21. Piper Explores
Chapter twenty-one
Piper Explores
I lose Murphy sometime after breakfast. Not permanently. Hopefully.
One minute he's enthusiastically investigating Mrs. MacLeod's pantry as though Scotland might be hiding a second breakfast somewhere behind the flour bins.
The next, he's gone.
"Murphy?"
Silence. I set my coffee on a windowsill and listen. Nothing. That usually means one of two things.
Either he's asleep somewhere impossible ... or he's found something interesting.
Knowing Murphy, probably both.
"Murphy!"
A faint bark echoes through the castle from above me. I grin and climb the main staircase before turning into a corridor I don't remember using before. It narrows quickly, becoming less polished with every step. The walls lose their elegant paneling. Old stone emerges beneath faded plaster.
Somewhere ahead, Murphy barks again.
"Coming!"
A narrow servants' staircase climbs beside an outer wall. I duck beneath a low beam and begin following it upward.
The higher I climb, the older Glenhaven Castle becomes. The ceilings are lower. The stones grow rougher. The walls are bare granite laid by hands centuries ago.
The castle isn't pretending to be old anymore. It simply is.
At the top of the stairs, I find Murphy waiting patiently beside a weathered oak door. His tennis ball rests proudly at his feet.
"So this was the emergency?"
His tail thumps. Naturally.
I push the door open. Cold air greets me. It’s not unpleasant, just different. The room beyond is circular.
Another tower! One of the four towers of the castle.
Sunlight spills through narrow arrow-slit windows cut deep into walls nearly six feet thick. I walk toward the nearest opening.
"Oh..."
The word escapes before I can stop it. The Highlands stretch forever. Rolling green hills. Silver ribbons of rivers. Tiny farms. Distant forests. Far beyond the mountains fading into pale purple.
For several long moments I simply stand there.
No photograph could ever capture this. No drone or postcard. I stand watching the wind ripple across Scotland.
Murphy noses my hand. I kneel beside him.
"I think I understand why people never leave."
The words surprise me. Because I wasn't talking about Scotland. I turn slowly. Dust moats float through pale sunlight. This tower feels forgotten. Not abandoned, just forgotten. Someone once cared about this room.
There are shelves built directly into the stone. An old writing table. A single wooden chair positioned toward the view.
Beside it rests a small brass telescope, not as ornate and grand as the one in the Observatory. Not modern but simple and certainly beautiful. My fingers brush the brass. It’s still polished. Someone uses it.
Recently. Interesting.
Nearby lies a stack of leather-bound journals. Excitement bubbles up immediately.
"Jackpot!"
I open the first journal. But it’s blank. Every page. I open the second, but it’s also blank.
Same as the third and fourth one. I frown. Either someone developed a very expensive notebook habit ... or something has been removed. Or these journals are waiting for entries.
Murphy wanders toward the far wall. His nose traces the base of the stonework. Then he stops and his ears lift. He looks at me then back at the wall.
"What is it, Murphy?"
He paws once at the stone. I walk over to examine it. It looks exactly like every other section of wall. Until I notice one stone worn smoother than the others.
That’s curious. I press against it and then press again harder. Somewhere deep inside the wall, something clicks!
I freeze.
"Oh!" The stone shifts beneath my hand. A narrow crack appears where moments before there had only been solid masonry. Cold air sighs through it. I grip the edge of the opening and pull.
With surprising ease, an entire section of the wall swings inward.
Behind it, there’s deep darkness. A staircase disappears into the heart of Glenhaven Castle. It is barely wide enough for one person.
The steps spiral downward, worn hollow by countless feet. No electric lights. Only darkness.
I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on flashlight mode. The beam reaches perhaps twenty feet before the stair curves away and vanishes. I cannot see the bottom. Murphy doesn't move. He simply watches.
"You want to go down?"
He looks at me. Then back into the darkness. And stands still.
"No, me neither."
I laugh quietly.
