by Cindy Miles
Corny as it sounds, it’s chivalry.
“If you’ve given up trying to scare me into leaving Glenmorrag, then yes,” I say. “I accept your offer.” I sit on my window seat, pull my knees up, and lock them in place with my arms. “Can I ask you a question?”
His smile is mesmerizing. “Just one?”
A short laugh escapes my throat. “Not hardly. But I’ll start out easy. How old are you?”
“Eighteen years.”
My stare holds his. “So you were born in 1833, and you died —”
“One hundred and sixty-two years ago,” he finishes. “I remember little of my life before my death. It’s all very much a blur.” His gaze clouds over, and we’re quiet for a moment.
Boldly, I look right at him. “I … can’t believe you’re real.”
His expression softens, and he gazes back intently. It almost makes me breathless.
“I thought the same thing of you,” Logan says quietly, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
I know I blush clean to my roots. I shake my head, as if pretending what he said hasn’t affected me as much as it has. By his expression, I know I’ve failed miserably on both accounts. I clear my throat. “So you can’t remember anything at all? About the day you died? Is there anything … afterward, maybe?”
Logan studies the space of floor between his boots, deep in thought. “I have spots of memories, here and there,” he says. He returns his gaze to mine. “I remember my mum. I remember hunting birds in the forests with my uncle. And I remember a powerful sense of danger. That might be my last real memory. And after you arrived here, that same sense of danger came rushing back to me. I immediately felt that something was amiss, and I feared for your safety.”
“Well, after the freezer incident, and then the hands that were choking me, I fear for my safety, too,” I say, hugging myself. “I thought it was you doing those things, but now I know it wasn’t.”
He nods, looking worried. “Aye. I did play those harmless pranks with your clothes and your violin. I also tried to simply tell you to leave. I thought those would suffice — that you might think there was a banshee present and you’d beg your mum to go. But I would never hurt you, Ivy.”
“Thanks, Logan,” I say, my face heating. I think I’ll never tire of hearing him speak. His brogue fascinates me, and I hang on to every word. If he’d read a dictionary out loud, cover to cover, I’d be completely content. “So,” I say, trying to focus back on all of the recent mysterious incidents, “do you think there’s another spirit, then, out to get me?”
“It could very well be,” Logan replies soberly. “There are many who believe these old castles are thick with dark spirits who set out to harm newcomers in their midst.”
“What about Elizabeth?” I ask, giving voice to my suspicions. “She really hates me. I don’t know how she’d be making herself invisible, but …”
Logan furrows his brow. “Why do you feel Lady Elizabeth dislikes you so?”
“I can’t decide if it’s my pink hair” — I lift the streak to show him — “or the holes in my jeans.”
“Have you no trousers to wear without holes?” he asks.
I laugh. “Of course. But it’s the style now.”
Logan grins. “Well, I fancy your hair. ’Tis unique.”
I nod happily. “Thank you,” I say, stifling a yawn.
“Och, you’ve school in the morn.” He gives a low bow. “I’ll be just outside your door, in my invisible state, of course, should you need anything.” He smiles, wide and bright. “Good eve to you, Ivy. ’Till the morn.”
“Good night,” I whisper, feeling myself smile just as wide.
Logan promptly disappears, the whites of his teeth the last to go.
That night, I fall into a sounder, more restful sleep than I’ve had since I first arrived in Scotland.
When I wake up in the morning, I feel at ease knowing Logan’s outside my door. I have some time before school, and I realize I’d like to see him again. I sit up in bed, smoothing out my hair and straightening out the long-sleeved music-camp shirt I sleep in. Then I call out to him.
He instantly appears, leaning against the bedpost. My heart speeds up at the sight of him.
“So, Logan Munro,” I say, and settle back against my pillows, “when you’re not guarding my door, what do you do here?”
Logan shrugs one shoulder. “I play my flute. I walk the lands. I visit the village. I do enjoy havin’ a chat with Ian, and Jonas. They both like to talk to me. Treat me as though I’m …” He sighs, then meets my gaze.
