Breaking into a wealthy estate should never be this easy. No night watchmen posted, no dogs sniffing around … it was as if the grand countess wanted her enclosed garden to get robbed. Butterfly consortiums were all the rage back in London. A symbol of wealth and prestige second only to Orchid collecting. Perhaps such a hobby wasn’t quite so prestigious here in Ireland.
Or it could be that she’s relying upon the ghosts to protect her.
Nick Thornton had heard rumors aplenty from the townspeople of Carnlough of the haunted castle in the hills. Peering through the iron bars where it rose in the distance from a well-kempt courtyard of shrubs, vines, and lattices, he could see how such talk began. The estate was isolated—ghoulish even, especially on such a foggy night. Unfamiliar sounds added to the eerie atmosphere. A constant hum of katydids and the occasional call of some night bird or frog grew faint each time the cool wind rattled the trees with a keening whine.
His gaze settled on the castle’s turret where mist draped the tip like an otherworldly nest hoarding an un-hatched batch of specters. A sane man would be unnerved by the sight. But it called to him, in more ways than one. He had grown up in a fortress of stone similar to this, and was, after all born of a ghost story, as was his twin brother and little sister. Also, he’d long since bid sanity farewell, having seen much ghastlier vistas when he used to dance with opium every night.
