She sincerely hoped that would change very soon.

"I have," she said to the empty room, "spent too long in this house."

She plopped herself down on the window seat and pushed open the window. It was still bitterly cold, but maybe the chill would distract her from her restlessness. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the waves rolling in against the shore. It was no wonder Thomas loved his house so much. Even she might be tempted to trade in the traffic noise of Manhattan for this kind of peace.

Then she frowned. There was something more weaving through the wind than just the sound of the ocean. It sounded like music.

Bagpipe music.

Victoria pressed her ear against the screen and strained to listen more closely. Yes, there was no doubt about it. That was definitely bagpipe music. Had Thomas been importing some of Iolanthe's cousins in from Scotland to serenade him? Did Iolanthe have cousins? There was a cloud of mystery surrounding Thomas's wife that she certainly hadn't been able to penetrate. Thomas had promised to tell her all the year before, but he'd seemingly thought better of it...

A soft knock sounded, making Victoria jump in spite of herself. Too much imagined bagpiping had obviously started to get to her.

"Come in," she said, sitting up straight and mentally girding on her armor for battle on the off chance it was Thomas, come to chuckle one more time.

But it wasn't Thomas who poked his head inside the door; it was Iolanthe.

"Oh," Victoria said, surprised. "Well. Come in."

Iolanthe came inside the chamber, a little uncomfortably to Victoria's eye.

"I didn't mean to disturb ye," she said hesitantly.

"You didn't," Victoria said honestly. "I could use the distraction from my idle thoughts."

Iolanthe came across the room and perched on the seat. "Victoria," she said slowly, "I know we haven't had much time to get to know one another and mayhap this is an untoward offer... but if ye find yourself in need of aid whilst you're in England, I would be pleased to give it to you."

Victoria blinked. "Aid?" she echoed. "Why would I need it?"

Iolanthe shrugged. "Who's to say? There have been times in my own poor life when I could have used the company of a sister." She smiled. "The offer stands, if it suits ye."

And with that, she stood, bid Victoria good-night, and left the room.

Victoria stared at the closed door. Aid? What kind of aid? Why did she have the feeling it wasn't your run-of-the-mill, there's-the-first-aid-box-for-Band-Aids kind of aid?

She sat there with bagpipe music wafting in the window, and shivered.

She really had to get out of Thomas's house before she lost her mind. If she could have, she would have grabbed her suitcase and bolted from the house right then. But that might have tipped any number of family members off to just how weird she was beginning to think this whole gig in England was, and that she couldn't have.

No, she would get herself ready for bed, get in, pull up the covers, and force herself to sleep.

Then she would get up and run like hell the next day, instead of waiting for Monday, and get herself back to the world she knew and understood, where people looked up to her and didn't dare question her, where she could arrange things exactly the way she liked and watch them be carried off in the same manner. Yes, the theater was the place for her. The script was already written and there was no mystery as to the manner in which the ending was reached.

A particularly poignant bit of music swept through the window and came close to bringing tears to her eyes. Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff than that, and had no trouble slamming the window shut, hauling together the curtains, and stomping over to the bathroom.

Bagpipe music.

It was enough to make her wonder if Thomas's house wasn't haunted. Iolanthe was certainly otherworldly enough to have acquired a few ghostly companions along the way.

With a snort, she shut the bathroom door, dug out her toothbrush, and applied herself to the very pedestrian task of brushing her teeth.

It seemed the most sensible thing to do.

She was sure she had just closed her eyes the moment before she heard Thomas banging on her door, saying something completely unintelligible. Victoria rubbed her eyes and fumbled for the clock. She couldn't make out the numbers, but she had the feeling they weren't in double digits.

Thomas opened the door and tossed a phone at her. "It's for you."

Victoria fumbled for the phone, then took a moment to figure out which end to talk into before she managed to get the other end to her ear. And then she wished she hadn't.

There were shrieks in the background.

"It's Saturday morning," she said grimly. "This better be good."

"It is."

It was Fred, her stage manager. Victoria sighed and dragged a hand through her hair. "What's wrong?"

"You won't believe this," he began.

Victoria could hear the shrieks fading in the background. That, at least, had to be an improvement.

"Believe what?" she asked unwillingly.

"That was Gerard," he finished.

"Why was he screaming?"

"He says the prop room is haunted."

She was fully awake now. "But it's a prop room."

"So I told him."

"Prop rooms aren't haunted."

"I told him that, too."

Victoria counted to ten. When that didn't work, she tried counting laid-back-looking sheep. In reality, all she wanted to do was count the ways she could have made Gerard suffer if she'd just been in a different century where thumbscrews and the rack were considered appropriate basement accoutrements. She needed him cataloging tights and doublets, not indulging in hallucinations. She ungritted her teeth. "Where is the coward now?"

"Nursing his nerves with a double-tall double-mocha latte down the street."

Victoria pursed her lips. Gerard wasn't important; he was indispensable. If he wasn't there to manage the costumes, she was sunk. She sighed. "Will he come back? Does he think," and she could hardly say the words, "that just the room is haunted? Or is it that just the costumes themselves are... um..."

"Possessed?"

"Something like that."

