“You had a brother and a sister and your mother. Surely they—” I broke off, for my words had brought tears to her eyes. And I saw then that the fire in the ghost story she had told must have been nothing—a painted scene—next to the cataclysm that had clearly happened here, and my heart constricted for her. Quietly now, I crossed the room and came to kneel at her side.

“You love your mother, I think, though she is not like you?” Her voice was unsteady as she looked down at me.

“Yes.”

“Then you must help me,” she pleaded, “for I am certain that the reason Perdita died has to do with my own mother and”—she searched for words—“her confusion.”

I shuddered, vividly recalling Widow Grange gripping the hand of the old doctor as she told her tale in this very room. I looked up. A shaft of evening sun slanted upon the eaves. This room, and not. My gaze descended to Miss Grange, and she leaned back in her chair as if satisfied. “You do see it now, then.”

“No, that is just it.” I shook my head sadly. “I do not.”

“Until it is finished, this story is bottomless.”

“You are too cryptic, Miss Grange. It seems the world is but an echo to you and ourselves but repetitions.”

“Aye,” she said. “So it seems to me.”

“But I shall not repeat.” I raised up on my knees. “I shall not.”

“Aye?” She gave a long, slow sigh. “Good. Then it is settled.”

I stared up at her. It did not matter what I said anymore; my words only sank into the deep pool of her longing.

She hurried forward. “Everything you will need is right here.” And she made a grand arc in the air around her.

“In this house?”

“Of course.” She fixed me. “It is all right here. All these years I have listened for what happened—to the voices of all those gone, who are here—yet I cannot but circle that grave, round and round. I cannot cross the gap to finish—” She touched my shoulder. “But you, Maisie, you can.”

“I?” I wished the width of the attic still remained between us. “Forgive me, Miss Grange, but why would I?”

She smiled oddly, then looked at me, suddenly nervous.

“Because Grange House will be yours, Maisie Thomas.”

“Mine?”

“Your own.” And she leaned forward then and took from a drawer in her table a second red leather copybook, this one secured with a slim blue ribbon; carefully untying the book, she opened it, fingering the pages till she arrived at one. For a full silent minute, she regarded that page. At last, she looked at me, held out the book, and pointed to a spot. “Read here.”

I looked down at the page and read the words: “Ludlow Thomas is come again, and we are all in a strange flurry.”