But I finish for him.
“Alive,” I say.
Logan remains silent, but continues to watch me closely.
I shift forward, meeting his gaze. “You seem as real as anyone I know,” I tell him.
Two short knocks against the door interrupt us, and then the door opens.
“Ivy?” my mother’s voice calls out, just before her head pokes through the crack. “Ready for school?”
My gaze darts to first my mom, then Logan. He grins and places a single finger over his lips. Mom plops down on the bed, right where Logan stands at the foot. His grin widens just before he completely disappears. I fight the urge to smile back at him.
“Did you sleep well?” Mom asks, tightening the belt of her robe.
“I finally did,” I say, slapping the fluffy mattress. “It’s nice, Mom. All of it. Marriage. Niall. Scotland. Baby.” I lean over and hug her. “And I’m glad you’re so happy.”
Mom’s embrace tightens around me. “Oh, baby, thank you!” she says against my hair. Pulling back, she looks at me, and the hazy light casts her face in speckled dots of shadow. “I want you to be happy, too. The music you’ve come up with lately is amazing.”
Pride squeezes my heart. It still feels good to get praise from my mom. “Thanks. I like it, too. I’m going to try out for the Strings of the Highlands concert coming up.”
Mom grabs my hands. “You should do it, Ivy! You’ll blow them away! Now come on, let’s go downstairs,” she says, standing up. “The staff is making a full Scottish breakfast and I’m dying for some spicy sausage.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food. “Me too. Oh, I almost forgot. Can I have some friends over for Halloween? Just a few. You know, creepy castle and all. They think it’d be cool to hang out here.”
Mom nods. “I think that’d be too fun. I’ll get Niall to pick up some pumpkins to carve.”
I laugh. “Great, Mom. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Mom waves as she slips out the door. For a few seconds, I stand and wait, fully expecting Logan to reappear. Instead, I only hear his voice.
“Your mum is wonderful,” he says. “She has a lot of energy.” He chuckles. “So, friends over for All Hallows’ Eve, aye? Take care, Miss Calhoun. I shall see you later.”
“See ya,” I say back, and then I can sense that he’s gone. It’s strange but I sort of miss him already.
Breakfast is great — Elizabeth isn’t present. After I eat, I hurry back upstairs to get my book bag.
On the second-floor landing, the air around me chills. I’m moving faster now, climbing the steps two at a time. The chill — it’s weird. It’s almost … chasing me. Nips at my calves, my elbows, and propels me forward until by the time I reach the third-floor landing, I’m at a dead run. Finally, I skid to a halt at my door, throw it open, leap inside, and slam the door shut behind me.
The dread clawing at me grabs my throat and squeezes. The chill seeps into the room and surrounds me, like icy fingers dragging across my skin. My breath puffs out in white drifts before me, fast, hard, and I watch it slip away to collect and hover in midair. It begins to form into a solid mass. The word Die.
I choke on my gasp. All at once the drawers on the armoire begin rattling. Soon, the rattle changes to slamming open and shut. The noise is deafening, and the armoire begins to rock back and forth. I cover my ears to drown out the noise.
“Logan,” I say, alm
ost in a whisper, my voice trembling, low. “Logan!”
He appears from thin air just as the armoire rocks one final time and slams toward me. I dive out of the way as it crashes to the floor.
“Cease!” Logan hollers.
At once, the room grows silent. The chill disperses, the horrible word in mist dissipates.
Logan’s hands are balled into fists and his silver eyes are bright with anger.
“Are you hurt?” he asks. When I shake my head, he continues, his brows drawn in anger. “There is a malevolent presence here. I canna see it, but ’tis here all the same. This is no simple haunting. This is dark. I dunna want it coming anywhere close to you, Ivy.”
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here,” I say, feeling on the verge of tears. I look at him. “Thanks,” I simply say, and it’s not enough. I’m totally shaken up. How can I go to school after my life has been threatened like this?
All at once, my gaze lands on my bedside table.
