But how many other ghosts had they kept me from seeing?
Highmoor, for all its grand renovations, was an old manor, centuries ancient. My sisters and parents were hardly the first Thaumases to perish within its walls.
“And I only ever saw Hanna,” I told the voice, feeling foolish for speaking aloud. “Hanna, who said she fought to stay with us. To stay withme.”
“And the triplets,”it threw back.“You saw them too.”
That detailhadbeen bothering me, a tiny gnat flittering around in the back of my mind that I tried to swat aside and forget but kept returning with annoying persistence.
The night I’d watched Rosalie and Ligeia traipse through the halls, the night I learned that ghosts were real, that I had some sort of gift—
—curse—
—what had been different? Why had I seen them then and not before?
Had I been holding a candle?
Camille had tried to offer me one. I’d said no. Had she pressed it into my hand anyway? It seemed like she would have.
I can’t imagine that she’d have taken no for an answer.
I just couldn’t remember.
The match snapped to life with a decisive flick of my wrist and I lit Annaleigh’s candle.
Better to be abundantly cautious. I could not take any chances here. Not in this house. Not with this family. Not when my future was so uncertain.
After slipping on my robe, I padded out to the parlor, looking for something to do. From a small side table, Gerard’s stack of books seemed to glare up at me. I wanted to read them, truly I did, but there never seemed to be enough time.
The little clock on the mantel chimed twice and I scooped up the first book, heedless of the title, and began thumbing through the pages.
“ ‘Withania somnifera,’ ”I read aloud, stumbling over the unfamiliar term. “Winter cherry.”
The accompanying illustration showed green sprigs of leaves boasting a series of orange fruit, each covered in a wrinkled husk, like a paper lantern.
There was only a single definition for it. “Deception.”
There was a small skull drawn after the definition, indicating it was a poisonous plant, and I briefly wondered if the winter cherries grew within Gerard’s deadly garden.
A sudden chill lowered over me and I slammed the book shut.
I didn’t want to think about what lay behind that macabregate.
I didn’t want to sit still any longer, reading pages and pages of information I could never hope to retain.
I wanted to be up.
Moving.
Exploring.
“Dancing,”the voice suggested.
Another shrill cry rang out, sounding as if the hateful bird had roosted right outside on the terrace.
I was out in the corridor, as far from the peacocks as I could get, before I even realized I’d made up my mind to leave the chaise.
I wandered aimlessly for a time, strolling down halls I never had cause to visit during the day. I looked for the hidden spiral staircase Gerard had shown me, staring hard at the section of wall I knew it to be behind, until I noticed a frescoed leaf that was a slightly different hue than the rest of its companions, as if it had been touched by countless fingertips. I pressed it, pleased when the door swung open, revealing the steps.
