by Lee Nichols
My hand holding Nicholas’s began to tingle and ache. When he dropped it, my fingertips were pale.
“That happens,” Bennett said, watching me. “We can’t touch them for very long. Ghostkeepers can’t.”
“And the more powerful the ghostkeeper,” Martha said, “the more pronounced the effect. I’ve seen hands that never came back. Like frostbite.”
“Nicholas,” Bennett said, and reached out to the boy. The urchin scampered over and wrapped his hands around Bennett’s. When he withdrew his hand from Nicholas’s grasp, he wiggled his fingers in the candlelight. They were barely pale, and he’d held Nicholas’s hand much longer than I had.
“But that means—,” I said.
“Ghostkeeping runs strong in my family,” Bennett told me. “I’ve dispelled ghosts who’ve lingered too long, who’ve mixed with less wholesome things. I’m not unpowerful.”
I looked at my own hand again, an unsettled feeling in my stomach. It meant that I was more powerful than Bennett. How could that be? I knew next to nothing about ghostkeeping.
Martha must’ve noticed my discomfort. “I called the school and explained you were sick,” she told me. “It was awfully nice of that boy, Coby, to drop by with your homework. He’s quite fond of you, Emma.”
Thank you, Martha. Now Bennett’s going to think I’m involved with Coby. “We’re not—I mean, we just met.”
“Sometimes one simply knows,” Martha said.
“Yeah.” I refused to look at Bennett. “Sometimes you just know.”
Utterly uninterested, Bennett said, “Pass the peas? I’m starving.”
We kept the ghost talk on hold until dessert. It helped that Celeste and Nicholas had silently dematerialized after serving. Their abrupt disappearance didn’t seem to faze Martha or Bennett, but I wasn’t sure how I’d get used to it.
Anatole brought in dessert himself, tall fluted glasses filled with a pale frothiness.
“Is this a vanilla milk shake?” I asked. “I love milk shakes!”
Anatole frowned and his ruddy cheeks grew redder.
“Um, yogurt?”
Anatole twirled his mustache fiercely. Oh dear.
“It’s syllabub, dear,” Martha said.
“Syllabub! Of course. I love syllabub.” Which, despite the fact that I’d never heard of it before, turned out to be true. Apparently it consists of cream, lemon juice, sugar, and … brandy. Lots of brandy. When I finished, I licked my spoon clean and giggled.
Maybe because of the poof, I’d never experimented much with drugs or alcohol. I was afraid to lose control of myself. So learning that Bennett, Martha, and I were a secret sect of ghostkeepers, combined with an entire brandy-soaked syllabub, knocked my socks off.
“I’m going to name my first child Syllabub,” I announced. I almost said “Syllabub Stern,” but managed to restrain myself. “Or Rex, if it’s a boy.”
“Oh, dear,” Martha said. “I’d forgotten the brandy.”
I giggled again.
Bennett frowned at his glass. “In the dessert?” he said, in disbelief.
“Well, pardon me, college boy!” I said. “I’m not downing kegs at toga parties every weekend.”
“Right. That’s exactly how I spend my weekends.”
“You’re too grumpy for Greek parties,” I informed him. “Catapultam habeo. Caput tuum saxum immane mittam!”*
“Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare,”** Bennett said.
I sighed at his perfect pronunciation. All this, and Latin, too? Syllabub Stern actually had a nice ring.
“Bennett, have a little sympathy.” Martha sighed. “Take her for a walk.”
He stood and pulled me from my chair.
I clung to him happily, the brandy having stripped away my inhibitions. I looooved him. Maybe I’d tell him on our walk.
* I have a catapult. I will fling an enormous rock at your head.
** I think people in togas are plotting against me.
15
We strolled quietly past the front gates and—thank God—the cool air dissipated my buzz. At least a little. We walked through the narrow streets of the village. A sporty BMW prowled past, and somewhere in the distance two dogs barked at each other. A fresh breeze came from the harbor, and I remembered something that was eating at me. Back in the rose garden, Bennett had talked about missing pieces and I had some of my own.
“So it’s always been real? Even as a kid, when I saw all those people no one else could?”
“They’re not alive, but yeah, they’re real. And there’s nothing wrong with you, Emma. You’re not crazy, you’re not broken—you’re exceptional.”
I only wished my parents agreed. “When did you first start seeing them?”
“I was four—at least the first time I remember. Olivia summoned him. She was only eight, and playing around, but she summoned this huge guy—this tough old sailor. He’d probably been lost at sea, but to me he looked like a pirate. I closed my eyes and willed him to disappear. My parents came running just as I dispelled him. I felt a sort of … shove, from inside, and he vanished.”
