Wynda shot to her feet. “What? What? Ye-ye spy on us?”
“Well, mainly ye, my dear. Ye’re my link to the living world, after all. I need to ken ye’re safe. Need to ken what ye ken.”
That was—Oh. By St. Tiffani’s toenails, the Gray Lady had been spying on her?
“Wh—?“ Wynda shook her head. “How—What do ye--?” It was impossible to form words. Especially since what she wanted to blurt was What in damnation did ye see?
The ghost waved one hand lazily and settled onto Robena’s stool. Or rather, settled above Robena’s stool, because it was possible to see the damned thing through the—the—ghostly ghostness of the woman’s body. After all these years, one would think this would get less strange.
One would be wrong.
“My dear Wynda,” the Gray Lady said with a slight laugh. “I’ve heard ye speak in yer sleep. Mostly Latin, aye—I think ye dream in Latin on purpose, to foil me. But I’ve heard yer breathless moans. I’ve heard what ye do under the covers. I ken ye—and yer sisters—have been most grateful for the knowledge I’ve shared.”
Well.
This was it.
She was going to be sick.
Wynda was going to vomit all over a ghost.
There’s a first time for everything.
“Och, dinnae look so shocked, lass!” the spectre declared with a merry laugh. “I’ve been stuck in this damned castle for generations beyond counting. Seven, I think.”
“That’s—seven is ‘beyond counting’?” Wynda’s words sounded weak to her own ears.
“My point is, I’ve seen all sorts of things. I’m a woman of the world—well, I was. A woman of yer world, not the next one. As it were. Where was I?”
Pressing a hand to her stomach, trying to keep down her breakfast, Wynda muttered, “This damned castle.”
“Och, aye! I’ve seen plenty of things and heard more. Ye think ye—and yer sisters—are the only young women to have experimented before marriage? There was a lass—och, I cannae recall how long ago. She used to sleep in the chamber beside yers.”
The one which had belonged to Leanna and Fen. Despite her misgivings, Wynda found herself intrigued by the Gray Lady’s tale.“And…she experimented?”
“With the bedposts.”
Wynda blinked, trying to picture it. “The…bedposts?”
The spectre wasn’t smirking. She was clearly not smirking—where “clearly” meant both obviously and transparently. In fact, she was so clearly not smirking, the smirk was the loudest thing in the room.
And Wynda knew this was going to be terrible.
“She straddled the bedposts, Wynda, dear. She used one as a dildo. It was a well-polished knob.”
Och, curse her curiosity!
Wynda squeezed her eyes closed, although that couldn’t shut out the Gray Lady’s words.
“It was her vagina which polished them,” the ghost said in far too helpful a tone. “She vagined them.”
“That’s no’ a word,” Wynda managed in a strangled tone.
“Really? I’m certain it was. Is it a word in Latin? Ancient Greek?”
“It is no’ a word.”
“Well…ye’re the author, dear. I’m just the muse.”