The Lost Soul

by Ceci Giltenan

  The Lost Soul

  The Pocket Watch Chronicles

  By

  Ceci Giltenan

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Any actual locations mentioned in this book are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Copyright 2019 by Ceci Giltenan

  www.duncurra.com

  ISBN: 978-1-949407-07-5

  Produced in the USA

  Dedications

  To the dear friends on whom I can always count.

  Time, distance and disagreements may cause the occasional bump in the road, but I know you are always there for me, just as I am always here for you.

  And, to my dearest Eamon.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a thank you to Suzan Tisdale for inviting me to write this. I shook me from my writer’s block!

  I also owe many thanks to both editors who worked on this book,

  Kathryn Lynn Davis and Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

  Table of Contents

  Dedications

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.

  - Carl Bard

  Chapter 1

  Absolutely nothing in Margaret Grant’s life was going well. Nothing. Although she’d been betrothed to Laird Logan Carr for a number of years, she didn’t want to marry him. She had never wanted to marry him.

  Of course, everyone around her told her it was a good match. Her father had said over and over that an alliance with the Carrs would be invaluable to Clan Grant. But what did that matter to her?

  She was sick to death of hearing about what a good man and strong leader he was. The way people talked it sounded as if Laird Carr might rival good Saint Joseph himself. But that’s all it was—talk meant to lure her into accepting the situation.

  Well she wouldn’t do it. No one, most especially her father, gave a fig about what she wanted. Her happiness meant nothing to anyone.

  Aye, her father bought the finest fabrics and hired the most skilled seamstresses to make anything she desired. He had given her Robin, her strong beautiful gelding. But this was simply her due. Fathers were supposed to take care of their daughters. If he really loved her, he wouldn’t force her into this union.

  There was only one person on Earth who cared anything for her at all. Anson. He was one of her father’s guardsmen. He, above anyone, wanted to see her happy. He whispered sweet things to her whenever he was near and had stolen the occasional kiss when no one was looking. He found ways to give her little gifts. Nothing terribly wonderful or valuable—that would have drawn attention. But Margaret knew that if she could have married him, he’d have done whatever it took to make her happy. He’d said so over and over.

  But now she didn’t even have him.

  Her father had sent her to live with the Carrs for a while before the wedding. He’d said it was a kindness. It was an opportunity to meet her betrothed and his family in order to get to know them better.

  In her opinion there was nothing kind about it, and it was only an opportunity to be miserable for even longer.

  She’d decided immediately that if she was destined to be miserable, she’d make everyone at Castle Carr miserable as well. And so far, she was doing a good job of it.

  She couldn’t bring herself to be pleasant to anyone. Why bother? The fact was, the more she held herself away from the Carrs, the better off she was. She had even refused to eat in the great hall. She thought perhaps if she appeared so unhappy that she wasn’t eating, Laird Carr would break the betrothal and send her home. But Lady Carr, Logan’s mother, simply had meals sent up to her. Margaret had overheard that misguided woman tell Logan that if they treated Margaret with kindness and patience, she would come around.

  That was not going to happen and the sooner the Carrs realized it the better.

  Thankfully, after a couple of weeks, Logan had finally accepted the futility of it all. He stopped making any effort to please her. That just proved how little her husband-to-be cared for her.

  He did take her riding occasionally. She liked to ride, so she didn’t discourage this too much. When he’d asked her to go riding with him today she’d shrugged and said, “Why not? There’s nothing better to do at this dreadful place.” But this small concession didn’t mean she was going to simply accept the awful situation. She couldn’t bring herself to show any appreciation. Why should she?

  She’d remained cold and silent until they had ridden quite a distance from the castle.

  But her silence seemed to be having no effect. She wanted to push his patience. If he didn’t break soon and send her home, she would find herself wedded and bedded.

  They had reached a gently sloping heath—one he’d never brought her to before. She wanted to feel the freedom of galloping hard, flying along on Robin’s back, with the wind in her face. This looked like the perfect place to do that, so, with as much disdain as she could manage, she asked, “Are we going to ride like old crones again today?”

  As usual Logan didn’t react. He only shrugged, saying, “We can pick up the pace a little if ye wish.”

  “We can pick up the pace a little,” she mocked him. “Yer docile bag-of-bones may be satisfied plodding along, but Robin needs a run.” So, to further irritate him, she didn’t wait for an answer, but simply kicked her mount into a gallop.

  “Margaret, ye have to be careful—” Logan had shouted after her.

  She was not a little girl who needed to be instructed in how to ride. She yelled over her shoulder, “I am an excellent rider and I don’t need the likes of ye telling me what to do.”

