Chapter 32

PEN

After she told them everything, Neil helped Pen to the kitchen.

The others lingered in the study, voices low and urgent, eyes trailing after them like they suspected more. It was wild to think that Pen and Neil hadn't imagined it all. And though it had been a hectic few days, hunting ghosts, running from ghosts, and kissing someone who Pen had previously thought was her enemy, there was something comforting in knowing the others believed them.

Maybe it had been rude to drag Laszlo, Daniela, and Fanny along and reenact the moments in Georgina's room, but Pen and Neil had spent days haunted and alone in the castle. It seemed only fair.

"I really didn't expect to hurt myself." Pen grunted as Neil set her in a seat at the end of the table. She hissed as he gently propped her foot on another seat, probing what looked to be a rather large bump and a blackening bruise on her ankle.

He laughed as he wrapped some fresh ice in a towel before handing it to her. "You were incredibly moving in your performance."

She chuckled, settling in her seat. With a sigh, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the stark contrast against her pale skin. A few stray curls flopped into his eyes, and his lips were upturned in the smallest of smiles. It sent a fresh wave of warmth down to her belly.

"I'm thinking of cutting it," he said.

"But I like it."

"But," he said, pulling her hand free, "it's a mess. I'd like to go to bed knowing it wouldn't be a tangled mop in the morning. My mother would be appalled to know I've let my curls run amok."

"That's adorable."

Pen ran a finger down his cheek, her nail scratching at stubble. He caught her fingers with his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, the touch sending a wave of goose bumps over her arms.

"You know, I hated you once," she admitted softly.

"I know."

"I told myself that you were the reason my life had fallen apart."

"I'm sure."

"But now…" she said, trailing off. "You might be the best thing that's happened to me. I know," she said, holding up her hands, "it's cheesy, but maybe it was all for a reason. I'd spent years trying to write before the Incident. Maybe the universe needed to intercede to make certain this is what I wanted."

Neil smirked, his smile soft, not harsh like his usual ones. "I never took you for someone who believed in signs from the universe."

"I never thought I'd be one."

"This is gross," Daniela said from the hall. Pen and Neil glanced at her, laughing. She rolled her eyes, scowling and pointing in the direction of the front door. "Laszlo and Fanny were able to clear a path down the road and get the van started. We're thinking of skipping out early and spending a few days in Edinburgh. You two in?"

Pen met Neil's eyes, mirth dancing in those emerald orbs. She thought of all the things they'd seen and learned in the castle, all the hurdles they'd overcome, the truths they'd admitted. And then she thought of the letters. She thought of Georgina and Archie and a love that, to all who'd seen it, had been tampered with from the very beginning. Pen had come to the castle to find a story, to find her way back to writing, and in the end, isn't that what she'd done?

"That would be really nice," she admitted, tilting her head.

Neil nodded. "Could we make a pit stop or two?"

"Like the hospital?" Pen urged.

"I was thinking more like Midhope Castle."

Pen raised a brow. "Color me intrigued, but are you referring to a certain castle used in a certain historical romance series?"

Neil shrugged, but Pen didn't miss the way his face reddened. "What can I say, I've got a secret love of Outlander ."

"It's not a secret! Neil loves Outlander, " Laszlo bellowed.

"I'm a romantic," Neil said, leaning back with a smile. And Pen thought fleetingly that she could feel herself falling a little more for him.

Daniela began to leave, but Pen leaned forward and caught her wrist. "Daniela? Something's been bothering me."

"What?"

"When Neil and I got to the tower, there were all these pillows. It looked a bit… romantic. Was that you?"

Daniela shook her head. "Wasn't me. Maybe your little ghost friend realized you were destined or some romantic bullshit like that."

"You're a romantic too!" Laszlo called.

Cursing, Daniela disappeared around the corner.

"So, do you think it was Georgina?" Neil asked.

"Difficult to say, but I wouldn't put it past her."

Chuckling, Neil helped Pen stand, slipping an arm around her waist.

"Can you believe Daniela and I hooked up once?" Pen asked, not looking at him, scared of what she'd find there.

"Well, that explains what she said this morning." He made a face.

Pen chortled. "What? Is she out of my league?"

Neil nodded solemnly and she punched him. Laughing, he said, "The opposite. You're out of her league." He paused, huffing. "You're heavier than I remember."

