He reined in his horse in front of the house and slid out of the saddle. Alva’s carriage sat a few feet away under a tree, barely visible in the deeper shadows. There would be a coachman, he remembered. He’d probably accompanied her inside. At least she wouldn’t be alone—

The wave of relief evaporated when he saw the coachman slumped unconscious next to one of the wheels, his face pale in the moonlight, his breathing shallow.

“Damn it,” Sam whispered, checking the man’s racing pulse. Quickly positioning him so he wouldn’t suffocate while unconscious, Sam took off at a run towards the house. The door stood ajar, revealing nothing but darkness and shadows. He paused to light the lantern he’d brought.

“Alva!” he shouted, his heart in his throat. “Alva!”

Only silence met him, soft, dense silence that seemed to suck his own voice into it, muffling his shouts.

Where would she have gone if she was looking for a confrontation with the ghost? She would have gone where she thought Rose would have spent most of her time during the decade she’d lived here, Sam decided, his thoughts racing. Where did little girls spend their time? Maggie had spent hers outside and in their parents’ lab, but he didn’t think this was standard for upper-class families. When Alva had described her own childhood, most of her time seemed to have been spent with her governess, in a world totally segregated from her parents.

He looked to the right, where the stairs were. The moonlight barely permeated into the house; he could only barely make out the first step. She would have gone upstairs, to find Rose’s room. Up those dark, dangerous stairs, into the unknown … oh, when he found her they were going to have words.

He hurried up the stairs, dodging the weak spots and holes that appeared in his dim circle of lamplight. He saw where she’d caught her foot and fallen, cursing savagely as he leapt over it. He was so absorbed in avoiding bad spots that he almost missed the pale hand when the light caught it.

“Alva,” he said, falling to his knees beside her. She lay twisted on the large landing, as if she’d fallen heavily, her left foot turned awkwardly out in a way that promised a sprain at the very least.

He fumbled with her wrist, his fingers stiff with fear as he searched for a pulse. When he found one he released his breath in a great gust of relief. It was fast and erratic, but she was alive. They’d been here before, he reminded himself. She’d be okay.

“Alva,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. Her cheeks were ice-cold. “Honey, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I need you to come back. Wherever you are, it isn’t real.”