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“Sounds as though the brownies have finished their work,” Blake whispered as Frederick led the way down the hall. “Efficient fellows, aren’t they. Not even two o’clock.”

Grace studied his face. The words were light, but the tension beneath them wasn’t lost on her. Blake was on edge, just like Frederick. Whatever had been making the noise had stopped, and the silence now hung heavy like the moment before a thunderstorm.

“That’s the room, I’d wager.” Frederick gestured with his doused lantern. “The one at the end of the hall.”

“Lovely,” Tony muttered. “Because there’s nothing ominous about approaching a dead man’s favorite haunt in the middle of the night.”

“Glad to see your humor’s resurrecting, Dixon.” Blake’s choice of words and deadpan expression nearly loosened Grace’s grin altogether. The man seemed determined to keep levity very much alive no matter the circumstances.

Unfortunately, the levity was short-lived when a faint creak echoed somewhere to their left. They froze. Tony may have whimpered, but Grace couldn’t be sure whether it was him or a door.

“Did anyone else hear that?” Tony’s whisper cracked.

Grace nodded, her fingers brushing the cold, uneven stone wall, as though it might provide some tangible barrier against the unknown. “It sounded like a door—”

Another swish followed by a high-pitched groan reverberated through the hall. One of the double doors up ahead swung open of its own accord. Grace swallowed through her tightening throat. It only seemed to open by its own accord. Flashes of memory of her ghost hunt in Havensbrooke came to mind.

That ghost hadn’t been real. It had felt real, though.

She drew in a steadying breath. And neither was this one.

The room beyond the door was drenched in pale moonlight. Tall, arched windows cast shadows that stretched long and sharp across the stone floor, like claws reaching into the void.

“This feels like a very bad idea,” Tony muttered, sidling closer to Grace than he had been a moment ago.

“Stay together,” Frederick said firmly, reaching for her hand. His grip was reassuringly warm against the icy air.

On her periphery, Grace caught sight of Blake pulling his gun from somewhere inside his jacket.

A gun. Very good idea. Not helpful with ghosts or kelpies or probably even brownies, but with a flesh-and-blood murderer, a helpful addition to their arsenal.

She’d always found having a man with a gun in these sorts of situations very helpful.

Blake took the lead, as any man with a gun ought to do, and approached the open door as if he trained to do something very similar. It was rather fascinating to watch and incited all sorts of questions she’d have to reserve for later.

Just before they reached Blake at the door, a strange whisper filtered across the cold air. What was it? Grace looked up at Frederick, who had an ever-tightening grip on hand.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Tony hissed, backing up a step. “I draw the line at ghostly whispers in the dark.”

The whisper came again from the left where the hall turned down into darkness.

Every hair on Grace’s head answered the call of fear, very much like she’d felt the first time she’d read Poe’s “The Raven.” Naturally, she’d followed it up with every other story of his she could find, thus ensuring an entire week of sleepless nights haunted by beating hearts, madmen, and the occasional black cat.

She forced logic to the forefront. What had the whisper said? It sounded like, “Alastair?”

Frederick frowned but said nothing, his jaw tightening as they stepped into the room after Blake. Grace felt the tension evaporate almost instantly. She’d never felt quite so attune with a dead person before in her whole life. Laird Blair’s favorite room was a library.

“I believe this particular ghost hunt was tailor-made for you, darling.” Frederick sent her a smile, his gaze still alert.

“It only proves all the more how much he and my mother had in common.” She took in the heady, familiar scent of old leather and ink mingled with just enough dust to threaten a sneeze.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, their contents a delightful chaos of ancient tomes and newer, well-worn volumes. Interspersed among them were intricately carved wooden creatures—Scottish selkies, kelpies, and even a particularly regal faerie queen mid-flight.

“Well, Laird Blair was nothing if not committed to the theme,” Blake muttered, his voice low as he surveyed the room. The pistol in his hand was held so naturally that, had Grace not watched him draw it, she might not have noticed it at all.

She shouldn’t be surprised he had a pistol. After all, he was the one who’d taught her how to use one.

