“No, no, no,” said Harper quickly. “Forget that one, leave it—”

But it was too late. Storm had swiveled back from the mantelpiece, one hand outstretched. “Wait a minute!” he said.

“Storm, Storm …” said Harper.

“Let me see that. Michael Endering. That’s him. That’s Sophia’s father, that girl’s father.”

He strode across the carpet, barely flinching from his course as the cactus snapped at him. In a moment, he was peering over Bernard’s shoulder, reading the screen. He was muttering, “Sir Michael Endering. Sure. And that ghost. In an abbey. With a murdered child …”

“It’s a White Lady, Richard,” Harper cried, overly expansive, waving her pipe about in the air. “A Gray Lady, a Black Lady, whatever you want to call it. We have them all over the country. In my Island Notions I link her with the Teutonic goddess Berchta, who was charged with receiving the souls of dead children.” Storm did not look up. She continued, louder, “The Christians, you see, demoted her to a witch, used her as a sort of bedtime story bogeyman. It was a natural progression from there to ghost. It’s all in my book. Perhaps you should hire someone to read it …”

He ignored her completely. “It’s Black Annie,” he said. “I’ll be damned. That’s why she dropped her glass. That’s why she looked so pale that night. I read that story, and right out at her father’s house, there’s a ghost just like Black Annie …”

“Now as for Black Annie, she was no doubt her author’s reformulation of the legend of Black Annis,” Harper ploughed on desperately, “who was a child-devouring witch of the Dane Hills, more closely tied to the Celtic Anu than to Berchta but perhaps also a folk memory of the anchoress Agnes Scott. History, you see, Richard, hist—”

“I’ll bet she’s seen it,” said Storm, addressing her as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “I’ll bet anything. You saw the way she acted, Harper. The story really shook her up. She dropped her glass. She went all pale …”

It was hopeless. Storm studied the screen again, his expression intent, his face almost level with Bernard’s. From Harper’s perspective, their profiles overlapped: a cinema cowboy and a Renaissance angel, both in the monitor’s white glow. She could only gaze upon them with anxiety—sadly—even grimly. They were all that was left to her in these latter days—all she would ever allow herself—of the cherished company of men.

“Belham Abbey,” said Storm. “Belham Grange—that’s what you said her house was called, right?”

Heaving a weary sigh, Harper Albright worked her feet to the floor, worked her way up off the chaise longue.