“Won’t Chrissy find it in there?” Hugh asks, moving behind to push the thing as I begin to drag the carpet runner, which in turn, moves the pedestal closer to the cleaning closet. Ingenious, no?
“Three weeks . . . and I’ve never seen anyone . . . Urgh! Push, Hugh!”
“I am pushing!” he grunts back, his teeth gritted, and his cheeks flushed red.
“Hold the door wider, Arch. There!”
We manage to push it into a corner before I drag an old-looking industrial floor buffing machine in front of it. I’ve never seen anyone use it. Besides, the cleaning crew seems to bring their own each week. Then Archie closes the cupboard door as I step out, then re-tucks his school shirt.
“Here.” I beckon him closer to rub my thumb against the corner of his mouth. “You have a smudge of jelly.”
“Silly Holly! We’re not allowed jelly for breakfast, either.”
“Really? Not even on a little wholewheat toast?” I tease.
He shakes his head earnestly. “Or ice cream.”
“Why would you want jelly on toast?” Hugh asked, perplexed.
Jeez. This is what happens when you tell kids they can’t watch TV. Pot-a-toe, pot-a-to. Or jelly, jam, and Jell-O. Talk about cross purposes.
But getting back to the task at hand.
“Help me with the carpet, Arch.” We each grab a side and pull it straight. “Do you think you could manage the head?” I ask, straightening again. He nods solemnly, so I pick up the casualty. I press the decapitated head into his hands, balancing mine under his, just in case. “Got it?” He nods. “Okay, now to get rid of the body.” My attention pivots to the other boy. “You and I need to carry the dearly departed—”
“Departed from his head?”
“Upstairs.”
I glance back at the row of statues, wondering if I should shuffle them a little closer together, but then think better of it. One headless heirloom is enough for one day. I have a better idea. Ducking back into the cupboard, I open a plastic box on the wall labelled LIGHTS. Locating the switch labelled SPOTLIGHTS/HALL, I flick it, and the lights go out.
“That looks a little better, don’t you think?”
The boys both shrug. But at least the spotlight isn’t shining on nothing.
Between the three of us, we managed to stash the remains in my bedroom, and both boys leave me to get dressed. As Hugh closes my bedroom door, he’s still offering profuse thanks.
The journey to school is . . . interesting. Committing our conversation’s words to paper would make anyone think we were mobsters as we discussed the body hidden under my bed and the other body parts stored throughout my room.
“Don’t worry, Holly.” At the boy’s school, Hugh pauses mid climb from the car. “Kilblair Castle has seen much worse things than a decapitation.”
“Much worse things we agreed should never be spoken of?” I reply with a wry smile. So much for what happens in Kilblair Castle stays in Kilblair Castle. Though I can’t help but wonder if his assurance is, at least in part, for himself.
“Oh, yes. Much worse. That’s how Uncle Sandy has a ghost.”
“Get out of here.” I roll my eyes, then wiggle the shift stick of Isla’s Range Rover—which I just love driving—readying myself to pull away from the school drop-off zone. “Seriously, get out of here. You’ll be soaked before you make it to class.” Although, according to Chrissy, there’s no such thing as bad weather. Just the wrong clothes.
“It’s true,” Hugh protests. “My great-great-great-grandmother was pushed down her stairs by my great-great-great-grandfather when he wanted to marry someone else.”
“Did she lose her head?” I continue in the same tone.
“No. She broke her neck and then became a ghost.”
Wait, what?
16
Holly
I park the car at the back of the house. Sorry, castle. Given today is Monday, we’re closed to the public, but that’s not to say there aren’t other things to do in the education centre. I’m running through my list of tasks today as I hop down from the Range Rover, planting my feet (and my pristine sneakers) in a puddle of muddy rain.
“Ah, for fudge sakes!”
“You need wellies.”
I look up from my soggy feet at the familiar voice. “Do you think Gucci makes them?”
“I’m not at all sure what a Gucci is,” Cameron answers with a totally cute-looking smile.
“Now that I believe.” As I belatedly step from the puddle, I cast my eyes over him in an over-the-top and thoroughly fashion. His head dips, following my gaze, as though examining his own clothing now. Wellies, sorry, rain boots, a Kilblair Castle branded hoodie, and jeans. And, of course, his ever-present tweed flat cap.
“Something tells me you’re insulting my clothing choices,” he replies.
“If you don’t know what a Gucci—I mean, what Gucci is, how do you know we’re talking about clothes? And while we’re on the subject of appearances, I’m not even sure you have any hair under that thing permanently attached to your head.” I circle my forefinger in the air, ignoring the deliberate falsehood. I know he has a full head of unruly reddish-blond hair. Sex hair, my mind unhelpfully supplies. Hair that looks fresh from a quick roll around a bed. Or a potting shed.