“I can give you serenity.” Lady Maccon’s eyebrow was quirked. Really, ghosts in near poltergeist phase did ramble most awfully.

“I don’t want peace. I want hope. Can you give me that?”

Sympathy, so far as Alexia was concerned, only went so far. “Very well, then, this is getting disturbingly philosophical. Formerly Lefoux, if you’d rather not have my aid in the matter of your existence, or lack thereof, I should probably be on my way. Do try not to wail so loudly. They will hear you in the street above, and then BUR will be called. Frankly, the Bureau really doesn’t need this kind of additional work on full moon.”

The ghost floated back down. For a moment, she recollected herself, switching from French to heavily accented English. “No, wait. I will . . . What will I? Oh, yez, I will show you. Follow me.”

She began bobbing slowly across the room. She had no concern for obstacles or pathways through the devices, instruments, and tools of Madame Lefoux’s collection, merely floating in a straight line. Alexia, who was more substantial in every understanding of the word, made her cumbersome way after. She lost sight of the ghost on more than one occasion, but eventually they ended up in a corner of the massive room, next to a large barrel that rested on its side and was marked with the logo of a well-respected pickled onion manufacturer.

As Formerly Lefoux neared the barrel, she became more and more substantial, until she was almost her old self—the ghost Alexia had first met nearly half a year ago. A tall, gaunt, severe-looking older woman, in clothing years out of date and small spectacles, who bore a marked resemblance to Madame Lefoux. There might even once have been dimples.

The keening wail was much louder here, although it still seemed to be coming from some distance away, with an echo as though emanating from the bottom of a mine.

“I do apologize. I can’t stop that,” said the ghost at Alexia’s wince.

“No, you wouldn’t be able to. Your time has come.”

The ghost nodded, an action that was visible now that she had managed to gather herself into better order. “Genevieve gave me a long afterlife. Few ghosts are so fortunate. They usually have only months. I had years.”

“Years?”

“Years.”

“She is a truly brilliant woman.” Alexia was properly impressed.

“Yet she loves too frequently and too easily. I couldn’t teach her that lesson. So much like her father. She loves you, I think, a little. More, if you had given her the opportunity.”

The discussion had gotten away from Alexia again. This was often the case with ghosts—no more control over conversation than of their own forms. “But I’m married!”

“All the best ones are. And that son of hers.”

Lady Maccon looked down at her own belly. “Everyone should love their child.”

“Even if he is a wild creature born to another woman?”

“Especially then.”

The ghost let out a dry laugh. “I can see why you two are friends.”