Chapter 12 #4
Gillian bent to explore it herself. It was truly exquisite.
Kincreag in miniature, right down to the dragon’s teeth portcullis.
Gillian touched the gate wonderingly. It was cleverly stained to look discolored and well used.
The top of the gatehouse could be removed, and inside, the tiny clockworks opened the gate.
She turned the handle, and the gate rose.
She laughed and imagined her own children playing with the dollhouse.
Nicholas’s children. She placed her hand over her belly, recalling last night’s lovemaking.
Even now a child might be growing inside her.
She sighed and circled the dollhouse. The table was split and hinged so it could be parted and the house could be opened with little effort.
It was already partially open. Gillian pushed it wider.
Several cushioned stools were situated beneath the table.
Gillian pulled one out and seated herself in the table opening.
From this vantage she could see all the levels of the keep.
In the kitchen, fireplaces lined the walls.
Black pots hung on working iron swing arms, and working spits sat in the fireplace.
In the larder, tiny ale casks and bags of grain lined the walls.
Circles of cheese made from small yellow rounds of wax tied with string rested on the wooden shelves.
Gillian moved on through the castle, pausing in the armory and exclaiming over tiny swords and working crossbows.
Then she came to the room she’d seen on her last visit here with Nicholas—her room.
With the sun’s light, she could see that the wood was intricately carved with the same swirling pattern as the furniture in her real room.
The bed had different hangings, but it was indeed her bed.
There was a lump beneath the covers that she didn’t recall.
Of course, it had been dark that night. She pulled back the covers with her fingertips and found a small doll, swathed in velvet trimmed with gold.
Its hair was made from fine, pale flax and its features were painted delicately on its wooden face.
Tiny jewels adorned its hair. Was it supposed to be the late countess?
Gillian frowned down at the doll, inexplicably disturbed by it.
She did a quick study of the rest of the dollhouse but saw no other dolls.
She stared back down at the blond doll, wondering where it had come from.
A cold draft blew through the room, disturbing some of the tiny furnishings.
A miniature candelabra tipped over. Gillian set the doll aside and took the delicate candelabra between her fingertips, examining it with amazement.
Such skilled workmanship. She’d never dreamed such things could be made.
She stood and went to the large candelabra, lighting each tiny wick.
She would not let it burn for long, but she had a childish urge to see it burning in the replica of her bedchamber.
She returned to the dollhouse and set it on the sideboard.
She leaned back, examining the little room.
The smile froze on her face as her gaze passed the bed.
The lump was back. She looked quickly to where she had set the doll down, but it was gone.
Gillian stood abruptly, her heart hammering in her throat.
She started to back away, then stopped. Courage!
She pulled back the covers of the tiny bed and found the blond doll.
Gillian stared at it a long time before glancing fearfully around the room.
Nicholas had said the servants believed the west wing was haunted, and she’d had pain in her head last night.
But she didn’t today. She sat back down, unable to look away from the doll.
Something very odd was happening, but Gillian could not comprehend what.
She decided to leave the doll in the bed for now.
She blew out the tiny candles and turned her attention to the west wing.
She cocked her head, examining the damaged section of the miniature Kincreag. Someone had apparently hit it with something. One of the walls had splintered and caved in, buckling the top floor, but that was the only damage. Surely a good carpenter could repair that.
Something rustled. Gillian turned sharply, her gaze snapping to the doll.
It was still where she’d placed it. She scanned the room, eyes narrowed and watchful, body tense.
She was alone. Still, the uneasy feeling was with her now, and she decided she’d seen enough of the dollhouse for today.
She took the doll and put it in her pocket. She would ask Nicholas about it later.
She was blowing out the candles when a thump startled her.
It came from deep in the west wing. She took a candle from the candelabra and walked cautiously through the doorway.
Darkness closed around her like a musty cloak, weighing on her.
She raised her candle higher. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in a faint, cool breeze.
She passed several open doors, peering inside each one, but she could see little except shapeless white lumps.
She had just decided that it must have been her imagination when the low murmur of voices froze her in her tracks.
Her heart throbbed so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t make out what the voices were saying.
She had no headache, so the voices couldn’t be ghosts.
That calmed her somewhat. She wove her way through the maze of sheet-covered furniture that filled the room, straining to understand what was being said.
It was a man and woman talking, and though she still couldn’t understand them, it didn’t sound ghostly.
She extinguished her candle as she neared the doorway.
It was good that she did, for she soon discerned a soft glow of candlelight coming from the open doorway. Gillian pressed herself against the wall and peered around the frame.
She was barely able to contain her gasp of astonishment.
Sir Evan stood in the next room, a small bedchamber.
He held a woman in his arms. She wore a long velvet cloak.
He kissed her roughly, and it fell back from her head, exposing the gleam of golden hair.
Gillian tensed, wondering if he was forcing himself on her, but her arms were around him, and she pressed herself close in a way now familiar to Gillian.
Apparently he wasn’t as cold and emotionless as he appeared. Gillian eased out of the room. None of her business. He wasn’t married, after all, and she didn’t recognize the woman—not that she would in the short time that she’d been here.
Ghosts. Gillian scoffed to herself as she returned to her chambers.
She was sure Sir Evan liked everyone to believe the west wing was haunted: It kept them away from his little rendezvous.
But by the time she was in her chambers, she felt a sense of amusement about what she’d witnessed.
The stone-faced knight had a lover. Perhaps she would tease him about it.
She wondered if she should tell Nicholas, but he probably didn’t care about his knight’s love affairs.
She wandered over to her cabinet. Someone had dumped her untouched wine from yesterday.
The goblet was clean and sitting with its mates on the silver tray.
Had that been the last thing Aileen had done before she’d decided to take her own life?
Gillian sighed, wondering why it bothered her so much. She didn’t know the lass or how things worked at Kincreag. Sir Evan was right, she should stick with what she knew. Her hand slid into her pocket to remove the doll she’d placed there earlier, but it was gone. Her pocket was empty.