She laughs kindly. “A place this old, you cannae walk to the loo without something coming to call. Maybe it’s just the pipes knocking. Or the floors creaking with nobodyupon ’em. Hell, Edinburgh has a whole bleedin’coachhaunting it. Rolls up and down the Royal Mile, it does.”
She leans in, eyes twinkling. “Naw, a taish is nothing to be scared of. In fact,” she adds with a saucily raised brow, “legend goes, if a lady taish appears at a man’s left hand, she’s no spirit at all but the lass meant to be his wife. So? Did the lad appear at your right? You might’ve seen your husband, how about that?”
I know Una is only trying to make me feel better, but taish, ghost—whatever they call it—I’m ready to toss up my lunch.
She makes a thoughtfulhmm, then hops up and scurries behind the bar. A moment later, a small glass of whisky appears in front of me.
“A dram of the Glenfiddich will set you to rights.”
I eye the amber liquid warily. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“And I’ll wager you’ve never had our Scottish whisky. There’s naught better to warm your bones and ease your mind.”
I hesitate, but it’s just a tiny pour. Maybe the alcohol will cut through the nausea. Quiet my brain for a second.
I exhale and wrap my fingers around the glass. “I’ll give it a try.”
Una beams. “That’s the ticket.”
I knock it back in one go, and immediately regret it. Fire scorches down my throat, my belly churns, and still my thoughts hum like a beehive in my skull.
I’d expected Una to brush off my story. Instead, she’s planted even more disturbing ones in my mind. Had I been watching the guy at themoment of his death? I could swear hesawme. Just as clearly as I saw him.
What the hell doesthatmean?
A chill trickles down my spine. My vision wobbles as blood drains from my head.
“Did I make you ill?” Una’s face pinches with worry. “Och, I’m a fool.”
“Of course not.” I force a weak smile. “I’m just tired.”
“Poor child.” She slides my room key across the bar. “Back upstairs with you. Doc Una prescribes some solitude and a bit of rest.”
By the time I reach my door, I’m trembling. It takes three tries to fit the key in the lock. When it finally turns, I lurch inside and flip the bolt the moment the door shuts.
I drop onto the bed fully clothed, but the silence instantly unsettles me. I spring back up, fumbling for the remote, and switch on the TV to some random baking show.
I pass out. Of course.
When I wake, the room is dark except for the flickering light from the screen—blue, white, blue, white.
I prop myself onto one elbow, blinking at the television. A man in a kilt is throwing some kind of weird shot put. A banner along the bottom reads: CROWDS GATHER FOR ANNUAL STRATHBRIDE HIGHLAND GATHERING.
It takes a bleary second to remember where I am.
Janet.
Did she ever make it back to the hotel?
I grab my phone to check for messages, but the screen is black. Dead again. I meant to ask at the front desk if I could actually keep an adapter, but instead, I bolted from the dining room like it was on fire. I blame that stupid shot of whisky. I never drink. Alcohol tastes like losing control, and there’s too much I need to keep track of.
The doorknob rattles.
I squeal, slamming back against the bed frame.
“Havennae will be…noo wherizzit?”
A gusty sigh puffs from my lips. Just a woman shouting nonsense in the hallway. A real, flesh-and-blood, drunk-out-of-her-mind woman. Her footsteps must’ve woken me.