No.
The photograph of my dad is gone. I drop to my knees to look beneath the table. I lift the bed skirt and peer into the shadows. Then I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s there, facedown, in the center of the floor. I have to lie on my stomach and scoot partially underneath the bed to reach it. And that’s not all I find.
Rising up, I lean back on my heels and glance up at Logan.
“How did this get under there?” I hold the other thing up. “What is this?”
Logan peers at the bundle of sticks in my hand. “Drop it, Ivy. Now!”
I let it go and it falls to the floor.
Logan sighs. “It’s rowan. I’m willin’ to bet it’s cursed.” He glances around the room and walks over to my poker. “Pick it up with your iron and throw it out the window.” With a flick of his wrist, the window flies open.
Grabbing the fire poker, I lift the bundle of sticks, hurry over, and toss it out. I have no clue how the object got into my room, and it makes me shudder to think about someone sneaking in.
Then I turn to Logan, amazed.
“How is it you can open a window, or make my violin and clothes float in the air, but you can’t make a poker hover?”
Logan shrugs. “Mostly, I can manipulate things that are light and porous. Those wooden frames in the window are of old wood. Your garments are light, too.” He nods to the poker in my hand. “Solid iron? Nay.” He nods again to the armoire. “And although that’s wooden, it has iron pieces within. ’Tis too heavy.”
I nod. “I didn’t think about that.”
“I’ll let Jonas know about this” — Logan nods to the armoire again — “and we’ll get it aright. I’ll also search your room over for any more rowan.” He looks at me. “Now, you go to school, and I’ll be waiting for you when you get home. We’ll figure out what to do next.”
At school, I grab Emma as soon as I find her and whisper to her what happened this morning. She looks appropriately horrified but wants to know more about Logan. Before I can elaborate, the prefect I met on my first day walks up to us.
“Ivy,” Emma says, straightening up. “Remember I told you I’d introduce you to Serrus Munro again?”
Serrus flashes his bright smile. He really is handsome. “Hello again,” he says.
“Hey,” I say to him, feeling suddenly excited. Maybe he does know something about Logan. “So, is Munro an old name in the Highlands?” I ask. When a puzzled expression crosses his face, I quickly add, “I’m into genealogy.”
“Aye,” he says, nodding. “ ’Tis an old name for sure. At least as far back as thirteen hundred or so.” He inclines his head toward the forest edging the school’s property. “About a half hour’s drive that way I’ve an old tower house full o’ Munro cousins.”
“Yeah,” Emma answers. “And one of them married a famous American fiction writer. Ethan and Amelia Munro. Right, Serrus?”
“Aye,” he answers. “Amelia Landry-Munro. A fine lass. She writes about time travel and magic and such.”
“And perfectly dreamy romance,” Emma adds with a grin.
“Sounds like interesting reading.” I’m thinking fast. If the Munro family goes back to the thirteen hundreds and they live in a castle hopefully filled with archives from their ancestors, chances are they could be Logan’s kin.
“She wrote a bestseller, straight from the tower house,” Serrus goes on.
“Oh, wow, that’s cool,” I admit. I love reading, and meeting a real live writer could be cool.
Serrus nods. “You’re welcome tae come meet her if you’d like.”
I blink.
“Of course she’d love to!” Emma says for me. “She’s a bit shy. Unusual for an American, aye?” she laughs. “When?”
Serrus looks at Emma, then back to me. “Whenever she fancies.”
The bell rings. “Thanks,” I tell Serrus. “That would be great.”
“Can I have your mobile number? I’ll check to see when a good time for Amelia is, and I’ll let you know.” He throws a look at Emma. “You can come, too.” He grins.
“Sweet,” Emma says, whipping out her mobile. Her cheeks are a little flushed. Her fingers fly over the keyboard. “There. I just sent you Ivy’s number.” She smiles, very proud of herself.
As we part ways with Serrus and head to class, Emma grabs my elbow and whispers, “Going to the Munro home should be helpful, I hope.”