Curiosity is one thing. Becoming the opening scene of a horror movie is quite another. I pull out my notebook.
Hidden staircase, north tower. Ask Tristan.
That seems fair. I gently pull the hidden door closed until the latch disappears seamlessly into the wall once more.
If I hadn't watched it move, if Murphy hadn’t called it out for me, I'd never have known it existed.
Murphy trots happily onward. We leave the tower, walking down and through a corridor on the floor below. The next room surprises me completely.
A nursery. Sunlight pours through tall windows dressed in pale blue curtains faded almost white.
A rocking horse waits near the fireplace. Tiny books line a shelf. Wooden soldiers. A dollhouse. Everything is spotless. Fresh lavender perfumes the room.
Someone still comes here.
I run one finger lightly across the windowsill. Not a trace of dust. The realization settles gently over me. Whoever cares for Glenhaven Castle, cares for every version of it. Mrs. MacLeod and the small staff. Not only the grand rooms that guests see, but the forgotten ones too.
Murphy noses a small stuffed rabbit lying neatly beside the rocking horse. He sniffs it. Then leaves it exactly where it belongs.
Good boy.
We quietly leave the room. The corridor beyond grows darker.
Portraits begin appearing every few yards. Not like the magnificent formal paintings downstairs.
These are older, simpler. Almost intimate. There is a young woman laughing in one, a boy with muddy boots in another. An elderly Sinclair from past centuries in an old chair proudly holding a sword and a bible.
I walk slowly along the wall of portraits, reading plaques.
Sinclair after Sinclair after Sinclair.
Alasdair. Malcolm. Ewan. Douglas. Names stacked across generations like stones in a wall.
Then, I stop. One portrait hangs alone, turned toward the wall. I stare at it.
Slowly, I turn it around. Dust dances through the air. The woman looking back at me is breathtaking, dark hair, defiant eyes, a crimson gown. Like in the music room.
The plaque beneath reads simply:
Moira Sinclair - 1571
Someone has slashed the painting across her throat. Deliberately. The damage looks to be centuries old. My skin prickles.
Why would anyone leave this hanging? Why not restore it? Why not remove it? Why display the wound?
A soft voice behind me says, "I wondered when you'd find her."
I jump. It’s Mrs. MacLeod. She stands in the doorway carrying folded linen. She studies the portrait quietly.
“She was said to have been very proud.”
“Sounds like family code for difficult.”
A faint smile touches her mouth.
“What happened to the painting?”
“Some stories say a rejected suitor did it. Another story says she died because someone loved her too much."
Something about the way she says it makes the corridor suddenly feel colder. I look back at the slash across the painted throat.
"That's not a love story."
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “No."
Before I can ask another question, Murphy suddenly stiffens. Every hair along his back rises. He stares past us. Toward the far end of the corridor. I follow his gaze. For the briefest heartbeat, I think I see someone.
A figure, standing where the hallway bends. Tall, perfectly still. Watching us. Then suddenly, he’s gone and there’s only empty corridor.
I blink.
"Did you..."
Mrs. MacLeod is already looking at me.
"What is it, Miss Monroe?"
"I thought..." I hesitate. "Nothing."
Because how exactly do you explain that? I glance back toward the bend. Still empty. Murphy continues staring. His low growl rumbles through the silence.
A warning.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he relaxes. His tail gives one uncertain wag as Mrs. MacLeod pats his head. The moment passes.
Mrs. MacLeod gently turns the portrait back towards the wall.
"Some corridors," she says quietly, "remember more than others."
"What does that mean?"
A faint smile touches her face. "You'll discover Glenhaven Castle prefers answering questions in its own time."
I don't argue. Instead, I slip my notebook back into my pocket. A hidden staircase. A forgotten tower. A nursery. A slashed portrait. A figure that may or may not have existed.
This morning, I thought I was looking for Murphy. Somehow, I have the unsettling feeling Glenhaven’s mysteries were looking for me.