It was all nonsense. The whole thing. Henry warning her (about what? She hadn’t mistaken the look, but what was she being told not to do?); her silly flutters; Professor Samuel Moore as a whole. She was a sensible woman, and because she was a sensible woman, she was going to go back in her house and do something … oh, something terribly sensible. Setting her chin, Alva marched inside.

“I brought food,” Henry said, walking into Sam’s lair at Liefdehuis.

Sam grunted and sat back on his heels. His eyes were tired from hours spent disemboweling and examining the machines that had registered something earlier, until he was positive they hadn’t malfunctioned. He had an ache the size of a mountain between his shoulders, his brain mushy from thoughts of hauntings and Alva Webster, and even after he’d spent yet more hours reassembling the machines, his ghost (because despite the official position on owning a ghost, he had somehow slipped into the habit of thinking of the one his equipment had registered as his) had not made a second appearance.

“She didn’t show up,” he said, sounding a little pathetic even to his own ears. “I tried everything, and not a peep. I waited and waited.”

“My good man, you can’t wait around on a woman. It gives them terrible ideas. And since when is this ghost a she, anyway?”

“She just sort of … feels like one. Not a terribly accurate statement, I admit.”

“The way a ship feels like one?”

Sam winced. “Yes. Maybe. Which goes to show it’s a fairly stupid thing to say. Especially since it’s perfectly possible that there’s more than one. Or none. I’m tired.”

Henry shrugged and set the bags he was carrying onto the cluttered worktable. “Take a break. When was the last time you ate?”

“When was the last time you fed me?”

“Last night.”

“And what time is it now?” He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to move the tiredness aside along with it.

“Seven o’clock. In the evening.”

“Good god.” The tiredness wasn’t shifting, but he attempted a smile anyway. “What are you trying to do, starve me to death?”

“You’ve found me out. I’d hoped to inherit your collection of useless metallic doodads, you see.”

“Obviously,” Sam said, helping Henry clear some of said collection out of the way. “It’s the envy of every thinking person this side of the Mississippi. Ah, stew.”

“And all the rolls I could wheedle out of the landlady.”

“You’re a jewel without price, my friend. A prince amongst men.”

“A cactus without prickles,” Henry added, gesturing widely and vaguely.

“A cat amongst pigeons.”

“A moon made of cheese.”

“Is there cheese, too?” Sam looked hopefully in one of the bags. “No. How many of these rolls do you want? They’re a little puny.”

“Let’s say three and see how things develop.”