“Do you think he commissioned these?” Grace released Frederick’s hand and walked to the nearest shelf, running her fingers over a carving of a stoic-looking brownie clutching a broom. “They’re all so unique.”

“We’re not here to catalog a dead man’s mythical menagerie,” Tony grumbled. “We’re here to find a will and save Lillias.”

Grace pulled back, rolling her eyes, but didn’t argue.

The others had already dispersed, each taking a different section of the room.

She began methodically pulling books from her shelf, more out of curiosity than necessity.

The moonlight spilling through the windows created jagged patterns on the floor and gave enough light to read titles on the spines, if the words were large enough, but not see the words on the pages.

Not that Grace was trying.

Much.

And you never knew—any one of these might trigger a secret passage. She’d seen it happen before.

“Is anyone going to tell me what we’re actually looking for?” Tony’s whisper broke the quiet.

“A place to hide a will,” Frederick answered from a bookshelf on the opposite wall.

“Or a clue to where a will might be hidden,” Blake added from across the room.

Were Frederick and Blake on their third bookshelves while she was still on the first one?

She bit down on her bottom lip. Perhaps she’d been looking at each book a little too thoroughly.

But a pale spine caught her attention: A Blair’s Account of Scottish Myths and Legends.

The words gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Blair. Her Blair’s?

The book felt oddly light in her hands as she flipped it over to see the front. At the bottom of the cover in embossed letters was her cousin’s name, Alistair Blair.

“I think I found something,” Tony crouched near the empty fireplace, where two large bookshelves framed the mantel in on both sides.

Grace tucked the book under her arm and turned toward him. “What is it?”

Tony looked up, his eyes wide and his face as pale as the moonlight filtering through the windows. “I know this bracelet.” He held up the item, turning it over in his hands as if trying to convince himself it was real. “The stones, the initials. What—what is it doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Blake asked, leaning over Tony’s shoulder to inspect the bracelet. “You can’t make out the inscription in this light.”

Tony’s hands shook, his grip tightening on the jewelry. “I don’t need light. I know what it says.” He looked up, meeting Grace’s gaze. “This is the bracelet I gave to Lillias on our wedding day. What is it doing here?”

Before Grace could formulate an answer—or at least something comforting—a loud creak shattered the stillness. The bookshelf beside Tony tipped forward with agonizing slowness, books cascading like an avalanche.

“Tony!” Blake barked at the same time Frederick shouted, “Grace!”

The moment erupted into chaos. Blake moved toward Tony, and Frederick grabbed Grace’s arm, pulling her into him and out of the way, just as the massive structure crashed to the ground, sending a deafening echo through the room.

Books and dust exploded in all directions, and Grace had two corresponding thoughts: First, someone possibly had just tried to kill them with falling books, and second, why would anyone ever choose to damage an entire bookshelf of books that way?

As the dust settled, Blake stepped forward, coughing and waving a hand in front of his face. “Is everyone all right?”

Grace glanced up at Frederick, who still had her firmly cocooned against him. His brow was furrowed, his gaze raking over her for any sign of injury. She gave him a small, grateful smile, and he let out a breath that seemed to have been stuck in his chest for hours.

“Define all right ,” Tony groaned from somewhere beneath a mountain of books.

Grace exchanged a look with Frederick before they rushed toward Tony, Blake already clearing a path. Tony lay sprawled on the floor, one leg pinned beneath a fallen chair that had been buried in books.

They all began removing the books to clear a path to him.

“Is it broken?” Frederick asked.

“I don’t think so.” Tony answered, pushing himself up to a sitting position and sending Blake a rather impressive glare. “But I’d like it noted that this was one of the most ridiculous ideas of all time—searching a castle at night with a murderer on the loose?”

Blake snorted as he grabbed one end of the chair. “If pessimism were a form of strength, Mr. Dixon, you’d have lifted this chair—and the bookshelf—by now.”

Tony’s frown deepened as Frederick and Blake hoisted the chair away and Grace helped him stand.

“Can you walk?” she asked, steadying him.

“I think it’s a sprain,” Tony answered.

Frederick slipped an arm under Tony’s shoulders, taking his weight and freeing Grace to clear a path through the books.