You are greeted at the door of the castle by a bony, frazzled older woman with a large nose and a prominent mole on her cheek. She looks like a fairy-tale witch, but her loud brogue is as cheerful and lively as a babbling brook in a glen.
“Och, it’s good to see ye, good to see ye, wee Angus!” she says, warmly embracing a scowling Mac. The children nudge one another and snicker in delight.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been wee Angus, Mrs. F,” Mac says, his voice slightly panicked. The woman throws her hands in the air.
“Don’t be daft. You’ll always be wee Angus to me. Good tae see you looking so well! And who are these bonnie lassies?”
Mac introduces you, Jane, and Gertie, and the woman hugs each of you warmly.
“I’m Mrs. Morag Ferguson, housekeeper and custodian of Glenblair Castle. Och, but it is a pleasure to have ye here! Though I warn ye, the castle is falling apart around us, so ye best watch where ye step!”
“I will make sure to,” you say, warming to her immediately.
Mrs. Ferguson turns to the children. “And I see ye’ve brought a bunch of wee Sassenachs for me!”
“Is this a haunted castle?” says Sallie in excitement.
“Is it cursed?” whispers Timmy shyly.
“Was anyone murdered here?” Bert says with a grin.
“Och, indeed, indeed,” says the old woman, waving her hands about. “What’s left of these walls is fair stained with the blood of many! Hundreds of ghosts we have!” Timmy hugs Dodger and stares at Mrs. Ferguson in silent terror.
“Dinnae worry, wee one,” she says, ruffling Timmy’s hair. “Our ghosts are mostly friendly.” The rest of the children moan in disappointment. Mrs. Ferguson puts her hands on her hips.
“I dinnae see why you are upset at a bunch o’ boring old spooks. Not when they say there is missing treasure buried a hundred years ago within these very walls by the mad old laird!” All the orphans perk up at this news and resolve to find it immediately.
“Well, off you go then, ye wee terrors!” says Mrs. Ferguson. The children run off, intent on exploring their new home. Jane and Gertie follow in an attempt to make sure they do not break anything, or one another.
Mrs. Ferguson lowers her voice conspiratorially to you and Mac.
“Quite frankly, that buried treasure nonsense was a cover made by the Abercrombie family to hide that the old laird spent the family fortune on horses and whores. Though what I wouldn’t give for a bit of that now, I tell ye.”
“How bad is it, Mrs. F?” says Mac.
“Och, there is more ruin than castle these days. It will cost a fortune to restore, but even getting that roof mended is gonnae cost a pretty penny. We will all have to sleep in the Great Hall for now.”
Mac looks thoughtful.
“Are the games on this year?” he asks.
“Of course they are, wee Angus!” says Mrs. Ferguson. “In fact, they are just three weeks away!”
“What’s the prize money looking like?” Mac says, rubbing his ruggedly strong jawline.
“Ye thinking of entering the caber toss again?” Mrs. Ferguson says, grinning.
“Aye, that I am, Mrs. F. That I am.”
Her eyes light up with delight. “Och, and I suppose I could teach the wee bairns some sword dancing! Would bring color to their cheeks, and the money from winning two events should be enough to cover the necessary repairs…”
Mac nods, then gathers what scant luggage you have brought and leads the horses to the collection of planks you assume must be the stable. You stare after his taciturn, manly form in annoyance—and longing.
Mrs. Ferguson puts a bony yet motherly arm around your shoulders.
“Ye should come inside and have a cup of tea, hen. Ye’ve already had some post arrive ahead of ye to read.” And with that, she hands you two letters.
One is written in a distinctive flowing yet scrawling hand that you recognize. Once seated with a cup of hot tea, you tear open the letter, eager for news from your dear friend Lady Evangeline.
As you know, my dear, I plan on taking a short trip to Egypt soon, and I am in desperate need of a lady’s companion. I understand that you may already be occupied with good works (and handsome Scotsmen) but if the shine has gone from that, please know that you would do me the greatest honor and favor should you agree to accompany this old widow to a most fascinating country.
You clutch the letter to your chest. The prospect is tempting. Still, you are loath to leave the children. And Mac, for that matter. The realization gnaws at you, and you open the other letter in a huff.
It is printed in a hand that seems strangely familiar. It is also unsigned. All this would be mysterious enough, but it is the content that truly sends a chill down your spine.
You are in grave danger. Leave this place—lest you suffer the fate of poor Constantina!
You stare at the skull-white page, reading the two sentences over and over. Is it a warning…or a threat?
Well, cripes.
Do you take the letter’s advice and get the hell away from the Highland mist—and potential attempts upon your life—in favor of warmer climes and Egyptian adventure? If so, turn to .
Anyone could have sent that letter, and you cannot tell if that person’s motives are proper. Plus, there is something about Mac that compels you to trust him and stay…and it isn’t just his caber. Perhaps some sleuthing is in order? Turn to .