He jumped up and shouted with glee and astonishment.

“Given that I meant to say ‘simple ideas’ instead of sixes, I’ll take that as your answer, and also as a sign of a slightly cheeky sense of humor.” He laughed, clapping his hands together. “Oh, you beauty! Sixes! Genius! Is it hard for you, I wonder? It’d be a miracle for a human, but who knows how different it is for you? Are you the only one like you? Are there others? Were you ever a human, or are you some intelligence I can’t even conceive of?

“It must be difficult for you,” he said, dropping his voice again and reaching for his notebook. “You’d have done it more if it wasn’t. Even now, you could push in more, and you’re not. Or maybe you’re being polite, in which case, I assure you, I don’t mind. One plus one is two! Two plus two is four! Four plus four is eight! No sixes? Yes, I must assume it’s difficult.”

He opened his notebook and starting scribbling madly, desperately trying to get down the entire incident, in case he’d missed something. He kept doing simple math problems aloud while he wrote, saying words that started with s, anything he could think of to give her another opportunity to jump in, but there was nothing more. He couldn’t have said how long he sat there, but at the end his throat was hoarse, he’d filled his notebook, he’d tried every machine he had on hand, to no result, and he was certain the ghost wasn’t planning on chatting anymore. He stood.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve honored me tonight, and I won’t forget it. I won’t forget you, either. I think you may need my help, and you have my word I’ll give it to you if I’m able.”

He bowed gravely, feeling it was the right thing to do. “Good night, my friend.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alva sat in bed, her writing desk balanced on her lap, the house quiet around her. The servants had long gone to their rooms; she was alone with only the night outside her windows for company. Frost formed delicately on the glass, a cold film between her and the clear black sky.

“Chapter ten, on the dining room,” she murmured, glancing over the notes she’d made. Overview on place of dining room in history, she’d written. Comment on changing role today—more people have them, differences in class.

Nodding and muttering, she began to write. After a few minutes, she stood to pull a book out from a bookshelf by her bed, crawling with it back across the covers. “I know you have something on French dining rooms,” she told the book, quickly flipping through it. “There.”