The Lady Grace Part 3
The wine was real. The kiss was real. But the ghost? She was unforgettable.
"I brought along a little surprise," Isaac said, settling onto the checkered blanket beside me.
We had just finished laying out our meal, setting small wooden plates in place and unwrapping the food he’d packed.
I arched an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?"
I set down the last plate, glancing at him with genuine curiosity. "Do tell."
Isaac grinned like a man about to unveil a masterpiece. He reached into his backpack and, with a flourish, pulled out a bottle of red wine—along with a corkscrew.
My eyes went wide.
The lettering on the bottle’s glass was unmistakable.
"Isaac," I gasped. "That’s from Whitford Villa."
I stared at him, completely gobsmacked. "A bottle like that must fetch a couple of gold marks."
Isaac leaned back, still smug as ever.
"Actually," he said, tilting the bottle just enough for me to admire it further, "they go for three marks these days."
"Three gold marks?"
My eyes stayed just as wide as before. "Where did you get that kind of money?"
Then, something shifted in my mind.
I narrowed my eyes, studying him. "Wait a moment. You didn’t steal this, did you?"
Isaac’s entire face went slack with offense. "Marissa! For God’s sake, what have I ever done to make you think I’d steal anything—much less a bottle of wine?"
I lifted my hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I’m sorry. You’ve never done anything to make me suspect such a thing, Sir Isaac."
Then, with a quick swipe, I snatched the bottle from his hands.
Up close, the engraved designs were even more intricate than I’d realized. A white-collared duck stood proudly on the glass—the unmistakable mark of Whitford Villa, the most prestigious vineyard on the Isle of Indamar.
I ran a finger over the fine etching, feeling the grooves in the glass.
"So," I mused, turning the bottle in my hands. "If you didn’t steal it… where did you get it?"
Isaac smirked. "An old friend of ours gave it to us as a gift."
I arched an eyebrow. "An old friend, eh?"
Slowly, I traced the edge of the engraving, considering the possibilities.
"That must be Bartleby." I glanced up at Isaac, eyes sharp. "No one on Indamar has access to more wine than a barkeep. Am I right?"
Isaac chuckled. "As always," he said with a grin.
"When I told him you and I were coming up here to see The Lady Grace and have a picnic," he added. "He wouldn’t let me leave without taking some wine along."
"Bartleby never ceases to amaze me," I said, turning the bottle in my hands.
"He likes to act like some crotchety old war veteran—always quick to curse and complain if you give him half a chance. But once you get past the bluster?" I smirked. "Biggest softy in the world."
Isaac laughed. "I’d say you’ve got him pegged."
Then, with a knowing look, he gestured to the bottle. "And he’s been waiting to see us as a couple for at least a year."
I scoffed, but he kept going.
"There’s your proof," he said, nodding toward the precious Whitford Villa vintage. "Ol’ Bartleby won’t part with a single schilling in wages unless you’ve earned two."
"Ain’t that the truth," I muttered.
I’d done more than my fair share of chores around the Jolly Grubb over the years, scrubbing dishes or sweeping floors in exchange for the occasional meal.
And I never—not once—felt like I’d come out ahead.
Bartleby had treated Isaac and me like a pair of his knuckle-dragging soldiers.
And, if I was being honest?
He loved us just as much.
"I’ve never had so much as a sip of wine in my entire life," Isaac admitted, leaning forward to get a better look at the bottle.
I waved a dismissive hand. "Don’t worry. I’ve had enough wine for the both of us."
Then I smirked. "Demon rum, though… that’s a different story."
Isaac chuckled. "I bet."
I slid the ornate bottle closer to him, letting him admire the fine engraving.
"How are we ever going to repay Bartleby for this?" I asked, genuine concern creeping into my voice. "I’ll have to polish every fixture inside the Grubb for weeks."
Isaac shook his head. "No repayment necessary. Bartleby meant it as a gift—just like I said."
He leaned back, stretching his arms behind him. "All he said was that we were to have a good time. That was his only stipulation."
I considered that for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh.
"That’s amazing," I murmured, shifting closer until my head came to rest against Isaac’s shoulder.
"So," I asked softly, tilting my gaze up at him, "are we having a good time?"
Isaac smiled.
"We are now," he said. "That’s for sure."
Beneath the boughs of the cypress tree, I guided Isaac’s lips to mine.
The kiss was long, deep—one of those rare, unhurried moments where nothing else existed.
It was on the verge of becoming wholly inappropriate for a public place when the musicians—hired by some wealthy couple from the Province of Kennox—suddenly struck up a tune.
"Move on, Soldier."
A lively, energetic piece straight out of Salustra Belinosh’s repertoire.
The music broke the spell—forcing both of us to come up for air.
Isaac exhaled, breathing harder than before.
"Perhaps we should eat," he suggested.
I smirked, catching the look in his eyes.
"Yeah, let’s," I agreed. "I’m starving. And just look at all this food!"
***
The meal spread before us wasn’t extravagant by the standards of the gathered nobility, but to us? It was a feast.
Between Bartleby’s generosity and the kindness of Miss Margaret—the priory’s kitchen overseer—we had enough food to last us days, let alone one night.
