“A frog face,” I say slowly. “With whiskers and acravat.”
“Yes.”
I stare at the page. Then at the empty space where he is. “That’s not a thing.”
“I’m being interpretive.”
I squint, waiting for any crack. Any tell.
“You’re totally fucking with me,” I say at last.
There’s a pause just long enough to make me doubt myself.
“I…might be,” he finally admits. “But that’s on you for making fun of my rather genius descriptions.”
I press a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. Och, it’s been a day. Between the high from the spell, the shock of his touch, and the heat still thrumming in my chest, the weight of it all finally topples me over.
A giggle slips out, the first of many.
“What am I missing?” he asks softly.
“Nothing,” I wheeze. “I’m just skipping surgeries I trained months for to play Pictionary with a ghost so I can break into a witch’s attic while monsters circle my house.”
“When you say it like that…” E trails off, his masculine laughter filling the room.
Lady pads over to investigate my folly, rises on her hind legs with a softmeow, and taps my cheek once with deliberate judgment.
“Even the cat thinks I’ve lost it,” I mutter, laughing harder. Tears slip free as I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying and failing to pull myself together.
I scoop Lady into my arms, and the restlessness I’ve been carrying since morning finally loosens its grip, replaced by a quiet acceptance.
“Wow,” I exhale. “I really needed that laugh.”
Lady slips from my embrace, her yellow eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder. Her tail sways slowly as she stares at my ghost, utterly focused.
A flare of curiosity and envy squeezes my gut.
“She can see you,” I say.
“Yes, I think so, but she hasn’t decided yet whether I belong in her house or not.”
Lady’s fur ripples in strange patterns as she circles his invisible legs, brushing against the distortion of his presence as if testing its boundaries. She doesn’t hiss or retreat. She leans in, confident and unafraid, acknowledging him in the quiet way cats do.
“I begged Mabel for a cat,” I say softly. “Her full name is Lady Dowager Countess of Grantham. We call her Lady for short.”
“Dame Maggie Smith is a legend,” he says, admiration threading his voice.
“Do ghosts watch TV as a rule, or…” I tease.
He chuckles. “I’ll be honest. For years, that’s all I ever did.”
Shite. I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in this house, unable to go outside—I’ve lived that. My first year in this world, I only had Mabel, Nick, Lady, and the gardens. But I could touch things. I could eat, and draw, and play. I can’t fathom what it feels like to wander these halls with no one to talk to and nothing to do for decades. That kind of loneliness must chip away at you, piece by piece.
I untie my bun and comb my fingers through my hair. “How many more are there?”
“Three on this side, about seven others on the back wall and ceiling.”
I stretch gingerly. “Alright, let’s draw a couple more, but after that, I need to eat.”
