His grin was sudden and adorable, the moonlight glinting off his straight, white teeth. “I told you I was easy to understand.”

“Lightning in Liefdehuis,” she mused, thinking of twinkling white light and sharp, pure air. “That would be something indeed.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

There was no public library in Hyde Park, but there was an informal lending arrangement run out of St. James’ Chapel on East Market Street, and so eleven o’clock the next morning found Alva already ensconced in the church’s reading room. The space was little more than a small sitting room: a few chairs scattered in front of a large stone fireplace; three glass-fronted bookshelves lining the walls. Only a handful of the three hundred–plus books were available for loan, so Alva sat in one of the chairs with a short pile of books from the church’s permanent collection in front of her.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the library collection of St. James’ leaned more towards sermons than ghosts. The few references she’d been able to locate insisted, quite firmly, that although ghosts—as in the spirits of people who had died—did not exist, demons and possessions did.

“Just what I need,” Alva muttered, closing the third book to make this point. “If it turns out to be a demon, it can have the damned place.”

An angry intake of breath behind her informed her that the local volunteer, a plump woman with a face all hitched up around her nose, had overheard her and wished to make clear she approved of neither swearing nor demons. Or possibly found it a criminal extravagance to allow such a creature to live rent free.

Alva ignored her, reaching for the one book on local history the collection contained. It was a handwritten text, written by a Mrs. D. E. Clarke twenty-five years before in light, graceful script. The pages showed signs of slight water damage, but most of the writing was easily legible.

In recent years, the text began, our little town has drawn significant attention from the richest and greatest members of our fine State. It seems only suitable then, in accordance with our newfound prestige, that we should boast our own written history. Some readers will no doubt be inclined to discount this attempt because of its feminine authorship; to them, I can only say, Have you ever met a man with any good memory for gossip at all? And after all, what is local history but local gossip?

The small settlement that eventually became Hyde Park was probably founded near the beginning of the last century, although even the oldest of our residents cannot stretch their mind back far enough to be sure. There was certainly settlement by 1742, by which time—

“Mrs. Webster?” The voice was low and polite, and when Alva looked up she met a pair of smiling brown eyes.