shalt be What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.”
One of the cows mooed appreciatively. Trsiel arched his brows.
“What?” I said. “You recognize Bogart and Bacall but not the Immortal Bard?”
A shrug and a half-smile. “I’ve always been more of a cinematic angel. Shakespeare told some great stories, but I could never get past the boys in drag playing Juliet. As for the quote, judging by the locale, I’m guessing Macbeth.”
“Bingo. My one and only high school drama starring role: Lady Macbeth. I was a natural.”
Trsiel started to laugh.
I turned on him, finger raised. “Don’t say it.”
Trsiel grinned. “I don’t need to.”
I started forward again, still staring at those majestic spires, black against the blue-gray night. “So this is that Glamis?”
“This is the Glamis Castle that Shakespeare wrote about, though it had nothing to do with the historical Macbeth.”
We walked through a barbed-wire fence and onto a path.
“What’s the Nix doing here?”
“I’m not sure,” Trsiel said. “I saw the images through Amanda Sullivan, and I recognized the castle, but the only connection I can make is that it’s reputed to be the most haunted in Scotland.”
“Oooh, a haunted castle. I’ve always wanted to visit one of those. What’s the story?”
He smiled. “Which one?”
“The best one. The bone-chillingest one.”
“Well, the best one, I’m afraid, doesn’t involve a ghost at all, but a living, breathing monster. As for ghosts—”
“No, tell me the monster one.”
He glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Unless you can teleport us over to the castle, we have another mile to walk. I’ve spent ten hours sitting with Lizzie Borden. Entertain me. Please.”
He smiled. “All right, then. But I warn you, storytelling is definitely not an area of angel expertise. So, how to start…hmmm.”
“Once upon a time?”
He shot me a look. “Even I can do better than that. Let’s see…” He cleared his throat. “No castle would be a proper castle without a secret room or two. Glamis being a castle among castles, has three. There’s the one where Earl Beardie spends eternity playing cards with the Devil. And there’s the one where a Lord Glamis walled up a band of Ogilvies. But the best, and most…bone-chilling-est, is the one that contains the cursed Glamis monster.”
“Oooh, I love a good curse.”
“You want to tell the story?”
I grinned. “Sorry. Please continue.”
“Well, legend has it that the Glamis family is cursed, as all the best families are. That curse was born, quite literally, in the form of a child. The first son born to the eleventh earl, a child so deformed, so hideous that every wet nurse brought to his crib took one look and the milk dried up in her breast.”
“Really?”
“No, but the story’s a bit short, and we still have a half-mile to go. I’m livening it up. Now shush.”
“Sorry.”
“The worst of it, though, was that the family was doomed to care for this child, not only through his lifetime, but for eternity because he was immortal. So they locked him up in a secret room, and it became the duty of each succeeding generation to care for him, and to keep him a secret from all, even those they loved. However, the bonds of matrimony permit no room for secrets, and one enterprising young Lady Glamis grew weary of hearing these rumors and not knowing the truth behind them. One night, while her husband was away, she held a dinner party, and conveyed an ingenious plan to her guests. They would take towels and hang them from each window of the castle. They did. Then they went outside and circled the castle, looking for the window with no towel, for this would be the secret room. And there it was, high up on the third floor. A tiny window…with no towel. So Lady Glamis rushed into the castle, up the stairs, down the hall, and threw open the door of the room nearest the secret one. Then she knocked along the wall, listening for the hollow spot where a hidden door might be. She knocked once, took a step, knocked again, took a step, knocked a third time…and something within knocked back.”
Trsiel stepped onto the winding drive, and kept walking.
“Then what?” I said finally.
“Well, that’s it. According to legend, before she could investigate further, her husband came home, found out what she’d done, and gave her hell. Soon after that, she left him.”
“I don’t blame her. But it’s still a lousy ending.”
“You