Chapter 17

NEIL

Neil's thoughts were an absolute mess. He wanted her, wanted her in a way that shouldn't have been possible. Because it was Penelope Skinner, the woman who'd thrown a book at him, the woman who'd made him doubt himself.

But oh, did he want her. He could think of nothing else. Not the thing he'd seen last night, not the creeping sense of ghosts in the castle, and not the twenty-odd words on his laptop. Nothing but her .

With a groan, Neil leaned against the windowsill, his eyes going to the space beyond. It felt strange, knowing his feelings for this woman had changed so completely in so brief a time. Maybe it was simply who they were, maybe it was being trapped in this space for a week and being forced to confront their pasts. Whatever it was, Penelope's animosity had unraveled into something new . And he couldn't shake the feeling that it had always been there, hiding under the surface.

"You're pining," Daniela grumbled as she settled beside him on the window seat.

Neil looked up in surprise. He'd forgotten Laszlo had abandoned Daniela to go out in the snow with Penelope. Ignoring her, he refocused on the grounds, scanning the tree line for Penelope, but she was nowhere to be seen. The front door opened and closed, and Laszlo called, "It's just me! Leave her alone, Neil. She needs some time."

Daniela smirked, and Neil leaned back in the window seat.

From their spot in the study, Neil had seen Penelope and Laszlo wandering around the castle grounds, down the tunnel of trees that had deposited them here the night before. In the light of day, the grounds were more expansive than he'd originally thought, smaller buildings detached from the castle scattered across the land and hidden in the tree line. A church, maybe, and the groundskeeper's home with smoke billowing out of its chimney.

Still, no mention of the castle's owners. Neil had wondered, not for the first time, whom it belonged to, if anyone.

Neil tilted his head at Daniela. Her curls were twice the volume they'd been the day before, red and blond streaks catching the light refracting through the window. Dark bags were nestled under her eyes, her lips were dry, and alcohol seeped from her pores. "If we're throwing things out into the open, cuz," he started, leaning closer, "you look like shit."

"Take that back," she growled.

Neil squinted at her. "Only if we exchange a bit of information."

Balancing her coffee on her knee, Daniela tapped her chin, contemplating. "What's in it for me?" she asked slowly. She was watchful, lips pursed in thought.

"I don't know. I'm sure we can work something out."

"What do you want?"

"I want to know why she's so scared of change."

Daniela raised a brow and pointed at the window. "You already have the answer to it."

"What do you mean?"

She leaned forward and jabbed a finger into his chest. "You, you dipshit. It was always you ."

"That's not helpful."

"Oh, it is." Her lips split into a playful grin. "You owe me something."

"No, we didn't exchange anything—"

"Write a blurb for my next book."

"What's your next book?" he asked skeptically.

Daniela smiled, all teeth and narrowed eyes. "Where's the fun in that?"

Neil turned his attention back to the window, unable to spot Penelope among the snow. "Fine," he grunted after a minute, relenting.

Daniela slapped him on the shoulder before taking up her coffee once more. "Now that's a good deal." She jabbed her thumb at herself. "Well, for me. Not so much for you."

He frowned. He could smell a trap. "What's your next book, Daniela?"

She raised her brows suggestively. "I'm hoping to debut an adult romance with speculative fiction elements—"

"You've got to be joking," he said, standing.

Daniela stood. "It's a little different than my usual tales, but I've got a great pitch for my agent."

"You haven't even written it yet?"

"No!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I just came up with it. Like, literally minutes ago." She shrugged. "I was going to take a bit of a break from writing—"

"Then why are you even here?"

"Buuuuut," she drawled, batting her eyes, "I can't say no to the perfect story that's fallen into my lap."

Neil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, don't."

"Picture it," she whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He shrugged her off, but she only wrapped her arm around him tighter. "A grumpy, brooding writer who, for the first time in his career, can't write." She waved her arm before them, painting a scene. "A beautiful, sweet young writer who is trying to find her place in publishing after a terrible fiasco. Their friends ditch them at the last moment, leaving them in a castle all on their own. A snowstorm arrives, trapping them inside with no cell service"—she winked—"you know, a traditional forced proximity romance—"

"This is forced proximity," he muttered, wrestling free of her grip.

"And there is only enough firewood to heat one room the entire time—"

"Enough!" Neil snapped, pushing her away.

Daniela's coffee spilled, splattering the rug beneath their feet. "You're no fun," she mumbled, shaking out her hands.

Neil turned to go.

"Where are you going?" she called as he stomped off.

