Sometimes being a twin was the greatest blessing, and sometimes they were too much in each other’s company. Gwenivere always pushed for more action, more determination, more noise in the world. Giselle was more patient, and perhaps more apologetic since it was her relationship with Jonathan that had lost their father his parish and destroyed the family’s finances.
She’d learned the cost of being bold.
Father had never blamed her for it, but then, he hadn’t needed to. Every moment that they existed in this tiny home with not enough coal was another moment when Giselle felt guilty.
To distract her twin, Giselle looked about their empty home. “Where is everyone?”
“You know Papa. He’s ministering in…” She shook her head. “I don’t know which rookery. And Mama’s at the hospital. She won’t be back until late.”
Ten years ago, they’d been sent to Stepney parish in London. Plenty of work here for a man of God, but not much money. Thankfully, Mama could work as a midwife in the lying in hospital. It had been a bitter pill for their father to swallow—that the bulk of their income came from his wife—but he was a holy man, willing to minister wherever he was called, even if it was not well paid. And Mama wanted to do it. Their family was so plagued by the dead, she wanted to work where life began.
Which meant this afternoon, it was just Giselle and her twin at home. Giselle busied herself by setting out the jars that Papa would bless tonight. Gwenivere returned to whatever book she was reading.
Or so Giselle thought. A moment later, her twin was poking at her again.
“Did you argue with Madame Ille?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“Did you get robbed on the way home?”
Giselle stared at her twin. “No.”
“Then what is it?”
“What is what?”
“You’re in a mood.”
“I am not!”
“You are. Something’s happened. I can tell.”
“You cannot!” But of course, Gwenivere could. Indeed, everyone in the family was ridiculously sensitive to each other’s moods and her twin was no exception. Giselle might as well get it out.
“I took a walk with Jonathan today.”
It took a moment for the words to make sense to her twin. Then Gwennie’s eyes widened in shock. “Lord Jonathan? Lord Holier-than-thou?”
“That’s not what he’s like!”
“Are you sure? Didn’t he tell you that there were no such things as ghosts? Didn’t he say he was better educated, smarter, and more rational than the rest of us?”
Giselle crossed her arms over her chest. “He never said ‘smarter.’” He had, however, implied it. As well as everything else.
“I rest my case.”
“He was seventeen. All teenagers think they know best.”
“You didn’t.”
True. But she’d had first-hand experience with the paranormal, so she knew better than to claim otherwise. Most people—even the haunted—took a while to accept the truth.
She looked down at her hands. “He’s being haunted. I think it’s his father.”
Gwenivere sat upright. “What? Really?” Then she smirked. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Stop it!” Giselle snapped. “No one deserves to be tormented like that. And certainly not Jonathan. What happened was his father’s fault.”
