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Jamie watched as she moved the second line through a gap in the stone, tested how much tension it needed, then gave it a quick tug. One hollow knock sounded across the hall. She waited, and two more came from nearer the arch while the shadow shifted at the same time. Jamie had to admit the effect was considerably better.
“You’re disturbingly good at this.”
Olivia stepped back, studying the result. “People are frightened by things they can’t predict. If the light moves one way and the sound comes from somewhere else, their imagination does most of the work for you.”
“And ye learned this in a Boston tavern?”
“I learned about people in a Boston pub.”
There was more behind that answer, though he didna have the chance to ask because a woman’s voice rose from the passage behind them.
“I’ve brought an offering for the spirit.”
Jamie closed his eyes, praying to the saints.
Olivia turned toward the doorway as Iseabail MacRae appeared beneath the arch with a basket balanced on one hip and a brown wool shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders. Her white hair was tucked beneath a linen cap and her gaze took in the hall in one sweep, pausing on them, then on the lantern, the white cloth, and the altered cords.
Nothing ever escaped Iseabail. He’d once stolen honey cakes from her kitchen when he was eight and remained convinced she’d known about it before he’d even entered the house.
“The ghost thanks ye,” he said.
Iseabail ignored him and carried the basket toward the hearth. “The poor spirit has been looking thin.”
She set the basket down before turning her attention to Olivia, taking in the trousers first, then the boots, then the loose hair. “So you’re the American lass.”
Olivia glanced at Jamie, a question in her eyes.
He lifted one shoulder. “Ewan talks and gossip travels fast.”
“Ewan told Morag,” Iseabail corrected as she picked up the poker and rearranged the peat in the hearth. “Morag told Mairi, and Mairi told me because unlike men, women understand useful information shouldna be left lying about.”
Olivia looked from Iseabail to Jamie. “Exactly how many people know?”
Jamie leaned one shoulder against the stone. “Know what?”
“That there’s a strange American widow staying in your haunted castle.”
He considered the question. “Several.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
Iseabail looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would it trouble ye? Everyone will know by supper.”
Olivia opened her mouth, appeared to reconsider whatever she intended to say, and closed it again while Jamie coughed into his fist.
He picked up the basket. “Thank you for the eggs.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I didna bring them for you. They’re for the spirit.”
“A generous offering.”
“The spirit can mend my henhouse in return.”
Beside him, Olivia made a strangled sound. Iseabail ignored that too, gathering her shawl around herself before heading toward the passage. At the arch she paused, looked Olivia over once more, and said, “Eat. Ye need feeding, yer too thin.”
Then she disappeared down the corridor as abruptly as she’d arrived.
For several moments the hall remained quiet except for the wind moving through the open windows. Jamie looked at the basket, Olivia looked at him, and all at once laughter escaped her, bright and surprised.
