Muse. Which was apparently the opposite of amuse.
“I think…” Wynda forced herself to take a deep breath and open her eyes. “I think I am done for the day.”
“Aye, ye should definitely crawl back in bed. Bring my book. Read—och, re-read the page on The Gladiator and the Unfortunate Squid. That should put ye in the right mood to polish some bedposts. Ye can picture that fine young falconer—“
Wynda shot to her feet. “That is it, we’re done here.”
The Gray Lady smiled. “Ye think ye’re the only young lady to picture a fine man while she imagines his fingers and his tongue on her? Yer sisters were happy to have foreknowledge of what happens in the marriage bed. That is my goal of having ye transcribe my experiences, of course. I want generations of young women to ken what sort of fun they can have with the man—or men, in the case of Three Men, One Spoon—they love.”
Love.
Wynda put out a hand to steady herself on her desk.
“Are ye well, lass? Ye look ill.”
“Ill. Aye,” Wynda mumbled.
Her unwelcome ghostly visitor smiled. “Well, ye ought to ask yer falconer to check in on ye. Now there’s a man who’d make me feel better.” She was becoming fainter as she spoke, thank St. Tiffani. “But I suppose ye’d prefer a tonic. Ask yer sister.”
My sister?
At that moment, the door to the room swung open, and Nicola—lugging a heavy basket—shuffled through. “Can ye two help me with—och, who were ye speaking to?” she asked, looking around in surprise.
Wynda had done her best to pull herself together, but judging by the way Nichola was staring, she hadn’t been successful. She brushed off her sister’s question as she hurried to help lift the basket. “Ye ken I sometimes speak to myself.”
Nicola, the clan’s healer, wasn’t convinced. “And do ye argue with yerself too?” She peered closer. “Ye’re all flushed. Are ye ill?”
Thinking about the Gray Lady eavesdropping on my dreams is reason enough to be ill.
But she lied. “Of course no’.”
“Ye’re lying.”
Big sisters can always tell when one is lying. It was some sort of secret power, granted upon the birth of another lassie. Congratulations on the birth of yer littler sister. Here’s yer notice of eviction from the family crib. Here’s the contract which states ye have to start handing down yer favorite toys and too-small gowns. And here’s yer magical ability to determine when yer younger sister is lying.
Wynda should know. She had a few younger sisters herself.
Instead of debating, she stuck her tongue out at Nicola, who smiled.
“Well, ye must be ill indeed, if that’s the strongest argument ye can muster.”
“I’m no’ ill. I’m just…” Helplessly, Wynda glanced at Robena’s harp. Of course, the Gray Lady had long since disappeared, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still listening. “I had an unpleasant reminder,” she finished in a mumble, reaching for her inks and quills to tidy up her space.
“Och, the ghost lady again?” Nichola was busy unpacking medicinal supplies and she didn’t bother looking up. “I’ll no’ deny ye have an interesting relationship with her—and we all enjoy her book—but if she’s here now, ye’d tell me, aye?”
Another reminder that Wynda was the only one who could actually see the woman. “She’s no’,” she said with a sigh. “But…the Gray Lady had some opinions about me. And her teachings.”
Nichola hummed. “And the falconer, I’m guessing?”
The quills hit the ground.
“What?” squeaked Wynda as she whirled around. “What?”
Her sister was smirking almost as loudly as the Gray Lady had been. Add that to the list of stupid powers older sisters received; the ability to smirk knowingly.
“I mentioned the falconer,” Nichola said too innocently. “What was his name? Finney? Pearson? Ye ken the one I mean, with that gorgeous long hair and those forearms ye wouldn’t mind wrapped around ye as he takes ye from behind—“
“Pherson!” squeaked Wynda. She was trying to calm her pulse, but unfortunately, the mental image her sister had planted in her mind refused to go away. “I mean…”