Free The Burning Glass by Lillian Stewart Carl

Robert
the Bruce looking for a cure for his leprosy or syphilis or
whatever it was he had?”
    “So it seems. Though the most famous patient
was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, in 1566. I cannot tell you a
thing, can I?” he added, not in the acid tone he might once have
used, but like a teacher indulging a bright pupil.
    She’d loosened up enough that she was able to
curtsey, spreading imaginary crinolines around her bent knees. A
good thing she wasn’t actually wearing a skirt, though. There were
sneaky little drafts in this place, teasing her ankles like
invisible cats. “You’ve done your homework, too.”
    “Of course.” He acknowledged her curtsey with
a regal inclination of his head. “Soon after Mary’s son James
succeeded Elizabeth, becoming king of England as well as king of
Scots, Ferniebank fell into the hands of the Kerrs, who were widely
considered to be ruffians.”
    “And who now own Floors. Miranda’s Duncan
owes a lot more to that branch of the family, the, er,
smoothians.”
    That time Alasdair actually laughed. “At some
point the place was handed off, voluntarily or otherwise, to the
Douglases. One of them updated it in the 1680s or so. Good job he
wasn’t wealthy, or he’d have torn it down and built himself a
mansion.”
    “Plus he probably wanted to hang on to some
of the defensive elements. Peace hadn’t exactly broken out yet in
Scotland.”
    “Who’s to say if it ever will do?” Alasdair’s
outstretched flashlight guided Jean into another stairwell. “The
last Douglas was a wastrel who mortgaged the place to the
Rutherfords. They foreclosed in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, but only
Gerald, Wallace’s grandfather, ever lived here. He was an artist
and poet—a ruin suited his fancies, I reckon.”
    “They’d have fueled mine, too, but in a
different way,” Jean said.
    “After Gerald died in the flu epidemic just
after World War One, the place fell further into disrepair, until
Angus Rutherford, white knight, rode to the rescue. And there you
have the potted history of Ferniebank. Mind your head, that
lintel’s a bit low.”
    It was really low if Jean had to duck. She
maneuvered out of the stairwell and followed Alasdair’s guiding
light through the two upper stories. He paused only once to get his
bearings—his inner compass was directional as well as moral, it
seemed—and spoke again when they’d achieved the cap house, a tiny,
gabled room perched atop the castle like the pilot house atop a
steamboat. Indicating the door leading out to the roofs, he said,
“Fancy a dander round the parapet?”
    “I’ll pass, thanks. When they were handing
out the phobias—phobii?—I missed out on the fear of heights. Still,
the roof of a crumbling old building isn’t a good place for a
moonlight stroll.”
    “Or a sunlight one.” Alasdair led the way
back down the narrow, twisting steps to the top floor, where he
directed her to one of the rooms beneath the eaves. The
nineteenth-century door in its sagging frame was held open by a
piece of twine running between the rusted knob and a hook embedded
in the wall.
    This time when he clicked the switch there
was no burst of harsh, yellow light. “Well, then,” he muttered, and
switched on the flashlight to guide them to a dormer window filled
with twelve panes of dusty antique glass. Then he cast the light
around the empty room. Behind the splintered paneling the stones
were black, almost as sooty as the stone in the empty
fireplace.
    Jean felt as though a drapery settled over
her, cold, heavy, and sad. Trying to evade her unease, she turned
to look out at the dark countryside. Its constellations of lights
were distorted by the old glass, so that they seemed distant in
time as well as in space. If she made her way to one of those
lights, would she find herself in, say, an elegant
eighteenth-century drawing room whose inhabitants were speculating
on Charles Edward Stuart’s claim to the throne . . . A car passed
on the road below,