Meet Me At the Castle by Denise A. Agnew

her lived a strength, a knowledge more powerful than anyone who had passed through these ancient halls. She could cross over that fine veil between mortal reality and what lay beyond.
    On her canvas she had painted all that had once been at Cromar, captured its finest days of glory. Had brought to life all that had been dead and barren. Had reawakened that which had been good within the castle walls, and banished all the evil.
    He knew Elizabeth had felt the souls of the departed, of the history that clung to a spot where so much evil and so much love had flourished. And perhaps his growing love for her over the years had nourished her and given her strength to withstand those who did not love her and did not care. He had been content to watch her grow and learn; seeing her beautiful face in the moonlight had been all he needed. Until he had taken this solid form. Until he could touch her as only he had dreamed. Why? Why had he been given a taste of her sweet flesh when he knew it could not last?
    He paced the stones beneath his feet, but finally stopped. He looked into the black sky, through the holes in the roof of Cromar high above. Rage and hate split through him until he thought he would shatter into a thousand pieces.
    He screamed.
    All that remained of him seconds later was a sigh, captured in a wind that sailed toward the skies, upward to the stars.
    * * * *
    Rain drizzled down the tall windows at the front of Elizabeth’s rooms at Chawtry House; cold wind bashed the London townhouse without mercy. Moaning and groaning, the storm seemed to match her mood.
    Black and without any sign of lifting.
    She shuddered as another chill racked her. She couldn’t get warm, no matter how many shawls she donned or how often the maids stoked the fire in the grate. Though it wasn’t winter, the elements seemed unrepentant.
    She had been in London a month and had attended several teas given by her aunt Ophelia’s friends. A full slate of events had been designed by her widowed aunt with the idea of keeping Elizabeth busy and out of trouble. Primarily, Aunt Ophelia had her ears and eyes open for information on eligible bachelors in London.
    Thank goodness Aunt Ophelia seemed more understanding and pleasant than Anne. Nothing, though, could bring relief to the dull, lifeless feeling that invaded Elizabeth’s soul at every turn. Now, as she sat watching rain splatter the street below, she wondered what Damian could be doing at that moment. Had he already forgotten her?
    A single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek, and she closed her eyes against the dreary scene at the window. She let her mind wander back to that night when passion had ruled and swept her into Damian’s arms.
    How could she bear to search for a husband when Damian’s touch and caress always seemed to be with her? No other man’s lips could possibly warm her as Damian’s had, nor any man’s body set her afire.
    A thousand questions battled within her. She had ignored the most glaring questions until she had been here in London for a day.
    Could it be that Damian was not real?
    How absurd. Yet how had he known to be at the castle every time to see her? Had he been at the castle since she was a small child? All her life she had felt watched. Not in an evil or disturbing way, but in a comforting, protective way.
    Perhaps her loneliness had created him in her fertile imagination. A daydream. Wishful thinking that had gone too far and had muddled her so much she did not know reality from fantasy.
    What if she had gone mad?
    A loud rap on her chamber door startled her, and she swung away from the window. She went to the door, opened it and found Aunt Ophelia there, patiently smiling. As her aunt stepped inside Elizabeth’s large suite of rooms, she brought with her a dress of deepest blue.
    “Good morning, my dear,” Aunt Ophelia said, her high voice grating on Elizabeth’s nerves. “I see you are ready for the day. I have brought you the dress I