“Oh, I should have offered him breakfast,” Alva said. “One ghost possession and I completely lose my manners.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Benedict wouldn’t know a manner if it hit him on the head.”

“Well, if that’s not the most egregious case of the pot calling the kettle black that I’ve heard in my entire life, I don’t know what is.”

“Just so long as we agree the pot is by far the better looking of the two.”

“No woman should have to make such a choice,” Alva said. “Did you really spend the entire night in that chair?”

He nodded, kicking his feet out so they rested on the edge of the bed. “It’s not the worst place I’ve ever slept,” he said, and eyes lingering on the neckline of her nightgown, he grinned. “Of course, I can think of better places.”

“I see you’ve recovered already,” she said.

He stood, his expression suddenly serious once more. “It’s not my recovery I’m concerned about. Are you sure you feel no ill effects?”

“I’m sore,” she admitted. “All over, as if I’ve climbed a mountain. But that’s all. It feels like … like a bad dream I had. Not like something that really happened to me. I’d like to talk about it, but not here. I need to get dressed first.”

The things she needed to say couldn’t be discussed in a bedroom, while one was still soft and warm from sleep. They required the protection of layers, of careful hairstyles and formal rooms.

He nodded. “I need to go home, wash and change, and tell Henry what’s happening. I’ll come back afterwards and we can discuss it over breakfast.”

He stood, stretched again, walked over to the bed, and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Thank god you’re all right,” he said, and walked out.

She sat still, letting the feel of his lips echo against hers, and fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

It had been an eventful forty-eight hours.

Liza came in, ending her reverie and propelling her out of bed. The time for reflection and wallowing was over. She washed and dressed quickly, eventually sitting down at her desk to record her memory of the … haunting? vision? in as much detail as she could.

After fifteen minutes she opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out the stack of letters Sam had sent her before she’d agreed to let him study the house. As she read them, the trickle of dread that had begun to drip through her swelled to a steady stream.