"Out!" he said with a wave of his hand.

Neil needed some fresh air to clear his mind. Trapped in this stuffy castle, he was thinking about things. Romantic things, work things.

Spooky things.

Daniela might have thought it funny, but the forced proximity of the castle was getting to him.

After pulling on his jacket and boots, he opened the front door. He remembered the snowball fight earlier, the way she'd laughed and smiled. God, he couldn't get her out of his mind.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, he squinted into the distance, past the light snowfall dribbling down and catching in his curls. Penelope was nowhere to be seen, her and Laszlo's footsteps already being buried beneath a fresh layer of snow. Neil wrinkled his nose and shoved his hands into his pockets, fishing for the keys to the van. Maybe he could leave. He'd already caused enough damage as it was. Neil could forget about this week. He'd figure something out in the long haul, but he could not let his feelings get in the way of writing, feelings that were apparently not reciprocated.

He stopped beside the van. Snow had piled high, covering it, and he wiped away nearly a foot of powder on the windshield before struggling to open the door. Grunting, he finally pulled it free, sliding into the driver's seat and breathing warmth into his fingers. As he closed the door and turned the key, the battery clicked.

And clicked.

"You've got to be kidding me," he murmured, slapping the steering wheel. There was no leaving this place.

Muttering a string of obscenities, Neil climbed out of the van, pocketed the keys, slammed the door, and stalked around the side of the castle. In the light of day, the castle looked grim. Its walls dripped with dead ivy, the stone blackened in places as if a fire had torched it at one time or another.

Neil stepped up to the stone and pressed his hand against a blackened spot, his fingers coming away ashy.

"Strange," he said, bending to scoop up a handful of snow to clear away the grime. He followed the side of the castle, with no one in sight. The air was brisk, that odd, lingering scent of freshly fallen snow filling his senses.

He'd grown more accustomed to snowfall since moving to New York, but even still, there was nothing quite like fresh snowfall in the mountains. It was cold, so Neil kept his hands tucked into his coat, his jeans doing little to combat the below-freezing temperatures.

He followed the castle up toward its back, fighting through the snow at a slight incline, pausing as he squinted against the brightness. Something broke the surface, tilting up out of the white powder at a strange angle. Still alone, he trudged through the snow, cold creeping in through the top of his boots.

Neil stopped a foot away from the thing protruding from the ground. He brushed his hands over it, exposing the top of a tombstone.

"Of course there's a grave out here," he said, leaning closer. Stooping, he swept his fingers over the stone to clear away the last of the snow and dirt, hissing as his fingertips grew numb from the cold. "Nearly there."

When he was done, he sat back on his heels, surveying his work. Lips barely moving, he read aloud: "Archibald Skinner, Fourth Duke of Skinner Castle."

Skinner. Like Penelope Skinner.

It was either a strange coincidence or Laszlo hadn't felt the need to tell Penelope it could very well be a place deeply rooted in her family history.

"No," he said, nearly falling over.

It wasn't only the last name. Hadn't he heard that name whispered in the study? Neil straightened, brushing off his pants as he turned to the castle.

There were simply too many coincidences.

Shivering, he folded his arms across his chest and hurried around the back of the castle. He paused at a side entrance, his eyes going to a flicker of movement in one of the upper windows. By the time he craned his neck, there was nothing there.

Fuck this, Neil thought.

The side door opened into a hallway. Old coats and muddied boots were lined up along the entrance. They looked like they belonged to the groundskeeper, but they were covered in a thin layer of dust as if she'd abandoned them. Neil stomped his boots on the entry rug, brushing off the last of the snow with his aching fingers.

"Where did you come from?" Laszlo asked, peering in from around the corner. "I thought you were a ghost or something."

If only you knew.

Neil shivered, undoing his coat and kicking off his boots. "I went for a short walk in the snow. Found the side entrance," he said, nodding to the door as he tugged off his scarf and hung it over his coat. "Where's Penelope?" he asked, eyes wide and searching as he craned his neck to look around the corner.

"She's inside."

"That's good."

Laszlo nodded slowly, chewing on his lip.

"What?"

"Nothing, just—"

"The Wi-Fi is down and we are doomed!" Daniela yelled from the other room.

Laszlo pressed his lips together before turning and disappearing down the hall. Neil followed him. The mudroom was around the corner from the kitchen, and as he stopped just inside the large room, he found Penelope and Daniela seated at the long table, phones, computers, and tablets out. Annoyance, frustration, and exhaustion were written across their features.