She shot him a glare. "Maybe you're not as strong as you thought you were."

"Already back to fighting, are we?"

"Not fighting, bickering."

"There's a difference?" he asked, tone flat.

"Yes, there's a difference. Fighting is intentionally disagreeing, and bickering is much more playful."

"If you say so."

"I do," she affirmed with a nod.

Pen's eyes dragged along the portrait of Georgina as they passed it. The black dress, the thick lashes, the watchful eyes. She found it difficult to believe what they'd gone through to get here, even more difficult to understand the hardships that Georgina and Archie had pulled through. Love rejected by her father, pregnancy and secret marriage, war, death, and loss. So much loss.

"It's okay to be sad," Neil said as he helped her sit at the top of the stairs. "It's not exactly a happy ending to a happy love story."

Pen watched him quietly. She wondered why it felt so easy with him, why, after so many years of hating him, it had turned into something else in a matter of days. With a chuckle, she recalled the day at the castle ruins, how they were annoyed and huffy, both trying so desperately to find inspiration among the stones.

"What?" Neil asked, tilting his head.

Pen stood and leaned against the banister, looking out over the foyer. "I wonder if the only reason I ever hated you was because I didn't think I was enough. By tearing you down, it made me feel…" She trailed off, struggling to find the right word.

"Stronger?"

She nodded. "It's silly, isn't it, that tearing down another Native author made me feel whole?"

"No, not that surprising. By limiting the number of Native books being published, we've been pitted against each other since the beginning."

"Fuck the colonizers."

"Fuck the colonizers," he echoed.

Neil leaned against the railing beside her, arms slung out before him, the quill tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve. His eyes followed hers, the corners of his lips lifting.

"When did you get that?" Pen asked.

He sighed and pushed up his sleeve, turning his forearm toward her. "Do you remember that moment in The Lies They Told Us when Winter used her grandfather's quill to carve the phrase ‘I will speak only truth' into her arm?"

"I mean, of course I do, I wrote the damn thing."

"Well, it stuck with me so much I got this tattoo." He smiled down at it. "I reached out to the cover artist for The Lies They Told Us and got permission to get it inked."

Pen opened her mouth and closed it. She didn't know what to say. A man she'd reportedly hated for years had liked her book, hell, a single moment in her book enough to get it tattooed on his arm. She traced the quill, understanding more than ever why she'd always felt so drawn to it.

"I can't believe I never noticed," she said. She sniffed, blinking away tears.

"I should have told you what your book meant to me," he said, leaning forward to catch her tears. "I've read it so many times, just wishing I had as much talent and courage as you. And I was such an asshole to you. I shouldn't have fought with you like that, and I should have stood up for you after."

"God, you really were an asshole," she agreed, laughing.

Eyes crinkling at the corners, he kissed her slowly, lips lingering before he pulled away and disappeared down the hall. She sat and waited on the stairs as Neil grabbed their bags, packing away their meager belongings. She stopped in the foyer on their way out, squinting up at the portrait.

"There's one last thing I need to grab," she said, shuffling toward the study.

"What are you grabbing?" Neil called.

"You'll see!" she called over her shoulder, limping around the corner to the study. She paused in the entryway, her eyes trailing over the study. So many things had changed because of this room. She and Neil had opened that liquor cabinet together. They had played truth or dare. She'd learned about his family and the sweat lodge he'd grown up with because of that fireplace.

And the journal had brought them together.

"I'll always be grateful for you," she whispered, patting the wall fondly.

Pen crossed the room, careful to keep her weight off her ankle. She stopped beside the desk in the back corner where Neil had placed the journal and letters, and Pen gathered them into a pile, her hands skimming over a love story for the ages. She wanted to tell Georgina and Archie's story; she'd never wanted anything more in the world. She scanned the desk until she found the red journal, and she stacked the letters atop it, turning to go.

"It's okay. Ye can take it," Fanny said.

Pen jumped in surprise, pressing the journal and letters to her chest. Fanny was seated at the windows, tucked in with the curtains, the incoming light casting a bluish tint over the woman. Pen hadn't seen the groundskeeper when she'd come in.

Clearing her throat, Pen said, "When you gave us the tour and said you hadn't seen the woman in black, you meant that you'd seen the woman in white, right? Have you always seen the ghosts?"

