Introductions. Introductions couldn't go wrong. He cleared his throat.
"I'm Thomas McKinnon," he said.
She didn't reply.
He frowned. Couldn't she hear him? Was he imagining her? Was he fighting not to go down on his knees and profess undying devotion to a woman who couldn't even understand anything he said?
He tried again. "Thomas McKinnon."
No response.
"Can you hear me?"
She lifted one eyebrow. "Aye, I hear you well enough."
His palms were sweaty. He could hardly believe he was talking to someone who might or might not have been real, and just the sound of her voice had made his palms sweaty. Thirty-four years of maturity had been inexplicably stripped away to leave a gawking, sweaty-palmed sixteen-year-old in its place. He hadn't been a geek at sixteen. What had happened to him in the past thirty seconds?
And if sweaty palms weren't trouble enough, his head had begun to pound again, and he found himself suddenly quite desperate for somewhere to sit down.
"Let's try that again," he said absently, looking around for a chair. "I'm Thomas McKinnon." He saw nothing but rock and dirt. Not useful. He looked at the woman, wondering if she could be prevailed upon for a seat.
She had tilted her head to one side. "Shall I fall to my knees and praise the saints for giving you such a lovely name? Or shall I merely clasp my hands to my bosom and thank you kindly for seeing fit to share such a name with my unworthy self?"
Thomas had to appreciate the comeback, even if her words were less than polite. A smart-ass. He never would have suspected it, given how peaceful she looked, but apparently still waters still ran deep. He certainly hadn't expected her to blurt out that she'd been waiting all her life for him, but a polite Nice to meet you would have been sufficient.
His head began to throb with a very annoying rhythm.
"I thought," he managed, forcing himself to keep his hands in his pockets and not clutching his aching head as he so fervently wanted to, "that I should come up and introduce myself."
"Why?"
"Why?" he repeated. "Well, because it's polite. Maybe you'd like to introduce yourself."
"Would I?"
Was that a star swinging through his field of vision? And another? Great, was he going to pass out in front of the most incredible woman he'd seen in his life?
"Could we knock this off?" he asked, wishing she would just cut him some slack so he could leave very soon and go faint in peace. "I think we have some things to work out."
"Do we?"
"Yes," he said shortly, more shortly than he would have under normal circumstances. "Apparently you're not aware of this, but I own this castle."
"Do you?"
This was going nowhere fast. "Yes, I do."
"Is that so?" she said, sounding exceptionally unimpressed.
"Yes, it is so," he said, exasperated. His head was starting to feel like a blacksmith's anvil. Pound, pound, pound. The stars were starting to swim in front of his eyes like dust motes. "I'm the one who paid for it," he managed.
"With what? Your hard-earned gold?"
He closed his eyes. "Yes," he said, wincing. "My hard-earned gold."
He realized she was silent only after he noticed he'd been standing there for several moments silently himself, just trying to breathe like a man who wasn't in agony. He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes. One more try at coherent conversation.
"The castle was sold—" he began.
"By those who didn't have the right," she said flatly.
"They certainly thought so."
"They were wrong. It wasn't theirs to sell."
"And you think it's yours?" he began, then shut his mouth abruptly when he noticed that she was coming toward him. Even he, in his present state, which included a blinding headache, a complete lack of manners, and an apparent lack of common sense, could see that she was shaking with fury.
Fury was bad.
Even in his impaired state, he knew that.
"I paid for this keep," she said in a low, tight voice, "with my blood."
"Ah..."
"My blood, you fool!" She thrust out a trembling arm and pointed back behind him. "There, in that cursed guard tower chamber. My lifeblood was spilt there, mercilessly, and my murderer didn't even accord me the courtesy of lingering so that I might not die alone."
And then her fury changed into something else.
Tears began to stream down her face. Thomas found himself reaching out to her only to find there was nothing to hold on to. Please not tears. Not a headache so bad he was ready to puke and the sight of tears, too. He wasn't good with tears. His sisters had used them on him mercilessly to get what they wanted, and he'd inevitably caved in. Tears were bad.
"Ah ..." he tried again.
"So you see, Thomas McKinnon," she said, "I have paid indeed for this poor pile of stones you think is yours."
There was absolute silence for the space of several of the longest minutes of his life.
He was desperate for something to say, but all he could do was stare at her tear-ravaged, angry face and wish that he'd done something besides make a complete ass of himself. He struggled to find something that might be adequate to express his regret.
"Um," he managed.
She looked at him with contempt. "Well put."
"Ah—"
She leaned her face close to his. "Damn you for wringing the truth of it from me," she snarled.
And then she vanished.
Thomas stood alone in the middle of the empty hall. He wondered if he would ever again take a normal breath. He looked around and saw nothing. No ghosts. No witnesses to his idiocy. The place was empty, empty but echoing
