“It is Grange House that is full of stories.” Miss Grange had risen and crossed the room and now stood beside me. And so we both stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. For a minute, Papa seemed transfixed at the bottom, gazing back up at us, and then he stretched out his hand.

“Come, Maisie,” he said.

“I fear”—Miss Grange regarded my father—“the stories of Grange House have begun to repeat.”

“You don’t mean that,” Papa said evenly, and beckoned me again, his eyes fixed on me.

“Aye,” she said, “I do.”

This time he could not quell the shudder that overtook him. “Come, Maisie,” he repeated quietly. “Come.”

As I put my foot upon the top stair, Miss Grange said low and almost desperately, “It is urgent I tell you more.”

I nodded to her quickly, not certain I understood what she meant, and descended to where Papa waited, then followed after him down the hallway to the next flight of stairs. He did not speak, and neither did I ask why he behaved so strangely. But as Papa and I returned to the inhabited floors, it seemed the story had reached past the borders of a tale. And for an instant, as I recalled the look of dread in Papa’s eyes, such power repelled, as if I had looked upon the glittering face of the enthralling Christabel.

But it was a fleeting instant, and for the remainder of that afternoon, I gladly gave myself up to the voices of those other Granges living in the phantasm of this House still hovering all about me. Though Miss Grange had called it a story, Widow Grange and her daughters had come forcefully to life through her telling—their characters so real, I vowed I would know more. If that had been a story, what, then, was the truth? But then I recalled Miss Grange’s whispered plea upon the stairs, and an unnamed dread accompanied the thrill. For my newfound resolution appeared too closely held in the hand of her intentions. A hand I wished both to clasp and push away.

That evening there was such a wildness of revolt and desire in me, as if the fictive fire continued, and I wanted to shake loose the very air and break open the House about my head. Gladly I gave myself to the giddy preparations as Grange House bulged and primped and grimaced, its merry guests readying themselves for Mrs. Strong’s annual midsummer party. That night indeed, I wished to laugh and sport and fill my dance card full. Yet as I followed Mama and Papa down the lawn behind the others to meet the boats, I could not help from turning once and looking back up the grass to her window, where a single lamp glowed.