  She heard him riding hard behind her, bellowing for her to stop. She smiled. Hearing the desperation in his voice only fed her need to go faster. She leaned low over Robin’s neck, preparing to urge him on, but before she could, she felt as if someone had yanked her upwards. Then, everything went black.

  ~ * ~

  Margaret awoke to find herself lying on the ground, the sun warm on her face. That was odd. The day had been dull and gray moments ago.

  What had happened? Why was she lying on the ground? Surely Robin hadn’t thrown her. But what other explanation could there be? Then she remembered the sensation of being pulled off her horse. Laird Carr must have done that.

  How dare he? And then to simply drop her on the ground. She raised her head, preparing to release a stream of vitriol at him. She glanced around, but Logan Carr was nowhere to be seen.

  Neither was Ro
bin.

  She called out to both of them, but the only response was the twitter of birds and the gentle murmur of a nearby river. As she took in more of her surroundings, she realized that she was no longer on the heath, rather she seemed to be in a beautiful glen. Trees were in blossom and a gentle breeze blew the heather that surrounded her.

  How could the trees be in blossom? It was late June. The spring blossoms had long since faded and blown away.

  “Where am I?” she asked aloud.

  To her surprise, someone behind her said, “Ye’re in a magical place. A place full of hope and potential. That’s why the trees are always in blossom.”

  Margaret stood quickly and spun around to find an old woman in a voluminous black cloak standing nearby. “Who are ye? How did I get here? And for that matter, how did ye know what I was thinking?”

  “My name is Gertrude. I can’t say exactly how ye got here. And yer thoughts were clear to me because I know what I need to know, when I need to know it.”

  Margaret was stunned. “If ye know what ye need to know, why don’t ye know how I got here?”

  Gertrude chuckled. “I’d have thought that was obvious. Evidently, I don’t need to know how ye got here. Besides, why ye’re here is a much more important question.”

  “Then, why am I here?”

  “I’d say it’s because ye’ve been given a second chance.”

  “A second chance at what?” asked Margaret.

  “At life,” said Gertrude simply.

  “Life?” Margaret gave a derisive huff. “In case ye hadn’t noticed, I’m very much alive.”

  Gertrude smiled, shaking her head. “Actually, dear, ye aren’t. And quite frankly, I’m not sure ye ever really have been.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Of course I’m alive.”

  “Not completely. Look at yerself.”

  For the first time since waking, Margaret glanced down. The shock of what she saw nearly killed her…or it would have had she been alive, but it seemed she wasn’t. She appeared to be made of vapor—most closely resembling her idea of what a ghost would look like.

  “Wh-what happened to me?”

  “Now that I can answer. Ye died.”

  Margaret gasped. “I died? Are ye dead too?”

  “Nay, I’m not dead. I’m not human, so I cannot die.”

  “Not human?” Margaret could scarcely believe what she’d heard. “Then what are ye?”

  “For lack of a better word, I’m an angel.”

  “Ye’re not an angel.” Margaret scoffed. “Ye don’t have wings.”

  Gertrude smiled indulgently. “Angels don’t have to have wings, but suit yerself. What I am doesn’t really matter. The reason ye’re here is much more important.”

  “But wait, how did I die?”

  Gertrude sighed. “Just before ye arrived here, ye were galloping flat out up a slope where ye’d never ridden before. And Laird Carr—a wonderful young man, by the way—was trying desperately to stop ye.”

  Margaret squared her shoulders and tilted her chin up. “I have ridden since I was a child. I didn’t need instructions from him.”

  Gertrude cocked her head. “There is no need to get haughty with me. And, as it turns out, ye’d have been significantly better off if ye’d had the good grace to listen to him. The wee rise ye were charging up dropped sharply into a river on the other side.”

  Margaret pouted. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Clearly,” said Gertrude. “However, Logan did, and he did his best to stop ye.”

  “But I didn’t reach the top of the hill. I’m certain I didn’t. I’d have remembered falling off the other side. What’s more, I felt him pull me off the horse.”

  “That wasn’t Logan ye felt, it was me.”

  “But ye just said that’s how I died.”

  “I said no such thing. However, if I hadn’t intervened that is how ye would have died, along with that fine mount of yers.”

  Margaret gasped. “Robin—”

  “Didn’t die. And neither did yer body. What ye actually felt was me pulling the soul from yer body to make way for another. A soul from hundreds of years in the future, a kind sweet lass named Maggie Mitchell, entered yer body just in time to rein Robin in.”

  “And my soul landed here?”

  “Not immediately. It was an exchange. Yer soul went into her body briefly.”

  “Then why am I here and not in her body?”

  “That’s a very good question. I’ve never known it to happen before. Normally, when she either returned to her own body or decided to stay in yers, yer soul should have moved onward. But, evidently it didn’t.”

