Relief and unease tangled in her chest. After Harrowgate’s drought, the ordinary presence of wraiths was almost a comfort, or at the very least a familiar discomfort. The house was starved of them, save the ribboned girl. What lived in those walls that barred every other ghost but made that one so terribly strong?
“Miss Barrett?” Mrs. Abernathy’s voice was gentle. “Shall we?”
As they walked, the market unrolled with greens and eggs and wool, bolts of fabric, neat stacks of staves, a peacock bolt of worsted that caught the eye. Isabella noticed that conversations paused as they drew near, resuming once they had passed; she realized she was unlikely to garner any answers here.
After had walked a bit, Mrs. Abernathy paused and glanced at Isabella. There was a flicker of deliberation in her eyes. “I recall you mentioning that you shared the post-chaise from Maidenhead with the Burns sisters, did you not?”
“I did,” Isabella replied.
“They’ll be glad of a visit, I’m certain,” the housekeeper said. “Cheerful company, those two.”
A visit with the sisters would be a perfect opportunity to ask questions. “Do you think I ought?”
“I do. Their cottage is but a short walk from here.” She pointed the way, and after taking her leave of the housekeeper, Isabella made her way down a narrow lane where the noise thinned to the soft slap of boots on stone and the drip from a gutter beating time.
The Burns sisters’ cottage sat at the end of Chapel Lane. Ivy clung to the walls, lace curtains crowded the windows, and china teacups made a regiment along the sills. Isabella rapped twice.
The door creaked open on Pansy, pink-cheeked and flustered, flour on her apron. “Oh! Miss Barrett, you’ve come!”
“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” Isabella said.
“Not at all.” Pansy fussed her in, warning her, “Mind the step. It will kill us all one day!”
Inside lay tidy clutter: bunches of drying thyme and mint, a narrow hearth, books stacked where a table would have been sensible. Viola sat by the fire, feet tucked under her, needles clicking.
“Miss Barrett,” she said, warm and glad. “How lovely to see you. Sit you down, do.”
“Mind your skirts,” Pansy added, fluttering toward the kettle. “The hearth spits.”
On the far wall hung four small watercolours. One was hedgerows under a bruised sky, another the river clotted with reeds; a third a lane in late afternoon with light like honey in the ruts, and, last, the square in summer, bursting with color.
“They’re beautiful,” Isabella said.
Pansy’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh,” she said, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Our Hazel painted those.”
Viola’s needles paused. “Our sister,” she said sadly. “She passed?—”
“A year ago last Michaelmas,” Pansy finished for her.
The room cooled, though the fire held steady. A figure stood at the edge of Isabella’s sight, an older woman, hair in a tidy bun, cheeks round. Hazel, Isabella thought, looking at her sisters with a love so simple it made the air ache. It was longing that kept her. Love, and the habit of staying. Isabella turned her face slightly and let her gaze slip past as if no one was there.
“Tea?” Viola said, recovering, and set out the cups. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Both, please.”
They spoke first of small things. Viola mentioned the baker’s new boy. Pansy mentioned how the river had swelled after last week’s rain, then told the tale of the vicar’s cat learning to open doors with her paw. Viola eased the talk along, smooth as butter on bread.
Pansy tipped her head, peering at Isabella with those pale blue eyes that missed little. “How do you find Harrowgate, Miss Barrett?”
And here it was, the entrée to the topic Isabella most wanted to broach. “Large,” she said, deciding how best to word her inquiries.
“My dear Miss Barrett,” Pansy said, kind but incapable of leaving a thing on the bone. “You did not come all this way for cats and weather. Ask your questions. Best to have them out.”
“Pansy,” Viola cautioned.
“Well, she’s here now. She might as well have what she came for.”
Isabella stared down at her tea. She thought of locked doors, the scrape of metal on stone, a girl in a gown tied with ribbons whose head had turned past the limit of its hinge. “I don’t know precisely what to ask,” she said honestly. “Only…what you know. Of the house. Of the…fire.”