Fanny tapped the glass on the window, expression wistful as she glanced out across the snowy grounds.

"I've been seeing the ghosts in this castle since I was a wee one and my father was the groundskeeper. I dinnae ken who they were, had always feared them too much to spend any length of time here, and my father always warned me nay to stay past sunset. That's why it's falling apart. This castle has been falling apart because of my and my father's fear." She smiled sadly, meeting Pen's gaze. "I wish I had taken the time to ken who they were and why they were still here. I wish I'd been less of a coward. Ye taught me that."

Pen blushed, tightening her hold on the journal. "Well, you have nothing to fear now. They're gone." I think.

Fanny stood and motioned to the journal and letters. "Yer friend told me yer a bunch of writers. Will ye be telling her story, then?"

"If you'll allow me to."

"Aye. I cannae imagine anyone more deserving."

Pen didn't know how to respond, so she nodded her thanks before limping out of the study and back toward the foyer.

Neil raised a brow as she rounded the corner. "Are you allowed to take those?"

"Yes, I have Fanny's permission."

He grunted, and Pen touched his cheek, warmth blooming in her chest as he looked down at her.

"In the last five years," she started, "I've never felt this way about a story. Maybe because it feels like I'm telling a story that was meant to be told. Maybe it's because it'll practically write itself for me, but I feel…" She trailed off, shrugging. "I feel at home."

He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "That's really great, Penelope."

"So, tell me one thing," she said slowly. "Tell me why you love to write."

Neil frowned at her, scratching his chin. "I feel like I was born to tell stories, that if I don't, I'll lose a part of myself." He paused, searching her face.

"Go on," she urged, hands tightening around the journal and letters.

"There are stories I want to tell, a writer I want to be, but I'm worried that I still haven't found my story, not like you."

"Neil Storm, are you jealous?"

"No? Yes," he conceded with a sigh. "Georgina and Archie's story is… it's everything someone could want. It has all the elements of a wonderful book."

"You know, we did figure this all out together, and there are two sides to the story," she said, taking a step closer.

"And?"

"I need an Archie to my Georgina." Pen held out the journal and the letters, taking another step closer to Neil. "I would never ask anyone else. I don't trust anyone else, but I do trust you. Neil Storm, will you write a book with me?"

Excerpt from The Lies They Told Us by Penelope Skinner

The house was moving, writhing, and reaching for me. It had always been a living, breathing thing, but it was showing its true colors now, and I had nowhere to run. Once, I might have called this place home, but it had shackled me to its heart, and I had no key.

Tricked, I'd been tricked.

I could hear them rippling down the hallway toward me as I fought through the fog of my mind. Soft footsteps, the clink of airy, inhuman laughter wrapping around me, yanking me back. I struggled, swaying as sweat beaded my brow.

"Where are you going, Winter?"

There he was, coalescing from the darkness. He stood at a wrong angle, his dark eyes growing blacker by the second, ink-stained pupils tracking my movements. I felt the scrape of his glower over my skin like fresh wounds, and the more I tried to back away, the more I felt the house holding me in place.

I tore at the rope, the friction digging into my ankles as I screamed. I needed to get free. I needed to stop him. Crying out, I kicked against him, but he did not mind. He did not budge. He stood his ground, solid and much too real.

He bent before me, lifting my chin and forcing my gaze.

"You were always mine, Winter."

But he was wrong. I had always been my own person. This house that was left to me. The things that haunted its walls did not define me, just as I did not define it. My hands scrabbled hastily over the floor until my fingers brushed the feather of my grandfather's quill. It heated in my hand, the metal burning me and searing my skin as I angled my hand and pressed the tip of it into my skin.

The razor-sharp edge bit into me.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"What I should have done long ago," I spat.

I pressed down hard, clamping my lips tight together against a scream as the point sliced even farther, white-hot pain sending a fresh volley of tears down my cheeks as I wrote "I will speak only truth" into my own skin.

Despite everything my grandfather did to prepare me for this moment, I was only ever here because it had been a gift. That night, I had been handed the key to this haunted place like God herself had gifted me entry to heaven. As I swooped the last of the H, slicing the quill through my skin with finesse, I glanced up at him with a sharp smile.

"I hope you had a plan B."