I nod. “There’s got to be something there. A ledger with family history in it? Something.”
“Aye, probably so. We Scots fancy our history,” Emma says. She pauses for a minute and then, looking impish, adds, “I’ve got tae meet him.”
“Logan?” I whisper.
At that moment, we are joined by Derek and Cameron so we have to change the topic from ghosts to biology. Not nearly as fascinating.
When Mom and Niall pick me up after school, Mom looks excited. For the first time, too, she doesn’t seem as pale and weak.
“Sweetie,” Mom says as Niall drives toward the castle, “we’re headed north up the coast to take a look at some more property Niall is interested in. Would you like to come?”
I don’t hesitate. “Thanks, but I’ll stay at the castle. Work on some new music.” And hang out with my new dead friend, I think to myself.
So Mom and Niall drop me off at the castle. I hurry inside and up to my room to retrieve my violin. When I call softly for Logan, he appears.
“ ’Bout time you got home,” he says. “It seems like it took forever.”
This is, so to speak, music to my ears. “Want to go to the rectory?” I ask him. “I’m really wanting to compose.”
He nods, and we head out of the castle together.
Outside it’s silent, save for wind rustling the dying leaves and the noise my shoes make against the ground. Logan’s boots make no sound at all.
“Tell me more about yourself, Logan,” I say, and glance up at his face.
“I’ve wandered a lot,” Logan says. A wave of dark hair falls across his alabaster forehead. “I’m no’ bound to the castle, or even the lands,” he continues. “Sometimes I find myself way up north, to the very tip of Scotland, and the time passes in a fashion I don’t fancy. Once I wandered, and when I came back, three months had passed. It felt more like three days.”
“It sounds lonely,” I say as the rectory comes into view.
“It was,” Logan says so quietly it’s almost a whisper. “It has been, until now.”
I’ve never been a big blusher, but I swear I can feel the heat move all the way up my throat to my face.
We enter the rectory, which is dim and shadowy, and both sit on a stone window seat. Logan sits bent over with his forearms resting against his knees, shoulders hunched.
“I wish I could recall how I came to be here, at Glenmorrag. All I know is, whatever happened to me was a long time ago.”
I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around my knees. I like the way ago sounds like agoo.
Logan glances out one of the fe
w remaining stained-glass windows. I have to keep myself from touching his face, or one of his hands. I follow his gaze, out of the once colorful glass embedded with the indigo head of a peacock. Although now faded and cracked, it stands stark against the cold gray stone. Somehow, it fits this place. So does Logan.
“But bad things have happened here, Ivy,” he says, and looks directly at me. “I’m pretty sure I fell victim.”
“Have you ever seen another spirit?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Canna say that I have. And I’ve no’ seen anything here. It’s something that I feel. Whether ’tis a taibhse — ghostie — or a live being, I canna be sure. And that rowan under your bed? Someone put it there. Someone human.” His gaze briefly moves in the direction of the castle before returning to mine. “Funny thing is, I didna feel the dark presence for a long, long time. Then, several years back, it returned.”
I force myself to breathe. Someone human. “I keep thinking about Elizabeth,” I admit.
Logan looks thoughtful. “She wasna always hateful. I dunna recall all of her days here, but I do remember her as a playful, happy lass, laughing, running.” He shrugs.
I try to picture a younger Elizabeth MacAllister, frolicking in the heather. I can’t. The image just won’t come.
I decide to turn our conversation toward the Munro clan.
“Don’t you have any other family in Scotland?” I ask.
“If I do, lass, the ones who’d remember me are certainly all gone,” Logan answers solemnly. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s a boy named Munro at my school, and he has a bunch of Munro cousins. Might be worth checking out.”
Logan nods. “It canna hurt.”
“Oh,” I say, something else occurring to me. “Would you consider … meeting someone?”
Logan looks at me with a glimmer in his silver eyes.
“A friend of mine. From school. Emma. She’s the girl I brought here, to the rectory, last time. I trust her one hundred percent.”