But who else was there to sit in this room and mark a great man’s passing? She was the last of the Hattons. A long line come down to one girl.

Mr. Brascombe paused, glancing over the rims of his spectacles at her, as if sensing her dsitraction.

“Are you with me thus far, Miss Hatton—?”

“Yes,” she answered untruthfully.

He seemed far from satisfied, regarding her intently before returning to the document.

Francesca sat on the hard, uncomfortable chair provided for the solicitor’s clients—she was certain he’d chosen it to prevent them from overstaying their welcome—and wished she had the courage to stop him altogether. But listening was her duty, even if she didn’t care about provisions for her future, and she had absolutely no idea what she ought to do about the house at River’s End. Close it? Live there? Sell it?

Ask me next month—next year! I’m too tired—

It was haunted, River’s End. Not by ghosts who clanked and howled, but by the lsot souls who were never coming back to it. She could almost feel them, standing at the bottom of the stairs each night as she climbed to her room. Shadows that grieved for flesh and blood, so that they too could home again.

It was a stupid obsession on her part, and she hadn’t told anyone. But the old dog seemed to sense their presence, and ran up the stairs ahead of her, as if afraid to be left behind.

Just that morning the rector had said, worried about her, “This is such a large, lonely house for a woman alone. Won’t you come to us at the Vicarage and stay a few days? It will do you good, and my housekeeper will take pleasure in your company . . .”

But Francesca had not cared to leave and told him as politely as she could that the house was all that was left of home and family. An anchor in grief, where she could still feel loved. She knew the long dark passages so well, and the rooms with their drapes pulled in mourning, the black wreath over the door knocker. It was peaceful, after the tumult of her grandfather’s dying. And the ghosts were, after all, of her blood.

Mrs. Lane came in to cook and to clean. It was enough. There was the old dog Tyler for company, and the library when she was tired of her own thoughts. Her grandfather’s taste had run to war and politics, history and philosophy. Hardly the reading for a woman suffering from insomnia. Although twice Plato had put her soundly to sleep—

She became aware of the silence in the room. Mr. Brancombe had finished and was waiting for her to acknowledge that fact.

“Quite straightforward, is it not?” she said, dragging her attention back to the present.