Night Visitor by Melanie Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

learned to use both initiative and resourcefulness when she wanted her way. And what she most definitely wanted was for her father to leave before he discovered her hidden plate, or before she fainted dead at his feet from the shock of the ever-louder bagpipes playing an alarm in her head.
    “Certainly not. It would ruin my work. It is only a little warm inside and I have not been using any dangerous chemicals. Was there something else you needed? I am in the middle of working on—” Taffy tried to think of some plausible project, but her mind was fixated by the ululations of the wailing music and was unable to formulate a lie.
    Fortunately, Davis was not interested enough to spare the time for any explanations.
    “Yes, I can see that you are busy. Don’t strain yourself. No one expects the delicately nurtured to labor as diligently as a male when it is so warm.” On his lips, the term delicately nurtured sounded like a disease, making her wish to deny her gentility.
    It was an irrational reaction, so she put it aside, just as she had with all the other self-doubts and unhappiness his disparaging comments awoke.
    “I shall be done before noon,” she lied.
    Aye, lie. Anything to get rid of him!
    “Very well then.”
    “I shall see you this evening,” she answered, shutting the door on her last syllables.
    “Shhh!” she scolded the song in her head. Immediately, the crescendoing music ceased, but there was a soft rumble of laughter.
    She waited patiently for her father’s footsteps to fade away before opening one of the workshop’s carriage shutters and retrieving her plate from its satchel.
    Nothing had changed. It was him. The ancient plaid, the brogues, the pipes…the ears.
    “Ar dheas De go raibh a anam,” she muttered, then frowned. May his soul be on the right hand of God! Where had she learned that bit of Gaelic? Mostly she had only greetings and curses in her repertoire, not blessings!
    Carefully, because her hands were shaking, she secured the photographic plate she held between thin boards and left her darkroom to return to the inn. She would hide her photographin her portmanteau until she decided what to do with it.
    “I’m leaving now, Malcolm,” she whispered bravely. “Follow me, please.”
    Again, she had the sensation that she was not alone on her ride to the inn. It was unnerving, but somehow not unpleasant to think that Malcolm might be with her. Indeed, the notion of riding through the country with a ghost up on the cruppers was exhilarating. It was possible that no one—in the entirety of history—had ever done so.
    Ah! But was this notion true? Was this ancient Scot following her back to her accommodations? She frowned. This all might just be her wild imagination. Perhaps she had spent too many hours in the heat and chemical fumes with only herself for company.
    Scientific experimentation—that was the key, she decided, dismounting her velocipede in the innyard and leaning it against a shady wall. A strange phenomenon, if real rather than imaginary, should be capable of repetition under like circumstances.
    She plucked her precious satchel out of the panier and held it tightly to her breast. Her camera was within reach if she found need.
    She had seen this “Malcolm” best when she was asleep. But for the moment, short of laudanum,there was no possibility that she could rest this early in the day.
    But there was still meditation. Mystics had used that for centuries to contact the spirit world. Of course, she didn’t have any rituals to aid her, but a closed shutter and a quiet room would surely be all she needed to concentrate. After all, the ghostly presence seemed very near.
    Hopeful that the piper would follow her inside, she went into the inn. Taffy climbed the narrow stairs, grateful that the Mistress MacIntyre was busy elsewhere. She was fairly certain that meditating people did not speak about mundane matters—like linens—when they were preparing to visit the spirit