A bundle of roasted chicken wrapped in cloth.
Two loaves of bread, slightly crumbling at the edges.
A pile of carrots and potatoes, rough but filling.
And for dessert—two large cinnamon muffins, sweet and golden.
The chicken was cold, the bread a little dry, and we drank Bartleby’s wine from wooden cups—one of which had a small crack down the side.
And yet, as I looked out over the sea, taking it all in, I realized something.
This was one of the most enjoyable meals of my life.
Dinner ended with Isaac and me curled up against the cypress tree, warm from food, wine, and the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.
We had eaten every last morsel, drained the final sip of Whitford Villa’s wine, and now, with full stomachs and contented silence, we simply took in the world around us.
As the last streaks of daylight vanished beyond the horizon, servants moved through the crowd, lighting torches among their patrons’ tables and along the rocky coastline. Golden firelight flickered against silk gowns and polished boots, casting long, restless shadows over the shore.
The music didn’t stop.
Vocalists lifted their voices in the songs of Salustra and the Isle, their melodies woven through the air, met by the sweet hum of lutes, flutes, and fiddles.
Acrobats tumbled, spinning through the air in dizzying displays of skill.
Magicians conjured illusions and sleight of hand, earning gasps and laughter from the crowd.
All except me.
I saw right through them.
But still… there was magic here.
Not the kind these parlor trick performers peddled, but something older, deeper.
And it was strong enough—enticing enough—to make every single person here forget why they had come in the first place.
The night deepened, and at some point, my attention drifted from the entertainers to a black crow that had landed on one of the cypress tree’s limbs.
A large crow.
Larger than most.
The way the nearby torchlight caught in its beady black eyes only added to its almost mystical presence.
I had seen this bird before.
Many times.
It had followed me all over the Isle of Indamar.
Sometimes, it appeared just before one of my ghost hunts—as if it knew what was coming.
Other times, it arrived just afterward—as if congratulating me.
And it didn’t matter whether it was day or night.
Even though crows weren’t nocturnal, this one defied the rules. It was always watching.
And now, here it was again.
Perched above me, waiting.
A chill traced my spine.
Was it just a bird? Or was it something else?
A ghost? An omen?
Or something far older?
***
A sudden gasp rang out—a sharp, startled sound from a woman in the crowd.
The musicians had paused for a break. The servants were uncorking more bottles of wine for their lords and ladies.
There had been no other noise.
So everyone heard it.
And all at once, heads turned toward the sea.
Because there—rising from the mist, dark and undeniable—was The Lady Grace.
West of our position, The Lady Grace materialized—cutting through the gathered mist, gliding toward us.
A cold wind followed in her wake, sweeping down from the north.
Not just any wind.
The chill of undeath.
It ghosted across my skin, filled my lungs—and I knew everyone else felt it too.
But strangely, it didn’t bring fear.
It wasn’t some harbinger of doom, some cruel whisper from the beyond.
It was a herald.
A sign that something ancient, revered, and untouchable had arrived.
Her sails hung in tatters, shreds of fabric still clinging to the three towering masts.
And yet, there was no shame in her ruin.
If anything, there was dignity in her wounds.
A vessel from the glorious past of Malakanth, rising again.
And no one on this coastline would have dared say otherwise.
At her bow, a familiar figure watched over the sea.
Sorcha.
Her carved likeness adorned The Lady Grace—the famed philosopher of Listra’s golden age.
The woman whose ideas had helped shape a kingdom.
Her presence led the ship forward, her wooden gaze fixed on the horizon, as if she knew where she was going.
As if she had never stopped sailing.
And then, there was Karis Maillon.
The woman who had perished with The Lady Grace, lost beneath the waves on her voyage home to Listra—to the life, the love, she never reached.
She was the only spirit visible on deck.
Which meant no one could miss her.
She stood near the port side gunwale, facing forward, her ghostly form as still as the night.
Then, without hesitation, she raised her arm, palm to the sky.
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some watched in reverent silence.
Others wept openly.
And then, as if compelled by something beyond themselves, nearly every person mirrored the ghost’s gesture—
Including Isaac.
Including me.
This was the moment.
This was what they had all come to see.
This exact movement, captured for centuries in paint and stone, etched into the kingdom’s history.
The most famous of these depictions stood in the heart of Listra, at the center of the ancient forum.
A stone rendering of Karis, palm to the sky.
The same forum where Sorcha and her contemporaries had once spoken of logic, reason, enlightenment.
The artists who had immortalized this moment had been among the fortunate few to witness The Lady Grace with their own eyes.
Now, Isaac and I were among them.
The ghost ship sailed on, gliding back into the mist—
And then, it was gone.
The crowd stood in stunned silence for only a breath—
Then a mighty cheer erupted, rolling across the shore, echoing back from the cliffs.
Because for one fleeting moment, they had all been part of something timeless.
And none of them would ever forget it.
Above us, the crow leapt from the cypress limb, its wings spreading wide.
Then, with a mighty caw, it soared into the night—following the same path The Lady Grace had taken.
I watched as it flew, its dark form swallowed by the mist.
And I knew.
Deep down, I would see that bird again.
I tipped my head slightly, a quiet acknowledgment.
"Until next time, friend."
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