Penelope sat hunched forward, expression pained as she turned away from him, studying the itinerary before her like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

"I mean, aren't we here to write?" Neil offered as he leaned against the counter. His knee bounced nervously as his gaze clung to Penelope. He needed to tell her about the grave.

Daniela scoffed. "I have a process, Stormy—"

"That's not my name," he interjected, annoyed.

"And it includes," Daniela continued, ignoring him, "opening my computer, staring at my screen for about an hour, giving up, closing my computer, opening it again, checking my phone for twenty minutes to an hour, closing my computer, and eventually giving up altogether before moving to the couch and watching something."

"How do you get anything done?" Penelope asked, leaning forward.

"At some point or another, I actually write. But I go through spouts of writing where I do five thousand to ten thousand words in one hit and then nothing for a week straight."

"You baffle me." Laszlo laughed, shaking his head.

Clearing her throat, Penelope pushed her chair out and stood. "I'm going to wander a bit," she told Laszlo quietly. She ignored Neil's pointed stare as she moved past him and down the hall to the study.

"Don't do it, Neil," Laszlo said.

Neil looked from his friend to the hall, but he shook his head and hurried after Penelope. He reached out and caught her wrist, tugging her gently to a stop.

"What?"

"I know you and I have had problems in the past. And I don't need to know about… how you feel, or anything. I realize we are… working through things.…" He sighed and reached up to tug on his curls. "If you'll let me show you, I found something I think you'd like to see."

"What kind of thing?" she asked skeptically.

"Just trust me. Grab your jacket and boots and meet me in the mudroom past the kitchen."

Neil jogged down the hall, buttoning up his jacket and slipping on his boots. Penelope appeared a moment later, bundled up to her neck, eyes narrowed as he motioned to the door.

"Just… trust me," he said again, holding out a hand.

She frowned and stared down at it like the answers to the universe would spring out of his palm. With a sigh, she took it. Neil coughed to hide a smile.

Penelope trailed after him in the snow, shivering against the piercing cold. He peered at her every few seconds, stopping to let her catch up.

"What are we doing out here?" she huffed, sniffing.

His hands wanted to pull her into his side, but he resisted the urge.

"I was wandering out here earlier when I saw something sticking out of the snow." They came to a stop before the tombstone, and Neil motioned to it, waiting for her reaction.

Expression carefully blank, she stooped before the tombstone and ran her fingers over the name. Her name.

"Okay," she said. "It's probably not my family, but that is a really weird and incredibly uncomfortable coincidence. Especially after…"

After the eyes in the cellar. The smell in the hall. The white thing disappearing into a room. The touch of something on Neil's back.

The door slamming shut in the tower.

It was simply too much for a coincidence, and though Neil had walked into this castle unbelieving, everything tied back to the legends Fanny had spoken of, and he hated to admit that there had to be some truth to it all. Twice was a coincidence, but half a dozen odd things?

He turned to the castle, squinting against the glare of the snow. And that's when he saw it, or rather her, a figure standing before a window in the west wing. The very abandoned, very dark, and very creepy west wing that people claimed housed the ghostly woman who haunted the castle.

He motioned to Penelope, and she stood, her eyes unblinking as she peered at the woman in the window.

But she was not simply a woman. She was a ghost.

Dressed like someone from the early nineteenth century, her pale breasts were pushed up by stays, her chest and waist accentuated by a white empire-waisted dress. Half of her hair was secured in an updo, and the rest of her dark waves flowed in rivulets down her back as if someone had pulled the pins free. Neil could only see the left side of her body, and her pale, downcast eyes were watching them as if waiting.

But Neil knew at once who she was.

It was the woman in the portrait, the face captured in oil paint and tight, precise brushstrokes. It was the ghost they'd been warned of, the woman who haunted Skinner Castle. But she was not a woman in black, she was a woman in white. Somehow, that was even more terrifying.

Penelope took a hesitant step back in the snow, her hands tightening around Neil's arm. Earlier, by the warmth of a fire or the privacy of the tower, he might have relished the way she was gripping his arm, but now it held the tightness of worry and fear.

Neil and Penelope watched in horror as the woman snapped fully toward them, and though they'd been unable to see it before, there was no mistaking the stark contrast of her right side and the rot along her body.

It tore at her clothes and skin, and though they were far away, Neil was certain he could see bone piercing out from between skin, the draping, discolored flesh that hung from her in shambles.

"The eyes in the cellar," Penelope said slowly. "The thing in the hall. The smell."

"The voice in the study."

Penelope's eyes widened. "The journal."

"It was her," they whispered.

It had always been her.