losing it,” she said out loud. Giving her head a good, hard shake, Emma climbed from the covers and switched on the lamp. She’d better hurry if she planned on taking sunrise pictures at the ruins. She flung open her suitcase, her teeth chattering as she dug out a pair of worn, faded jeans, her white long-sleeved SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—T-shirt, a brown sweater, and a pair of thick socks. Hurriedly dressing, she freshened up in the bathroom, brushed her hair, snugged a multicolored knit hat down to her ears, pulled on her waterproof boots, and grabbed her camera case and tripod. Flicking off the lamp, she eased out of the room.
In the corridor, just beside her door, stood a small, folding table containing a thermos and a covered dish. Emma smiled. The Ballasters really were sweet ladies. Lifting the dish, she grabbed the two slices of cinnamon cake wrapped in clear plastic, and the thermos, and then headed quietly downstairs.
The only sound throughout the manor was the heavy
ticktock
of the tall grandfather clock in the foyer. As Emma passed it, she guessed it had to be all of six feet tall. Ornately carved and beyond gorgeous, the clock must have weighed a ton. She considered how the late-afternoon light would fall on it, and thought it’d be a great shot.
As Emma stepped out into the early morning, the brisk September air, tinged with smells of the sea and a sweetness—clover, maybe?—whipped against her face. She drew in a lungful, her insides feeling as though she’d just swallowed ice, juggled her camera bag and thermos, and started up the gravel path toward Arrick’s ruins. In the predawn light she could barely see the path in front of her. Ahead, the castle rose out of a blanket of heavy white mist, and it drifted like a live thing in wispy sheets toward her. Emma thought it eerily beautiful. Stopping, she set her bag down, along with the thermos and cake, on a nearby rock. Quickly, before she lost the shot, she set up the tripod.
Once she had the digital locked in place, she chose her lens, her settings, and then stared into the camera at the scene before her. Lifting her head, she angled the tripod a bit more, then bent again to check the shot.
In the next second, she felt something tug on her hair.
Emma turned. No one was there.
A chill ran up her spine. The wind?
She shook her head and looked through the lens.
The shot was beautiful. To her, it screamed mystical, legendary, and ghostly. She snapped off a few shots. No doubt the tales Willoughby had told her had something to do with it.
“Leave this place.”
Emma snapped her head up. She looked around. Of course, she found no one.
But she sure had heard someone whisper in her ear.
The wind excuse could seriously only last so long.
Deciding to ignore it,
whatever
it was, Emma lowered her head to the lens. She snapped off another shot.
“I … said … leave!”
Emma froze. The blood drained from her face—she could feel it. And as white as she already was, she probably could now pass for a vampire.
That voice was not friendly at all. And it was loud.
Very
loud. Fear made her body so stiff, she couldn’t even turn her head. Whoever had whispered to her before was apparently now standing right beside her. Who on earth would be out so early, on the Ballasters’ land, and even care if she was at Arrick or not?
“Don’t just stand and ignore me, wench!”
Emma’s eyes grew wide. Suddenly, she blinked.
Wench?
Turning her head, ever so slightly toward the voice, she braced herself for the brute that must be standing beside her.
Again, she found herself completely alone.
Turning in a circle, slowly at first, Emma studied her surroundings. The manor was at least fifty yards behind her, Arrick’s gatehouse at least a few hundred. The only things close to her on the gravel path were a few trees, a few scattered rocks, and some clumps of sea grass. Farther up the lane, grass lay on either side. Wide open.
Nowhere to
In the corridor, just beside her door, stood a small, folding table containing a thermos and a covered dish. Emma smiled. The Ballasters really were sweet ladies. Lifting the dish, she grabbed the two slices of cinnamon cake wrapped in clear plastic, and the thermos, and then headed quietly downstairs.
The only sound throughout the manor was the heavy
ticktock
of the tall grandfather clock in the foyer. As Emma passed it, she guessed it had to be all of six feet tall. Ornately carved and beyond gorgeous, the clock must have weighed a ton. She considered how the late-afternoon light would fall on it, and thought it’d be a great shot.
As Emma stepped out into the early morning, the brisk September air, tinged with smells of the sea and a sweetness—clover, maybe?—whipped against her face. She drew in a lungful, her insides feeling as though she’d just swallowed ice, juggled her camera bag and thermos, and started up the gravel path toward Arrick’s ruins. In the predawn light she could barely see the path in front of her. Ahead, the castle rose out of a blanket of heavy white mist, and it drifted like a live thing in wispy sheets toward her. Emma thought it eerily beautiful. Stopping, she set her bag down, along with the thermos and cake, on a nearby rock. Quickly, before she lost the shot, she set up the tripod.
Once she had the digital locked in place, she chose her lens, her settings, and then stared into the camera at the scene before her. Lifting her head, she angled the tripod a bit more, then bent again to check the shot.
In the next second, she felt something tug on her hair.
Emma turned. No one was there.
A chill ran up her spine. The wind?
She shook her head and looked through the lens.
The shot was beautiful. To her, it screamed mystical, legendary, and ghostly. She snapped off a few shots. No doubt the tales Willoughby had told her had something to do with it.
“Leave this place.”
Emma snapped her head up. She looked around. Of course, she found no one.
But she sure had heard someone whisper in her ear.
The wind excuse could seriously only last so long.
Deciding to ignore it,
whatever
it was, Emma lowered her head to the lens. She snapped off another shot.
“I … said … leave!”
Emma froze. The blood drained from her face—she could feel it. And as white as she already was, she probably could now pass for a vampire.
That voice was not friendly at all. And it was loud.
Very
loud. Fear made her body so stiff, she couldn’t even turn her head. Whoever had whispered to her before was apparently now standing right beside her. Who on earth would be out so early, on the Ballasters’ land, and even care if she was at Arrick or not?
“Don’t just stand and ignore me, wench!”
Emma’s eyes grew wide. Suddenly, she blinked.
Wench?
Turning her head, ever so slightly toward the voice, she braced herself for the brute that must be standing beside her.
Again, she found herself completely alone.
Turning in a circle, slowly at first, Emma studied her surroundings. The manor was at least fifty yards behind her, Arrick’s gatehouse at least a few hundred. The only things close to her on the gravel path were a few trees, a few scattered rocks, and some clumps of sea grass. Farther up the lane, grass lay on either side. Wide open.
Nowhere to
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