Duet (25 page)

“Don’t worry. You’ll do nicely for what we have in mind.” Luke’s hand stopped shy of patting Billy’s arm. “Have you watched any of the other segments in the series?”

“Only a few,” Billy confessed. His schedule didn’t allow much time to follow network programming.

“We never show close-ups. Instead we always edit out the actors we film along with the folding chairs and all modern touches, and attempt to recreate the past. Our goal is to transport our viewers back in time.” He waved a hand, indicating Billy’s costume. “What we’re looking for from you is a hint of tartan while you play or sweep from the room. Very dramatic in the right lighting. Are you ready?”

Billy nodded. He’d be performing for an audience dressed in period garb and, according to Luke, the film crew handled the rest. It was the shortest program he’d played in recent memory, consisting of four pieces.

“Now,” Luke continued, “we may ask you to stop and start several times, until my camera and sound crew capture the right effect.”

“But sometimes I get wrapped up in the music and sorta lose touch with reality. If that happens I might need a slap to snap me out of it.” Billy wasn’t kidding either.

Luke emitted a nervous chuckle. “I don’t believe we’ll have to take such drastic measures.”

The seamstress basted a final stitch on Billy’s costume and stepped away. When he stared into the mirror, he hardly recognized himself, dressed as a 1700s Highlander. Without pausing to consider his actions, he unpinned the brooch holding the garment together and repinned it slightly higher. Luke raised quizzical brows. Why had he done that? Studying his reflection, Billy realized the kilt now hung more evenly, and the broach appeared… well, in the right spot. “It would have pinched,” he offered, hoping they’d believe him. He really was losing his mind! When this tour was over, he’d demand a vacation. A long vacation.

Luke’s assistant arrived and broke the uncomfortable silence. “If you’ll come with me, sir.” Leaving Luke and the seamstress, Billy trailed behind his guide to the door separating the turret stairs from the musician’s gallery. The assistant recited a few last-minute instructions. “Break a leg,” he said in parting. Billy took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into the past.

Simulated candlelight illuminated the cavernous hall, casting an eerie glow upon the upturned faces below. Billy closed his eyes, put bow to violin, and began the first score. He’d barely gotten past the introduction when a second violin joined in. Reminded briefly of his earlier practice session, he tried to reject the accompanying sounds as natural phenomenon. However, the somber tones weren’t mere acoustics or an echo, for the notes provided harmony to his melody, the instruments’ separate voices coming together and drifting apart. Neil or Luke must have hired accompaniment and failed to mention a second violin, hoping to simulate a concert with the spirit of Aillil Callaghan. Whomever they’d chosen played brilliantly, and soon the two violins intermingled in perfect accord.

Instead of entering his normal trancelike state, Billy remained lucid, watching and waiting for the cue to stop. None came. He progressed seamlessly from the first piece to the second and on to the third. The other violin kept pace, never missing a single note. The fourth song began, and still no interruptions came from Luke or the assistant. When the final measure faded, Billy noticed the group gathered beneath the balcony. Instead of hiring simple extras, Neil had recruited an audience of music critics and journalists. They sat so quietly, giving no response at all. Billy’s heart dropped to his stomach. Had something gone wrong? Had his ears deceived him, for he believed he’d given a near flawless performance.

Billy hovered on the verge of sheer panic when a man near the back of the hall rose, slowly clapping, to be joined by another and another, until roughly two dozen people took to their feet, delivering a thunderous applause. Billy’s breath rushed out of him. He nodded and took a bow before retreating down the stairs to meet a beaming Luke.

“Outstanding!” Luke gushed. “We got it all in one take!”

Billy responded to the compliment like he always did, face probably matching the red in his plaid costume. “That’s very kind of you, Luke, but I can’t take full credit.”

Luke pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side, brows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t have done it without such a skilled second violinist,” Billy clarified. “Who was it?” The music had come from behind and above him, maybe on a higher floor.

If possible, Luke appeared more perplexed than before. “Second violinist? There was no second violinist, Billy. Only you.”

Billy studied Luke’s face, waiting for a “gotcha” grin. It didn’t come. Luke seemed dead serious. And nervous. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

A crew member ran up, dodging lights and cables. “Boss!” he exclaimed, skidding to a stop in front of Luke. “You’ve gotta come listen to this!”

Billy followed uninvited on Luke’s heels to the library, which housed the recording equipment for the shoot. “Play it back,” the crewman shouted, crossing the floor at a near run.

A man sat before the recording console, back turned, and he gave a curt nod before pressing a button. A playback of the concert filled the room. Billy recognized his own playing, and a moment later, the second musician joined in.

The play of emotions over Luke’s features ran the gamut from incredulous disbelief to horror, and on to “kid at Christmas” excitement. He turned to Billy, eyes wild. “Do you know what this means?”

Billy had a sinking suspicion he did, a suspicion Luke confirmed. “Dear heavens, Billy! I think you actually played a duet with Laird Aillil Callaghan!”

It wasn’t possible. The stories about the Lost Laird were rumors, nothing more, yet the microphones clearly recorded a second violin, matching Billy’s own measure for measure without lengthy practice sessions—an unheard-of accomplishment. There had to be another musician, one who somehow read Billy’s soul and anticipated what he’d do next. Unless…

Billy reeled as if hit. All the time he’d spent practicing. If something paranormal truly did exist in the castle, it might have overheard his rehearsal. What was he saying? He didn’t believe in ghosts! But what about the second violin he’d denied hearing during his first practice? Fighting to breathe, Billy left the others to their enthusiastic chattering. No one noticed when he slipped out the door.

