Walking into the kitchen to make dinner, I tune them out as they move from one topic to another, and I only vaguely overhear snippets.

“You know, Crafty Agatha, I hear she sucks the meat off children’s bones,” the washerwoman says.

“No, she doesn’t,” the knitting lady—Crafty Agatha, I suppose—says. “But I do hear she cooks people in pots. I hear she hides in a big hollow tree with a cauldron hanging from one of the limbs.”

I’m beginning to realize what a gossipy, superstitious lot they are—just as Ebb said. When they’re not talking about the weather, or each other, they’re talking wild theories about witches, the Moon Goddess, and what lies past the pink haze of the Beyond. In any case, they sound like they are going on half wild rumor and half fact, and it’s impossible to tell which is which.

“She hides inside a volcano in Hawaii,” a voice says from the other side of the room. I turn to see that the drowned sailor in the rain slicker is passing through the room, and now he hovers by the couch. “She was left behind by the others because she lost something the rest of them have, some way of getting to their hiding place, so now she’s stuck hiding here on earth. I’ve heard it from several reliable sources.” He gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry, little one. I know it’s probably unpleasant to hear.”

“What do you know about it, Soggy?” Crafty Agatha says.

“Are you talking about the Memory Thief?” I interject nervously, and they all turn to look at me. “The one who was left behind and can’t go where the rest of them go?” The two women on the couch look at each other meaningfully. I’m curious. I wish they could tell me where the Memory Thief hides. Then if I ever figured out how to fight her, I could find her before she found me first. Still, I can’t tell what parts are idle gossip and what parts are real.

“Never you mind, little one,” Crafty Agatha says. “I’m sure all will be well.” They exchange another look that says they really don’t think all will be well.

Subtle, I think.

Just then, another ghost drifts in and whispers to them, looking at me.

“She was?” Crafty Agatha says, looking over at me with one eyebrow arched.

I sigh. Now, I guess, I’m the subject of the gossip.

“What?” I finally ask.

“Some spirits saw you riding home from Saint Ignatius Hospital just after sunset.”

I nod. Annoyed. I don’t like everybody knowing what I’m doing all the time.

“Well, it’s just, it’s a good thing you weren’t there at night,” Crafty Agatha says. “Hate to see you caught out by the Murderer so far from home. That could just about frighten you to death, I imagine.”