  “The fact that I’m a ghost made that rather obvious,” said Margaret, mockingly.

  “Ah, but ye see, ye aren’t a ghost.”

  “Then what am I?” asked Margaret.

  “It would appear ye’re a lost soul.”

  “A what?”

  Gertrude explained, “A soul without a body.”

  “Isn’t that a ghost?”

  “Nay, not exactly.”

  “So, my soul is here without my body. Why did I not simply go to Heaven?”

  Gertrude arched a brow at her. “Do ye believe ye deserve to be in Heaven?”

  “Of course I do,” said Margaret indignantly.

  Gertrude laughed. “My dear child, that was a trick question. No one deserves Heaven. That’s rather the point isn’t it? Heaven is a gift.”

  Margaret sighed. “Then why am I still here on Earth?”

  “Ye’re not exactly on Earth either.”

  “Am I in Purgatory? If I am, I don’t expect I’ll be here long. My father will have hundreds of Masses said for my soul.” And if this was Purgatory, it wasn’t so bad. She could stand to wait a bit.

  “Nay, ye aren’t in Purgatory. This is a magical place, attached to the Earth, but not actually a part of it. And I suspect ye’re here because ye deserved Heaven even less than most people, but evidently someone took pity on ye.”

  For a moment Margaret’s mouth fell open in shock. Finally she was able to form words. “I deserve it less than most people? But why?”

  “Only ye can answer that. Still, it seems, for some reason, ye’ve been given a second chance. I suggest ye use it well.”

  “A second chance? I don’t understand. How can I do anything with no form or substance?”

  Gertrude shrugged. “I can’t tell ye. I don’t know.” She motioned to the glen around her. “This isn’t my place. Another is the guardian here. I trust she’ll make things clear in her own time.”

  “What do I do until then?”

  “At the risk of sounding preachy, I suggest ye examine yer conscience and see if ye can figure out what ye could have done differently.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” said Margaret, defensively.

  “Aye, that’s true. But failing to learn from them is perhaps the worst mistake of all. Don’t waste this opportunity. I’m dead certain ye won’t get another one.”

  With that, Gertrude simply disappeared.

  Margaret huffed loudly. “Examine my conscience?” Her thoughts went to priestly instructions on preparing for confession—think about the Ten Commandments.

  All right. Love God. Have no other gods. Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain. Keep the Sabbath. She did those things. She went to Mass and said her prayers as she should. She never swore or cursed.

  Honor your father and mother. She had no mother, but Margaret respected her father.

  Don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal or lie. She hadn’t done any of those things.

  Don’t covet things that aren’t yours. She had anything she wanted, what was there to covet?

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said aloud in defiance.

  “Have ye not?”

  The voice belonged to a woman. Margaret glanced quickly around, but didn’t see her.

  “I haven’t broken any of the commandments.”

 
Margaret heard what sounded like a heavy sigh and a wave of some horrible, aching emotion washed over her.

  “I—I—I haven’t,” she said. Somehow the dreadful sensation she was experiencing robbed her of her bravado. The voice didn’t respond and the silence only made the discomfort grow.

  “What are ye doing to me?” she asked.

  “I’m not doing anything, lass.”

  “But what is this pain I’m feeling?”

  “Ah, that. It seems ye’re feeling the weight of my disappointment.”

  “Yer what?”

  “My disappointment. It has caused ye to feel guilt, and as odd as ye might find it, that’s a good sign.”

  “I don’t—,” Margaret’s voice broke on a sob. Until then, she hadn’t realized she was crying. “I d-don’t like it.”

  “No one does. But it’s a step. Shall we take another one?” Then just as suddenly as Gertrude had appeared and disappeared, a stunning woman, wearing a glittering white gossamer gown, materialized at her side. She also wore a cape that was draped behind her and appeared to be woven of silver and gold. But her clothing was nothing compared to the woman herself. In fact, she was easily the most beautiful woman Margaret had ever seen. She had pale blonde hair, crystalline blue eyes and skin so fair it practically glowed.

  Margaret sucked in a ragged breath. If taking another step would make her feel worse, she didn’t want to do it. She was poised to say no, but the things Gertrude had told her resounded in her head. Don’t waste this opportunity. So after taking a deep breath to steel herself she said, “Y-yes.”

  The woman smiled and it was as if the sun had grown brighter and warmer. “Good. My name is Nyada and this,” she motioned around her, “is my realm. So let’s take another look at yer conscience then, shall we? Ye were going through the commandments. A very limited approach, but it’s a place to start. What do ye consider to be the worst commandment to break?”

  Margaret thought about this for a moment. “I guess, ‘You shall not murder.’”