Page 57 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

It was hot and awkward, and Erik hated the tension between him and his wife, as well as the hard seat and deafening brightness from the sky.

He’d spent the ride brooding, going through a hundred different scenarios of how to make this right and all of them ended with him absent from either Christine’s life or the earth.

It had not been productive. Now, the sun was glaring in his eyes as he pulled the horses to a stop outside the village his mother had fled so long ago.

The autumn light made Coolaney look picturesque and deceptively lovely.

The hills around the village rose boldly from the landscape, some forming dramatic bluffs, all covered in vibrant green no words could describe.

Erik knew from past experience that, on a clear day like today, if you climbed one of them, you could see to the coast, following the path of little rivers and streams to the sea.

The trees were old and wise, turning gold for the season, and the village buildings were humble constructions of thatch and stone that seemed built to endure storms and centuries.

It was beautiful, and Erik had learned what could hide behind beauty.

He stretched and groaned as soon as he was on the ground, the bearded mask heavy and uncomfortable in the warm day. A thump sounded behind him, then a muffled cry of annoyance. He turned in time to see Christine exiting the carriage looking smug.

“She’s taken care of, for now,” Christine said.

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave her in there alone?” Erik asked, terrified and pleased despite himself by the efficiency with which Christine continued to deal with this threat.

“She can breathe. It will be fine.” Christine paused to look over the landscape and village, a soft smile playing on her face. “It’s rather beautiful.”

“It’s medieval,” Erik countered, annoyance returning. All he saw when he looked at this town was a backwards backwater that was even worse than all the other such primitive, hateful towns because it had already disappointed him.

“Remote, though, as you said,” Christine added, indulgent rather than cross.

“Let us be done with it,” Erik muttered. “We should start at the pub.”

“Do you need a drink so early?”

“It’s the heart of any village like this,” Erik sighed.

He wondered if any of them would remember him from the long years past when he had journeyed here in search of family or a home.

He’d found little welcome; only warnings that anyone with the name Gilbride had long departed for America or the grave.

Then again, Erik hadn’t been very trustworthy.

They made their way to one of the larger buildings in the town.

It was two stories and bore an old wooden sign on an iron hook above the door declaring it The Harp.

Simple enough, and yet, Erik paused. He was in the woods of Lungern again, or the London pub where he had been unmasked, or a hundred other places he’d been exposed and expelled. He couldn’t do this. Not here.

Christine’s hand slipped into his and he started in surprise, looking down at her and finding her smiling kindly at him. She looked so beautiful in the sun, it made his heart quake to look at her.

“I’m right beside you, whether you like it or not,” she said softly, somehow forgiving him before he had even complained.

“Thank you, my love.” The words soothed him and placated her. His wife’s hand in his, he entered the pub.

It was as Erik remembered it. Or perhaps he didn’t remember the specifics, but it was like many pubs he had visited over the years.

It was a warm, welcoming place (or would be for most) with walls and furniture in all shades of honey and brown, worn chairs, and a large hearth.

The bar was old, but looked well taken care of, and the light through the windows was thin, as it tended to be in places like this.

The people were as he expected too. They fit in a place like this, so close to the earth and the sea. They had a proud roughness about them that reminded Erik of the hills and crags and woods outside. And they were all looking at the two strangers who had just walked in.

To Erik’s surprise, they didn’t look entirely suspicious.

There was a man behind the bar tending to work with his back turned to the room and a pair of men in a corner that looked like farmers sharing a pint.

They looked at Erik and Christine like cats that had wandered in from the street – something surprising and perhaps unwelcome, but not dangerous.

Beside the crackling fire, there was a middle-aged, round woman fussing over a chair full of blankets and ignoring them.

A younger woman was wiping down the long, empty central table. She smiled at them when she saw them and ran to the barkeep, whispering something in his ear.

“Already?” the man behind the bar said, turning to look at Erik and Christine. His eyes widened in a show of welcome that Erik had not expected at all. “Oh! Right you are. Sir, I think she is here! And not alone!” he called towards the fire.

The older woman turned to Erik and Christine and gave a startled cry before bending to shake the blankets on the chair.

