“The beggar who froze to death,” she said. “And the pregnant servant girl who drowned herself. Rather different from the first story. More about the loss of safety, security, than about power. People who are living on the edges, where one catastrophe might be enough to ruin them.”

“Which wouldn’t be a surprising fear, for two servants dependent on their positions for their livelihood.” He stood up and began pacing. “It’s a theory with lots of holes. People’s fears … we can only guess at them.”

“The man who bought the house from the de Boers. That was another like Denton’s story. An indentured servant who poisoned his master. Another one about the lower classes threatening those above them.” She nodded. “You’re right. It’s a lot of guesswork. But it fits with what we know—and with my experience as well.”

“Not mine, though,” he said, frowning. “I didn’t even see a vision. And … I mean, adding a sum wrong was extremely unsettling, but it’s hardly my worst fear.”

“I wonder what your worst fear would be,” Alva mused, with an expression he couldn’t quite interpret. “I don’t think it was haunting you. Your experience isn’t remotely similar to anyone else’s. I’m wondering if it paid you a social call.”

“But why me? Why am I different?”

She was still watching him with that odd look in her eyes. There was warmth there, but something like envy, too. “You wanted to meet it,” she said. “You never brought fear into the house. I don’t think it even occurred to you. The only things you brought in were curiosity, and … love.” She shook her head. “I thought this was me being ridiculous, but … the house gets less scary when you’re in it.”

He blinked, startled. “It’s true I wanted to meet it—”

“You’re probably the only person who ever has, at least since it died. Maybe you didn’t have enough fear for it to work with. Or maybe … maybe it just wanted to talk to you.”

He stared back at her, disconcerted. She was right; it never occurred to him to be afraid. A month ago he would have cheerfully asked what there was to be afraid of. Now he knew he was simply incredibly lucky. Slowly, he nodded, acknowledging her point. “So if none of these stories are about the ghost itself—if they’re all about the people experiencing the haunting—who’s the ghost?” He pulled his notebook out and started scribbling. It didn’t take him long to record what they knew, and when he was done he pushed it across the table. “A chart of the stories. Notice anything?”

She scanned it, slowly shaking her head. “It seems random. The ghost is any sex, all classes—wait.” She frowned. “Not any class. There’s no one from the upper class here. And no children.”