“If she hadn’t, we’d have missed Bob’s Mickey Mouse underwear. That was a perk. Okay,” Jake said as Hope poured him his own glass of wine. “What do you know about her? You must know something. You live with her.”

Maybe it was the hour, or the easy company after a shocking strain, but Hope found herself telling them. “Her name’s Eliza Ford. She came here from New York, and died here in September of 1862. It was honeysuckle you smelled. She favors it.”

“That’s it! I couldn’t place it.” Jake grinned at her. “Honeysuckle. This is too cool.”

“How did she die?” Casey asked.

“A fever. She was young, and from a wealthy family. She came here to meet or find someone named Billy. She’s still waiting for him.”

“That’s so sad, and romantic. How do you know about this Billy?”

“She told us,” Hope said simply, and finished making the tea. “She’s loyal, funny, and yes, romantic—and completely benign. She also happens to be one of my ancestors.”

“You’re kidding!” Casey gaped. “Seriously?”

“Cooler and cooler.”

“That’s about all I can tell you. I need to get this tea to Mrs. Redman.”

“Here, let me carry that for you.” Jake took the tray she’d filled. “Eliza should’ve come to our room. We wouldn’t have screamed the house down.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Redman would be as entertained.” And, Hope thought, as they walked upstairs, she didn’t think Lizzy had meant to be entertaining.

It was nearly three thirty before Hope had the inn quiet again, and her guests settled down. The whiskey in the tea—Austin had added a generous portion himself—did the trick. When Jake and Casey offered to switch rooms, he’d gratefully led a half-asleep Lola into Titania and Oberon.

Back in her own apartment, Hope let out a long, long sigh.

“Lizzy, what were you thinking?” On a jaw-cracking yawn, she shuffled her way back to her bedroom. “Oh, I know what you were thinking. The woman’s rude, demanding, ungrateful, and an all-around pain in the ass. You scared her on purpose, a little occult payback.”

She put her phone back on the charger, set her alarm as a precaution before she slid back into bed. “It worked. We may have gotten her back to bed, with the help of a couple shots of Irish, but no way her husband’s going to talk her out of leaving tomorrow, a day early. I don’t think he wants to—he’s had it. Me, too. So I’ll adjust their bill and say good-bye to them tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

As she reached over to turn off the light, Hope’s hand froze.