“Sir!” the woman said softly because, to Erik’s shock, there was someone in all those blankets. “Sir. Your guest.”

The man revealed in the chair was sleeping soundly and looked almost as close to a corpse as Erik did.

He had to be nearing a hundred and, had the woman not been addressing him, Erik would have worried that he was already expired.

He snorted and bobbed his head, but didn’t reply to his attendant. She gave a frustrated sigh.

“Sir Edward!” the older woman yelled in his ear, shaking him vigorously, and the old man started awake, blinking in confusion as he did.

“What’s that?” Sir Edward said in a refined English accent before turning his bleary eyes to the new visitors.

“The one you were telling us about!” the maid said. “She’s here! With a friend.”

Christine leaned close to Erik and whispered, “Do they think I’m Pauline?”

Erik nodded tensely. This was the plan and they had to play along.

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Sir Edward said, gesturing for Erik and Christine to approach. “I apologize for resting. We were not expecting you so early. I must say, my dear lady, you’re more beautiful than your words which so warmed this old man’s heart.”

“You’re too kind,” Christine replied in her careful English, and the man beamed.

“Ah, what a lovely accent,” Sir Edward sighed.

“If you expect me to learn French like some fancy lady, you’re out of your gourd,” declared the woman who had awoken him in a thick Irish accent. It was unclear if she was talking to the old man or them.

“Oh, her English is excellent, Siobahn. You know that from reading the letters to me,” the knight chided.

“It’s a joy to meet you at last, Mademoiselle Pauline.

Oh.” Sir Edward looked at Erik, noticing him for the first time, and perhaps taking in his rather odd appearance. “I thought you said you’d be alone?”

“I think there has been a mistake, Sir,” Erik cut in, taking the opportunity to speak. “You seem to know my wife, but she has not told me anything of your prior correspondence. She insisted on surprising me when we arrived here.”

“Oh, what a devious woman!” Sir Edward declared, then yawned so wide, Erik could count all his remaining teeth. “Your lovely wife reached out to me a month ago! Or was it two? About...” The man froze for a moment, looking to the woman beside him for help.

“I swear, the thoughts go out of your head like rabbits running from a bush,” Siobahn sighed. She had russet hair and bright cheeks and looked entirely annoyed. “The lady wrote about the manor and her claim.”

“My manor?” The knight looked aghast. “Siobahn, why would I write to a lady about the manor? It’s falling apart and the only people who want it are dead!”

Siobahn groaned, her head falling into her hands as if the old man had said something disastrous.

“Sir, don’t you remember? These are good, rich lands with enormous potential.

” She was repeating something she had told him before, it was clear.

What was not clear was who was swindling who – a dying Lord and his caretaker, or Pauline.

“There was that one woman,” Sir Edward said slowly. “A French girl said she was a distant relation and was willing to take it on. She was going to visit, but she’s not supposed to be here to look it over until—”

“Today! This is her!” Siobahn groaned. “And her husband. Who we must be kind to.” Siobhan looked Erik over and tried to smile.

“Her husband who is confused,” Erik muttered.

“You’ll need to forgive our Sir Edward,” Siobahn replied. “It’s me who’s been doing most of the writing and reading of your wife’s letters. Good thing too, as the first one nearly sent him to the grave with the shock.” Siobhan gave Christine a bright, grateful smile.

“I...” Christine began, and she looked entirely at sea, and Erik wished dearly he could translate it all for her, though she seemed to understand most of what was going on.

“Are you telling me my dear wife has been in correspondence with your lord here about taking on his manor?” Erik asked Siobahn directly. “And the lands?”

“She was the one who wrote!” Siobahn exclaimed. “With God as my witness, none of us went looking for a claimant. We were all resigned to the lands going back to the Queen to be doled back out to some dandy who’d let it keep rotting.”

“But my wife has swooped in to help her distant relation with no other heirs,” Erik stated carefully so that Christine would understand.

Had he not harbored such a burning hatred for Pauline, he might have been impressed with how cruel and brilliant the scheme was.

Now everything she had said about ghosts and trickery made sense – she was the ghost. A phantom of the past ready to take on a manor, and then discard it in the cruelest, most destructive way possible.