journal she’d uncovered earlier. “With this.”
