A Wee Dose of Death by Fran Stewart Read Free Book Online Page B

with it if he had the chance. Of course, where would he go?
    I could have let him hold it. Was it mean of me to hang on to it? I didn’t need its warmth while I was moving. That was one of the beauties of cross-country. The very act of moving on skis allows the legs and arms, fingers and toes—and everyother part of the body—to flex and bend, thereby keeping the muscles warm. But if I slowed down or stopped while I was up on the Perth, I’d need the shawl.
    â€œIs this all the speed we will be going?”
    â€œWhy? You want to run?”
    Beside me, Dirk let out a long, sustained, “Ahhhhh. I havena run anywhere for . . .”
    â€œSince you died?” I lengthened my stride and picked up the pace until I fairly flew.
    Dirk kept up with me with no apparent effort. He didn’t have to deal with friction.
Or stumbling blocks
, I thought as I veered to the left to avoid a snow shovel someone had left lying at the end of their driveway. He seemed so energized, so . . . bouncy almost; I had the feeling he wanted to run for hours.
    I slowed down, backtracked, and stood the snow shovel upright in a snowbank so the owners could find it, even if two more feet of snow fell before they came out to shovel again.
    â€œThat was most kind of ye, Mistress Peggy.” Dirk sounded diplomatic—something I wasn’t used to, coming as it did from him. “Now, though,” he went on, “might we run again?”
    As we reached the edge of the forest, where the path began to ascend, I slowed down a bit and glanced at his feet. There weren’t any footprints. I guessed that made sense—after all, he couldn’t open doors, couldn’t really touch anything—but it was still a bit of a surprise. “What does it feel like, Dirk? Walking on top of the snow, I mean.”
    â€œOch, it feels a bit like drinking too much ale and not knowing where my feet are.”
    â€œDid you do that a lot?”
    He threw an indignant look my way. “Nae, certes. But young men will try. I suppose they still do?”
    I thought about my twin brother’s occasional summerforays into bars in Arkane, the next town up the road—there weren’t any bars in Hamelin. And no telling what he’d done when he was off at college. He couldn’t have been too wild, though, since he’d graduated summa cum laude. Then he fell off the framework around a dinosaur skeleton he was repairing and shattered his back.
    â€œ. . . ye listening?”
    â€œHuh? Oh. Yeah. Young men. They
do
still drink, and nowadays with cars in the equation, it’s a much more serious problem.”
    â€œAnd why would that be?”
    â€œBecause when they’re drunk they don’t have the reflexes or the judgment to drive safely. A lot of people are killed every year by drunk drivers of all ages—not just young men, although statistics say they’re the worst.”
    â€œDoes he live nearby?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œMaster Stuhstissticks.”
    I say “huh?” a lot around Dirk. I said it again before I figured out what he was talking about. “Sta-tis-tics.” I emphasized each syllable. “They’re—”
    But I didn’t get to explain. The fir tree I’d just glided under had way too heavy a burden of snow. I must have brushed my head against one of the lower branches, and the whole load dumped on top of me.
    By the time Dirk stopped laughing, which took considerably longer than it should have, I’d brushed myself off and gotten most of the snow out of my jacket. “Should we not turn back now?” he asked between very un-ghostly snorts.
    â€œNo. I want to go farther. I haven’t been up here on the Perth in a couple of years.”
    â€œWhat would be this
pirth
ye speak of?”
    â€œAll the trails around here are named for towns or shiresin Scotland. This trail is the Perth.” I twisted my upper body to