The hall stood empty except for the chairs and what appeared to be miles of cables, cords, and equipment. All warm bodies had swarmed into the library. Gingerly picking a way through the mess, Billy returned to the scene of the crime, the stairway to the musician’s gallery. He’d no sooner placed a foot on the bottom step when the sweet strains of a violin called from somewhere up above. Bucking up his courage, he slowly ascended, determined to find the second violinist and once and for all prove his sanity.

Chanting, “I don’t believe in ghosts….” Billy counted the stairs as he climbed. Twelve steps, turn… one, two, three… twelve more and another turn. On the third landing, he stopped, peeking out of an unusually shaped window at the star-laden night sky. No longer fighting the visions, he relaxed and let the image of a narrow arrow slit appear over the opening. The tower, like the hall below, showed signs of renovations. The sconce-like light fixtures had been cleverly adapted to accommodate electricity, using original torch brackets.

Billy had never been in the tower before, yet somehow knew there were twelve more steps to go. Exhaling a harsh “hfffff,” he placed one foot on the next uneven stone stair. Through sheer force of will, he climbed the remaining stairs to resolve the mystery, the music growing louder with each step.

His long climb left him somewhat breathless when he reached the top of the tower and faced a nondescript wooden door. The music came from within the room beyond. Thinking
It’s now or never
, Billy pushed open the door. Silence. Not even the anticipated cry of a squeaky hinge reached his ears.

The room was smaller than most he’d seen in the structure, this being the oldest part of the castle. The original stone keep had been constructed to defend the lands of the Callaghan clan, not for comfort. That bit of information didn’t come from some half-formed dream-memory; he’d gotten quite the history lesson from the Internet.

He found no violinist. Candles lined the mantelpiece, providing the only light. A narrow bed and roughhewn desk made up the room’s sole furnishings, reproductions of earlier pieces, most likely, along with the woolen blankets covering the bed. Overcome by compulsion, he crossed the tiny room in three paces and gently eased himself down onto a modern mattress, unlike the down-filled one he’d envisioned. Without conscious thought, he placed the violin and bow on the desk in an automatic and seemingly practiced move. He stared at the violin where it sat. He’d never stored his precious instruments out of their cases—ever. Oddly enough, this one seemed to belong on the desk.

He truly was losing his mind if he’d been reduced to chasing phantom, non-existent violinists to castle towers in the middle of the night. A laugh escaped, a laugh totally without humor. “Why are you doing this?” he shouted to the stone walls, never expecting an answer. Cold swept through the room, raising chills on his exposed forearms and lower legs, where the kilt didn’t cover. His breath fogged before his face. Terrified, he struggled to his feet, fighting yards of material, and snatched the violin from the desk. The door slammed shut before he reached it. The chill disappeared, replaced by the sensation of a warm, comforting blanket. An immediate sense of rightness settled in, calming Billy’s fright.

“
Play
,”
a disembodied voice murmured into his ear.

So right, so very right.
In a daze, Billy raised the violin. He closed his eyes and drew the bow across the strings. A bittersweet tune emerged from beneath his fingers, speaking of longing and loss, of hopelessness and despair. On the third measure, the second violin joined in. Too tired and confused to question, he simply let it happen, let the music happen, let the duet happen.

For all his years of practicing and performing, he’d never before experienced a feeling of such completeness, as though he’d prepared all his life for this one shining moment. Any previous performances were all rehearsals. Every song came from within, the ones the violin had taught him in Edinburgh, and he played until he couldn’t play any longer, fearing that when the music died, his connection with the phantom would be broken—a loss he couldn’t bear. He must keep playing.

Finally, his tired fingers simply refused to move, and he squawked out a few discordant notes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the music faltering and slowly failing altogether. He returned the instrument to the desk and collapsed onto the bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

I
N
A
far corner of the room, a shadow emerged, taking the shape of a kilted man. The more he played with the handsome violinist, the more power Aillil gained in the daytime world, and the more he believed
Mael Caluim
had truly returned. While his mind told him to be cautious, the rest of him clung tightly to the belief that here lay the one he’d waited for. The elders in the grove agreed.

The flickering candles cast a glow upon his reborn lover’s skin, making the man appear young and innocent and very appealing. Aillil counted himself lucky that none had claimed
Mael Caluim
for their own in this lifetime. He loosed a growl. He could hardly blame Luke for his attraction, for
Mael Caluim
called like a candle to a moth. One dream managed to convince the rival to abandon pursuit. Aillil allowed himself a bit of smugness. The flame-haired violinist was taken, even if the man in question didn’t seem to fully understand yet.

Soft footfalls drifted up from the stairwell. “Billy?” someone called. With great satisfaction, Aillil blended into the shadows when the door creaked open, sensing, not his rival, but a Callaghan kinsman, many times removed.

“
B
ILLY
? Are you in there?”

Neil pushed the door open, squinting behind his glasses while adjusting to the candles’ glow. He’d have to reward the maid who’d been bold enough to light them. Most of the staff he’d spoken to were reluctant to come up here since the Lost Laird’s reawakening.

He perused the room, spying the hiding place he’d read about in a long-dead ancestor’s personal journal. Why had no one discovered the compartment over the mantel before? Yes, the author cleverly worded his descriptions, but the location hadn’t been too difficult to figure out, although the centuries-past Callaghan added an ominous “Hidden until its time” prediction. With a little tugging, a loose stone above the mantel slipped from its place, and Neil peered into the last recorded location of the Lost Laird’s violin.

He stood over the sleeping Billy, who’d never looked so peaceful or content. Neil and Lisa both dearly loved the man and worried about his inability to forge a meaningful relationship. Now, it seemed there’d been a reason for their friend’s prolonged singleness. All along Billy’s destiny awaited him in Scotland.

A breeze fluttered the candle flames and Neil smiled. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said, backing from the room and easing the door closed.

Eighteen