“And have you found any evidence that they are?”

“Yes,” he said. “Enough that I’ve made it my priority for over six months, upsetting Henry greatly and angering any number of important people who apparently want my designs.”

“Your family didn’t seem to think it was unusual.”

“No, they wouldn’t. My parents have discovered plenty of things no one believed in before.”

She nodded vaguely, still looking at the box, as if she didn’t want to look at him directly. “May I ask why were you so set on Liefdehuis particularly?”

“Partially because there are so many different versions of the story,” Sam said. “It’s all over the place. Sometimes people think they see a murder, or a suicide, the ghost’s origin story, if you will. Other times it’s a lady’s hand, or a noose unspooling from the ceiling—classic stuff, the kind you’d find in a Dickens story. It’s fantastic. Other ghost stories, they may vary a little, but they’re all basically about the same thing. A woman drowned herself, and now she haunts the road along the lake, her white dress dripping. Maybe she has long black hair trailing down her back, or maybe it’s up in a bun, but everyone agrees it’s a drowned woman. And there’s you.”

Alva blinked. “Me?”

“It’s a factor. I like you. I’d like you even if you weren’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but I’m sure that’s a factor, too.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said. “We’ve already discussed it. Nothing is going to happen with regards to … to that.”

“And I accept your decision, even though I hope you change it,” he said. “But you asked me why I was interested in Liefdehuis, and you’re part of the answer.”

“I have to go,” she said, looking up at him. “You can settle in on your own?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll let you know if anything interesting happens.”

“Yes. Do so.”

She was staring at his mouth, he realized, with a jolt of delight. “I will,” he said, and feeling mischievous, he moved a bit closer.

She swallowed, nodded, and after a delicious half second turned and hurried from the room, like the ghost itself was chasing her.

“That wasn’t very well done of me,” he said. “But it was very fun.”

Alva crumpled the piece of paper in front of her, heavily hatched with crossed-out words and scribbles, and threw it onto the floor, where it joined several of its peers. She drew out a clean sheet, put it in front of her, and stared at it.

And stared at it some more.