"Then," she said slowly, " 'tis left to me to see to this."
"I would say so."
She looked at him. "Can you teach me to read these scribblings?"
He looked powerfully pleased. "Aye, I can. We'll start now."
And with those simple words, her lessons began.
It was slow going at first, but at some point during the third day of trying to make sense of the letters and how they fit together, she realized that she was relearning something she already knew something about. From then on, things went much more quickly, and by the end of the week, she had begun to read something that Jamie had claimed she'd dictated.
But had she in truth? Had she spoken those words and had others write them down?
She decided to test it, because she couldn't bear not to.
She had waited until things were quiet one afternoon, snuck up to Jamie's study, then pulled out a pen and paper. The pen fit easily in her hand now, after all the practice she'd had, but writing the words that would either free her or condemn her was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done.
Iolanthe MacLeod, do make this record...
She pulled the book out of Jamie's desk and held it closed for several moments while she decided if this was really something she needed to do.
The temptation to look was too strong. She opened the book and laid it flat on the desk, next to what she'd just written.
She compared the two.
They were, unsurprisingly, a perfect match.
She closed her eyes and tried to take normal breaths. To her amazement, it wasn't difficult to accept what she'd just proved to herself. Mayhap 'twas that she'd had well over a month to think on the possibility that Thomas was telling the truth. At first, the very notion that she might have lived centuries as a ghost was abhorrent. She'd been unable to fathom such an existence.
But since the afternoon on the shore near Artane when Thomas had told her his truth, she'd found that she'd known things she shouldn't have. She remembered experiences she'd never lived through. She recognized places she'd never seen before.
The Sight?
She didn't think so. Thomas McKinnon was blessed with it in abundance. She, on the other hand, could scarce see her hand before her face, much less anything of a less corporeal nature. Nay, she had no gift for that.
All of which led her to only one conclusion: Thomas had been telling the truth.
She looked down at the book before her. Perhaps 'twas past time she read her own account. She couldn't deny that she had written those first words before her. It could only mean that she'd dictated what was to follow. Jamie would never lie about such a thing.
She put the pen away, folded up the sheaf of paper, and stuck it in the back of the book. Then she made herself comfortable and started to read. There would perhaps be words she wouldn't understand, but Elizabeth was nearby and could aid her. The differing hands might also pose a challenge, but that could be surmounted.
She would read her own tale, then hie herself over to Ian's afterward and find Thomas.
And then she would do what she needed to do.
* * *
I loved Thomas McKinnon as a ghost. I never said as much to him, and for that I have my regrets. But I did love him, and I would have passed the rest of his life happily with him, sharing whatever small things we could have shared.
Iolanthe put down the book. She was sitting in Jamie's study just after breakfast, as had become her habit over the past few days. She leaned her head back against the comfortable leather chair and sighed. The words she'd read were at the beginning of her book and at the end. Apparently she'd considered them important enough to repeat.
What a thorough ghost she'd been.
She flipped the page and blinked in surprise. There in her own hand were another few lines. She wondered, given what she'd learned of her other existence, what it had cost her to write what she had.
Don't be a fool, Iolanthe MacLeod. You dreamed him first. You loved him next. You can love him now.
Well, she supposed that said it all. She flipped to the last page, which was empty, and stared at it. If she were to add anything, what would she add? She took a pencil off Jamie's desk, then absently began to draw. She wasn't much of an artist, but after a time, a scene began to take shape. Jamie had asked her to think on what she would have if she could have anything, who she would share her life with if she could share it with anyone in this century or hers. He suggested she write it down where she might have it to look at later. She supposed drawing it was equally as acceptable.
She drew the sea as it rolled ceaselessly against the shore. A house began to appear on the beach, and as she drew it, she realized she'd dreamed it. It looked nothing like her keep, nothing like Thorpewold, nothing like Mrs. Pruitt's inn. The more she drew, though, the more at peace she felt. Ah, that such a place might be hers in truth.
And that she might have a man to share it with.
That man being, of course, Thomas McKinnon.
She shut the book, then debated whether she should take it with her to show him or leave it behind and show him later. She opened Jamie's desk drawer and put the volume inside it. She would probably need two hands to wrap around Thomas. Best she not have anything to distract her from that embrace.
Assuming, of course, that he was amenable.
She went to her room to fetch her coat, then looked at Duncan's knife sitting on her night table. In her time, she'd