"He was screaming too loudly for me to tell."

"Then go ask him. Tell him I'll pay him extra if he gets on that plane and plies his needle for the summer at Thorpewold Castle. Tell him we're positive it's the room and not the clothes. Tell him England doesn't have any ghosts. Tell him anything to get him on the plane."

"Will do, boss."

"I don't suppose he packed up everything before he saw what he thinks he saw, did he?"

"Nope."

She paused. "What are you doing today?"

"I'm on my way home. Marge has tuna casserole on for lunch."

Victoria squinted at the clock. "It's too early for lunch."

"I need time to recover for rump roast tonight. It'll leave us enough for leftovers tomorrow as my last

meal in the States."

Victoria smiled in spite of herself. "Is she afraid you'll starve this summer?"

"She hasn't heard good things about English cooking."

Victoria had eaten at Marge's supper table more than once and suspected Fred would survive British

fare well enough. "All right," she said with a sigh, "I'll catch a flight home this morning and do the packing

myself." "Boxes and tape await you. The moving boys will be here Monday morning to cart the stuff to the cargo flight."

"And the rest of the gear? Lights? Sound?"

"It arrived in England two days ago. It'll be delivered on Monday to the locations your brother set up."

"All right," she said, surrendering. "I'll see you next week at Thorpewold. Have a good flight. And make

good notes of what you find at the castle. I don't know that I trust my brother's descriptions."

"Will do," Fred said, and hung up.

Victoria flopped back in bed and allowed herself three minutes of enjoyment before she heaved herself

out of bed and made preparations to get back to the city.

She made it to the theater by midafternoon, a miracle in itself. She'd looked in the coffee shop up the street and hadn't seen Gerard there mainlining mocha lattes, so it was a safe bet Fred had straightened him out. She didn't dare hope Gerard had returned to finish the packing. She sighed, then walked into Tempest in a Teapot and greeted the owner, Moonbat Murphy.

Moon's smile was strained.

Victoria paused at the counter. "What's wrong? You haven't been seeing spooks in the basement, too, have you?"

Moon wouldn't meet her eyes. "No, Vic." Then she busied herself scooping tea out of recycled glass containers and putting it into hemp sachets.

Victoria considered. Was Moon upset because Victoria wasn't going to be doing shows upstairs over the summer? Was she worried about the potential fallout for her business? Was she upset over a bad batch of chickweed?

Victoria discounted most of those reasons. The stage upstairs had been rented to some yoga outfit for the summer and Victoria had already paid rent on the prop room through the end of the year, plus she had already reserved the upstairs for her fall season. They'd been doing the same drill for five years now. If Moon had been unhappy with that, surely she would have lit a little incense and gathered her courage for a direct complaint.

Victoria almost paused to ask more pointed questions, then decided it was probably more than she wanted to know at the moment, so she shrugged to herself, then made her way through the shop, back through the kitchen, and down the stairs to the cellar.

Then she came to a halt in front of the prop room door.

Taped there was a note. Victoria took it and unfolded it. Handmade paper, apparently. But somehow, that just didn't improve the message.

Vic, Sorry, but we can't do your theater upstairs anymore.

The guy who's renting the stage this summer offered to buy Tempest in a Teapot and open a yoga studio upstairs forever. Just Say Yes to the right price, right? I knew you'd understand.

Moon P.S. Can you get your stuff out by Monday? Mr. Yoga says your costumes throw off his chi.

Victoria looked at the note. No, she gaped at the note. No wonder the Bat hadn't wanted to look her in the eye. Victoria could hardly believe it. Moon was no doubt planning a very long stay on a tropical island, where she could drink green tea and practice Downward-Facing Dog in peace.

Victoria wanted to wrap her and her newly acquired fistfuls of cash in her damned yoga mat and drop her in the Hudson.

Well, maybe it was for the best. Maybe the show would be such a hit in England, she would be asked to stay and set up shop there. Shakespeare had made it in London; why couldn't she? She'd think about that later, when she'd finished packing.

If she thought about it now, she might be tempted to do someone bodily harm.

She shoved the note into her bag, then took her key and opened up the prop room. She looked around for a minute, then indulged in a few less-than-ladylike comments about costume designers in general and Gerard in particular. There was nothing in the room in front of her besides Hamlet costumes and props, all of which she would have to pack herself, damn it, anyway. Where were the manly men when she needed them?

She rolled up her sleeves and looked on the bright side as she got to work. At least there wasn't really all that much to pack. Most of her theater gear was in storage. It could have been a lot worse. She could have been looking for members of her crew willing to come down on their last weekend of freedom to help her pack. She could just imagine the complaints- The costumes rustled.

Victoria looked up from where she knelt in front of a box, packing shoes. She frowned. Wind? Too much gusty sighing on her part? She stared at the medieval-looking clothing hanging on the rack above her. Well, nothing was moving now. She snorted to herself. Too much talk of ghosts. Either that or sleep deprivation was catching up with her. She turned back to her work.

One metal hanger clanked against another. Victoria looked up sharply. She wondered, a little desperately, where the breeze was coming from.

But there was no breeze.

And she could see now that one of the capes was definitely moving.

All by itself.