“I’m so glad you made it!” I crow when he gets to the top.

“I am too,” he says sardonically, his forehead shiny with sweat. “Believe you me.”

Jo lingers. Together we scan the horizon for stragglers, but see no one, just a murder of crows trading places in the trees lining the drive, Janet Murrow’s cats licking their paws out on the grass. They must have followed her here, bless them. The shadows of the elms stretch out across the lawn like pointing fingers.

Seven of them. I wonder if that’s a coincidence.

Elsie Wickett and Matthew are the last to make it up the steps. He keeps a gentle hand on the center of her back to steady her. A small smile plays on her lips; he’s managed to distract her, then, with wine and company. I only hope I can do the same for the rest of them.

He nods at Jo as they pass, his eyes smoothly eluding mine. Something in me sinks, but I hide it behind my smile of welcome. That moment’s passed. This one is here.

Jo watches me, says nothing.

We step inside with one last glance at the empty garden, empty drive, Lute empty of all human life save the souls in this house, then I shut the oak door with a thud that echoes in the hall. I turn away to the brighter sound of the guests.

A voice bleeds through the door. “Nina-girl?”

I turn back, hairs prickling.

“Gran?” My hand is slick on the doorknob. I grip tightly and open it.

There’s no one there, not even the cats. I still peek down at the hedges framing the stairway. My heel slips a little on the edge of the doorframe. I catch my breath and turn back inside.

Lute’s tricks, I know, but I leave the door ajar. Just in case.

She could only be a ghost, but my God, how Gran would love to see this house, to haunt it. She’d get such a kick out of it.

I can do this. Hugh’s under the weather, I’ll say, and they’ll know what that means and accept it, gracious. They’re lovely like that, these people of Lute.

I round the corner into our enormous dining room, the vast, ancient table ready to seat thirty-two, set with our very best red-and-white Wedgwood soup bowls.

“I’m sorry,” I start to say, getting this out of the way quickly. “Hugh is—”

Hugh is here.

He’s sitting at the head of the table with his back to me. He doesn’t turn, just the slightest incline of his chin as I fall silent.

I approach, careful.

He’s wearing the same tuxedo as the night we met. He doesn’t look at me, but as I walk past, he reaches out and grabs my hand.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Happy anniversary.”