three

Jane Eyre.

I’ve seen the name more times than I can count, on bookshelves and marquees and splashed across posters in bright red letters. With all that fanfare, you can’t help but expect the legend. Instead, you get the girl, slouching on our front step. Her feet are bare, her pale hair’s tied back with a ragged yellow ribbon. Something in her gaze looks wild, almost feral, like she’s just wandered in from a long, thorny year in the wilderness.

Bee can’t take her eyes off her. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Jane’s cheeks redden. “I should have written. I should have told you I was coming.”

They keep staring at each other, and I fidget between them, feeling somehow like I’m witnessing a secret that isn’t mine to share. Then all at once, I remember my manners. Or what’s left of them.

“Come in,” I say, motioning Jane toward the parlor, as though we actually entertain our guests there instead of just our ghosts.

The three of us sit in a haphazard circle, me in the winged-back chair, the two of them side by side on the fainting couch.

Nobody says anything. No niceties, no introductions. I was never a very good Victorian, but I suppose I’ll have to do my best imitation today. Shoulders back, chin up, a polite smile plastered on my face.

“I’m Lucy,” I say, and hold out my hand.

Jane doesn’t take it. “Nice to meet you,” she says without inflection. Bee’s still watching her, but Jane won’t look at her now.

Silence settles around us, the invisible guest in the room. Near me, in the corner, an urn of Dracula’s ashes is sitting in its glass case, but it’s the quietest one of the bunch, so even it has nothing to add. For once, I long for small talk, for something to cut through this strange stillness.

I lean forward suddenly, thinking of a question. “Are you living in Los Angeles?”

Jane shakes her head. “San Francisco.”

That’s it, all she says. Not where in the city or for how long or why in the world she’s materialized on our front step after more than a century. For her part, Bee says nothing at all. She just keeps watching Jane.

I sigh. They’re not making this easy. My hands tightening in my lap, I try again.

“So Bee tells me you’re a governess,” I say brightly, but immediately regret it. Of course, she’s not a governess anymore. It’s 1967. Nobody’s a governess these days. That kind of job doesn’t even exist. It’d be like asking her if she’s a chimney sweep or a leech collector.