Caitlin squeezed his hand, then removed hers and crossed her arms, frowning at her empty plate. “Well, if we’re going to get to the bottom of this, we’ll no’ do it sitting at table. Are ye done?”
With his food, yes. With her touch and the heat that simple connection created, no. But the same unwelcome thought coiled in his belly like a snake, fangs dripping poison. He couldn’t get involved with her. If the curse was real, she could die.
* * *
Hours later, Caitlin stood, stretched her arms above her head, and then rubbed her eyes. With Holt’s help, she’d emptied the chest of its hoard of images and examined them, one by one. Holt had given up about halfway through, convinced there were no answers to be found, and tired of wasting his time when he had real work to do.
Stung, she knew her frustration could not match his— he had a greater reason for it— but she had been sure they would find something in the hundreds of stereographs his great-aunt, or someone before her, had saved. As much as she loved solving a mystery— which she did with every piece of furniture she appraised— this one worried her, if only because Holt, despite his denials, seemed to take the idea of a curse seriously. Well, she hoped some answers would turn up soon.
In the meantime, she needed to get out of this dark attic and take a walk. She checked the time on her phone. Another half hour until sunset. A short walk then, and a chance to give her eyes something distant to focus on. She turned off the desk and other lights and made her way down the stairs to her room to grab a coat, hat, and gloves, then went outside.
Her first breath of cold air nearly sent her back indoors, but the lowering sun had painted the broken clouds to the west in shades of gold and crimson, pink and purple, that lit the remains of earlier snows in watercolor streaks. She stepped off the porch onto the circular drive, her gaze on the sky.
“Where are you going?”
The sound of Holt’s voice made her whip around. She’d been so focused on the sunset, she hadn’t heard the door open and close. “Having a walk,” she replied, more breathless than she expected, surely from the cold and not from Holt’s sudden arrival. “And a chance to rest my eyes.”
He was pulling on a jacket as he approached her. A knitted scarf hung loosely around his neck. He tucked the scarf inside the jacket as he buttoned it.
She was happy to rest her eyes on him.
“Want some company?”
“Sure.” She realized she was staring and turned back to the west. “Look at that sky!”
Holt came up beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod.
“Sunsets like that are rare in winter. Let’s enjoy it while we walk.” He took her hand and led her toward the setting sun, old snow and frozen grass crunching under their boots. They crossed the lawn for a better view as the sun sank between some trees. Caitlin felt her muscles loosening as she moved, welcomed relief from the tension caused by hours of sitting and concentrating.
“Still didn’t find anything?”
She knew her answer would disappoint him. “Nay. Lots of interesting images, but no names or dates penciled on the back.”
“Interesting? How?”
“How much do ye ken about the Victorian era?”
Holt stared at the sky, then took a breath. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Well, Queen Victoria loved spending time in Scotland. She’s the reason the royal family has the Balmoral estate in Scotland today. Her husband, Prince Albert, bought it for her, a private sale, so rather than belonging to the Crown, it belongs to the family. Anyway, all things tartan became popular during her reign. Many of the images in those stereographs toward the bottom of the trunk are of men in plaid clothing, even in kilts. I’d wager they’re not Scots, but it’s possible.”
“What time period are you talking about?”
“Nineteenth century. Her reign lasted 60 years, until 1901. Those images may indicate the age of many of those stereographs.”
“I don’t see how that helps us.”
“I’m not certain it does.” She sighed and forced her focus back to the sunset, now dimming, colors fading into the gloaming. “I wish I had answers for you.”
Holt shrugged. “Finding that trunk was a fluke. I don’t think it had been touched in decades, maybe not since the beginning of the last century. There’s no reason it would provide answers to anything.”
As the sky darkened, fairy lights popped on in the white-painted gazebo set in the middle of the side lawn.
“How lovely,” Caitlin exclaimed. “Let’s go over there.”
Holt frowned, then gestured for her to lead the way. The untrodden snow was deeper on this side of the house, up to Caitlin’s ankles. She walked carefully, on the lookout for icy patches that might have formed as the day’s melting refroze. Holt lagged a step behind her, ready, she suspected, to catch her if she slipped. But she reached the gazebo without incident and mounted the two steps to the interior. Inside, the fairy lights cast a warm glow that bled onto the surrounding snow. A row of benches circled the outside edge, and the roof rose to a pointed peak. Carved columns and fancy gingerbread, all painted white, supported the roof and provided a sense of cozy enclosure.
Holt crossed to the side that the roof had protected from the last snowfall. “The bench is dry over here if you want to sit down.”
