The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Read Free Page A

deliberately, with thought to how it might complement existing pieces. Emmie was, by self-imposed rule, mindful of her appearance and the impression she made on people. Her hair was always groomed and immaculately highlighted, her nails always filed so that they extended only slightly past her fingertips, and flawlessly painted in demure colours. In her sleepwear, her active-wear, and even her frump-around-the-apartment wear, there was an air of careful composition.
    It was not that she was vain, though. Far from it. Structure, order. They were the code by which Emmie lived her life. They were ingrained into her psyche.
    She knew all too well what happened when one lost sight of structure in one’s life.
    The last item at the bottom of the duffle bag was wrapped in white tissue paper and a bath towel for extra security. Taking it in both hands, she tenderly unwrapped the soft, protective layers to reveal the framed photograph within. The frame, a hand-buffed wood with gilded decorative scrolls, had been a high school graduation present from her adoptive mother. It had been meant to hold a photo of her family, and to sit on her desk in her dorm room at college so that she wouldn’t feel homesick.
    Photos of her family were packed neatly beside her wallet in her purse: her adoptive parents, Grace and Ron Tunstall, and her adopted brother Chase. But they weren’t the ones she put in the frame. She would never tell Grace whom she did put there, because it would hurt the kind, loving woman’s feelings. The photo she chose for the coveted spot smiled out at her from behind the glass. The bright, hazel eyes of her real mother were full of light, and love, and the optimism of youth.
    Emmie positioned the photo on top of the dresser, angled towards the bed where she could see it before she fell asleep each night. As she did every morning and every night, she kissed her forefinger and touched the glass.
    “Here we are, Mom,” she said into the stillness of the room. “Are you proud of me? Your little girl did it. Her first, real job as a full-fledged curator.”

    At seven that evening, Lamb tapped an arthritic knuckle on Emmie’s partially opened door. It creaked inwards an inch, revealing a sleeping Emmie. She was on top of her quilt, with the bedside lamp on and her finger wedged into a paperback novel. Not wishing to disturb her, Lamb scuttled back a step. The faint sound woke her; she opened a sleepy eye and squinted towards the door.
    “Beg pardon, madam— er, Emmie. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said in his raspy voice.
    Emmie grunted and sat up. She scanned the room for her alarm clock, which she’d set up on the dresser beside the photo of her mother.
    “No, please, wake me. I shouldn’t have been sleeping.” She rubbed her eyes with a balled fist. “Oh—is that the time? I didn’t realize how tired I was. I just meant to close my eyes for a bit.”
    “It has been quite a day, I imagine. I came to tell you that supper is ready, but I can always keep some warm for you, if you’d prefer to eat later.”
    “Don’t be silly. It’s not your job to wait on me.”
    He shrugged. “A habit. I’ve waited on Lord Cranbury and his family for most of my adult life. I am no’ accustomed to having no one to look after.”
    “You’re too good. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
    Emmie stretched her arms over her head and yawned delicately. Then, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she slipped her feet into her riding boots, which stood at military attention on the vintage braided rug below.
    “I’ll show you the way to the kitchen.” Lamb turned and tottered away.
    She trailed behind, following him down the narrow stairs to the main part of the house. Instead of turning right to the grand staircase, as they had that morning, he went straight and down another corridor that led around the back of the house. Here, yet another camouflaged servants’ door stood open a crack.
    “Kitchen’s this