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that discretion was the better part of valor, so he put his
hands in his pockets, his imagination on notice, and his attention on
something besides a sword that seemed determined to warn him not to
touch it.
    He continued to peruse Seakirk's treasures unmolested and
unaccompanied by comment until he found himself standing in front of a
desk. He stared up at the familial portrait there. A woman was there,
beautiful, with long, blond hair. A younger version of the woman was
seated before her on a stone bench, only the younger girl's hair was
dark. A man stood next to the woman, dark haired and gray eyed. No
doubt he was her husband. Three young men of various ages either sat on
the bench or lounged on the ground before the bench.
    And in the background was a castle. Part of a castle. Enough of a
castle that Jake knew that it wasn't the castle in which he was
standing.
    Artane…
    Jake closed his eyes. What was it with that place that he found it
in front of him at every turn lately?
    He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and stared up at the
portrait. He could only assume that the family seated in front of that
majestic castle belonged to it. A lord of former times with his wife
and children? Lucky man, then, because the woman was indeed beautiful,
with her hair cascading over her shoulder in a long, straight sheet of
pale yellow. Jake leaned up on his toes for a better look.
    "Aye, she was fair, that Lady Anne," came a voice from directly
behind him.
    Jake fell over onto the desk. Fortunately for him, it wasn't
boasting the usual deskly accoutrements and he only knocked over an
empty bud vase. He righted it carefully, giving himself time to get a
grip on his wildly overactive imagination.
    His retainers are ghosts, didn't you know?
    Worthington's words came back to him, along with half a dozen other
unbelievable rumors he'd heard over the years. He pulled out the desk
chair and sat down. Not because he needed to, of course, but because he
thought he might hang around for a little and see what kind of
conversation he might eavesdrop on.
    "Aye, Anne was fair," another voice conceded, "but I meself
preferred the Lady Gwennelyn. The hair dark as midnight, the eyes the
color of the sea, her skin like alabaster—"
    "As if you'd ever gotten close enough to alabaster to see its
color," another voice interrupted with a snort. "Stephen, you great
horse's arse!"
    "And you've no room to be lusting after the Lady Anne,
Colin of Berkhamshire," the one named Stephen exclaimed. "What with you
wed, and happily too."
    "I'm not lusting after her," Colin of Berkhamshire said in offended
tones. "I was merely pointing out that for a woman, she was tolerable
fair. Not that I spent all my time mooning after her, as you did after
the Lady Gwen. I spent my time improving my swordplay in the
lists, as a real man should."
    "My swordplay was perfectly adequate!" Stephen exclaimed. "And at
least my eyes functioned properly—"
    The ring of steel was so clear that Jake had to turn around just in
case he was about to get his head chopped off. And what he saw would
have knocked him off his feet, if he hadn't already been sitting down,
that is.
    There, in that weapon-stocked gallery, stood three men in chain
mail, looking as if they'd just stepped off a Hollywood set. Two had
drawn their swords and were looking at each other as if they had every
intention of killing one another. A third stood to the side with his
arms folded over his chest, listening to the other two fiercely argue
the merits of the ladies they had apparently chosen to champion.
    "Anne!"
    "Gwen!"
    "Mindless dolt!"
    "Blind, smelly pile of refuse!"
    Jake listened, open-mouthed, as the insults continued, and descended
into points and body-parts heretofore unexamined and insulted.
    And then the swordplay began. Jake, wisely to his mind, got off his
chair and crouched down behind it. He considered himself a man's man,
but these men were ghosts after all. Who knew if the swords were real
or not?