Chapter Nine

F ear shuddered through her, sudden and cold. Elinor hesitated as Gavin opened the door to the tower and stepped back. "Are you sure?"

With a tentative nod, she stepped over the threshold into shadows—the night had descended much faster than she expected. Thankful that Gavin had grabbed a lantern from the kitchen, she was also glad when he stepped ahead of her to put out a hand, wary and protective.

"Seems quiet in here," he said, lantern light cutting a pathway as they walked ahead cautiously. "Perhaps they are scared of rowanberries."

Suppressing a nervous laugh, she moved beside him, then stopped by a pile of broken stones, once a stout wall, to set out the last of the carved turnips from the basket she carried. When Gavin lit the candles, they blew out immediately. Without a word, he turned to place rowan branches and two iron pokers near the entrance.

"Thank you," she murmured, feeling a rush of love, knowing he doubted that folk remedies were of any use; yet he put them about as she wanted, just for her. He moved on, the lantern casting long bars of light and shadow on the stone floor and walls. He extended an arm.

"Careful. This place is hazardous. It ought to be rebuilt or just razed. Perhaps that would dispel the family curse."

"The pit would still be here," she said. "Besides, you love this old tower. We cannot let this angry spirit ruin so much for you. For us."

"Aye, then. What do you suggest, lass?" In the play of lamplight, he glanced at her. "You wrote about witchy charms and candles in your story. Does any of that have an actual effect?"

"Rowan and red thread, ghosts flee in dread," she murmured. "I have only read about such things in my studies. I have not tried them all yet, but I believe they work."

He huffed. "Now she tells me. Well, your wee remedies did something in the house. We heard taps, there were lights."

"The Gray Lady was there," Elinor agreed.

They walked past broken walls open to the sky, where wind rushed the scudding clouds and distant thunder grumbled. Elinor felt uneasy, her steps lagging. Just ahead, the pit dungeon loomed in the darkness, a black hole in the old stone floor.

"We may need more cold iron," she said.

"The grate covering the pit is iron, though rusted. But it would have been forged iron."

"Raw iron, not smelted, is best. They say natural iron has a magnetic nature that faeries and ghosts dislike. It weakens any powers they have and can trap them."

"My lass, I am willing to try anything just now. I set the pokers by the door—will that do?"

"I hope so. I want to try something." Rummaging in the basket, she found a folded paper and set it on a stone with the last rowan branch, heavy with red berries, then added a curl of knotted red thread beside it. "Hold the lantern high."

"What is that?" he murmured.

"Grandmother used to say verses to protect us from an droch-shùil, the evil eye. Rowan and red thread, spoken charms and such, can dispel evil." She hesitated, her heart pounding. "This can be altered for ghosts."

Gavin took her hand, pressed, let go. Drawing a breath, she began. "I appeal to the protection of Saint Bride and the angels—I appeal to the souls trapped here—"

If harm came to thee from evil eye or wicked heart

May thee cast off each ill, malice, anger, and hurt,

May thee be released, may thy anger cease,

May thee be forgiven and find thy peace.

She waited. Gavin stood beside her, breathing in tandem.

"Archibald Erskine," she said, "leave this place freely and seek thy peace, so all at Braemore will see love and blessings increase."

Heart pounding, she searched the darkness. Nothing happened.

"Your story described another step, I think," Gavin murmured.

"Aye," she agreed. "Forgiveness. Releasing the ghost from the suffering and anger that bound him."

"That was what impressed me most about the story. Erskine—do you understand that?" His question echoed. "All is forgiven. Do as this fine lady asks and leave now." He paused. "Perhaps he is thinking it over."

Elinor gave a weak laugh. But the air felt taut, not quite right. "Do we have more iron? I feel we need it."

"I can fetch something, but I do not want to leave you alone."

"It is quiet now. I have more to do. Just hurry," she said as he left.

She moved ahead, placing nails here and there, but jumped, startled when the door slammed. Gavin must have gone through in haste. Feeling a sudden spin of dread at being alone, she ran to the door across a slate floor littered with rubble and leaves, and tugged on the old iron ring latch. It stuck. Panicked, she pulled again, calling out.

"Gavin!" She pounded on the scarred oak in mounting fear, then told herself he would be back any moment.

Turning, she felt a burst of indignation that displaced fear—a flash of unaccustomed temper and righteousness. This remnant of a man, this boggart, had plagued the Stewarts for generations. Lady Matilda had lost her life, haunting the castle that had once been her home. The family, Gavin, Braemore itself—they deserved peace.

She had spoken of forgiveness, but now she felt fierce on behalf of those hurt by this dark spirit. "If you think to trap me here," she called, "I will not have it!"

Picking up the lantern, she crossed the floor toward the pit to look down at the grate in the floor. The light shone into the hole but the bottom was lost in pure blackness. She leaned over.

"Archibald Erskine! Depart this place now. Go to your peace and leave us be!" Her heart slammed with a boldness that came from deep within. Nearly a year ago, she had run from this tower, heartbroken. Her dream of life with Gavin Stewart had been lost—his dream too—because this spirit refused to leave Braemore Castle.

Then a roar of thunder sent her reeling back a step.

"The laird of Braemore will confine you with iron and banish you," she said, though she trembled with the words. "Protections are set all around this place. You cannot harm us—what you have wrought is done. Your curse has ended and we have lost nothing. Leave us now!"

Seeing a few iron nails on the floor, she grabbed them and dropped to her knees beside the grate. Tossing them into the hole, she flattened a hand on the crossed iron bars for balance.

But as the rusted iron gave way under the press of her hand, she felt the old grate crumble and crack, tilting beneath her. Scrambling for hold, sprawled awkwardly, she inched backward, and looked down.

A cold wind swept through the broken tower walls, but inside the atmosphere felt thick. Deep in the hole, Elinor saw a shadow gathering, rising like a column of smoke. A sound grew, a rumble and shaking, the sound of the very darkness.

Pushing away, she could not free herself—her arm was caught between broken metal struts. She was sprawled out on the grate, trapped and being pulled downward.