I frowned. That’s just what I’d felt among the encroaching shadows in the village, before they dissolved. But I was a summoner, not a dispeller …
“That’s when they knew I had the gift,” he continued. “It runs in families. They explained everything to me that day—as much as a four-year-old could understand.”
“I guess my parents didn’t know. That’s why they sent me to the hospital.”
Instead of responding, Bennett led me silently down a crooked little wooden staircase, then turned left toward the marina. We passed the boats in the harbor and walked to the end of the breakwater and stared at the sea.
The Atlantic felt so different from the Pacific. It was darker, rougher and less forgiving. The sea swallowed the few rocks Bennett tossed into the waves.
“Do you know why they named you Emma?” he asked.
I cocked my head, surprised by the question. “After some relative I never met.”
“You never met her because she died over two hundred years ago. Emma Vaile. She was a legend. The greatest ghostkeeper in the New World.”
“I saw her—in a painting at Thatcher.”
“She lived there.”
“That was her house? Not bad.” And it explained a lot. “But why am I reliving her memories?”
“I don’t know. Some ghostkeepers can recall the memories of the dead by holding things they owned, but you’re definitely a summoner. You proved that this afternoon.” A wave crashed against the breakwater. “But nothing’s ever simple.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.” More softly, I said, “I look just like her.”
“Like the first Emma?” He glanced at me.
“Yeah, it was weird.”
“Well, you’re her great-great-great-granddaughter, or something.” He watched me in the moonlight. “They say she was beautiful.”
I let out a breath. “Maybe not exactly like her.”
Bennett smiled and hurled another rock into the water. We stood there silently, as I mustered the courage to ask the questions I was afraid I didn’t want answered.
Finally, I said, “So I’m descended from one of the earliest ghostkeepers, and all this runs in families.”
Bennett nodded, looking relieved that it was out in the open.
“So, my family is like yours and my parents are … Oh God. Both of them?”
“Just your dad, now. He’s a reader—he senses psychic impressions, reads memories in the belongings of the dead. There’s a lot of information to be mined there—and a lot of wealth. He knows exactly how old something is and whether it’s a fake or not.” A wave rippled down the shore, and Bennett fell silent for a moment. “Your mom wasn’t very strong; she needed what we call a ‘focus’ to magnify her power. Like repeating a mantra or—I don’t know—a lucky charm or incantation. She lost her talent years ago. That happens, when—”
“Wait. What abou
t Max ?”
A sad smile crossed his face. “He’s a badass compeller.”
The chill ocean wind seeped into my bones. “How could they be—it’s like I don’t know them at all.”
“Emma, that’s not true. They’re still your family.”
“No. They’re strangers to me. How could they keep me in the dark all this time? I thought I was losing my mind.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “They threw me in a mental ward. I was seven. They drugged me and—”
Bennett put his arm around me and it wasn’t romantic, but I was comforted.
“Why?” I asked him. “Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. They had your ability wiped, or at least suppressed, until now. They must’ve had a reason. That’s the piece of your past that we’re missing.”
I watched the ceaseless flow of waves, the old wounds fresh in my mind. Was there a reason they’d closed doors on me, so I wouldn’t overhear what they’d taught Max? At least this explained their favoritism toward him—why they’d traveled with him and shared their obsession with death: the antiquities and funeral urns and books on necromancy.
“You call us ghostkeepers,” I said, “but are we really necromancers?”
“No. No one can raise the dead to life.”
“So there are rules?”
“There are limits,” he said. “And there’s always a price.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Most ghosts are like Celeste and Anatole, but some ghosts get twisted. They seek to hurt and destroy. We call them ghasts. They’re dangerous, so we handle them, keep them where they belong. That’s what we do, that’s why we’re called ghostkeepers.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t really listening—I was obsessing over my parents. They lived this secret life, never showing me who they really were. They hadn’t just ignored me, they’d taken steps to exclude me.
“Let’s go back,” I said, needing to move, to burn off some of the emotion. Bennett walked beside me, giving me the silence I needed.
I didn’t speak again until we’d passed through the museum gates, and were at the front door. “Why? Why would they name me after a famous ghostkeeper and not tell me who we were?”
“I’m named for a relative, too,” he said.
“Bennett Stern?”
“Yeah.” Bennett opened the front door. “Emma Vaile was a widow. He was her lover.”
16
After I showered the next morning, I found a new uniform in the wardrobe. I put it on and examined myself in the mirror. Well, it fit. The skirt was a frumpy knee length and the blouse was shapeless. I guess Bennett took my “school slut” joke to heart.
Maybe he’d been jealous.
I left my tie unknotted and headed downstairs. When I stepped into the kitchen, Martha looked up from the table, where she sat with papers spread all around her.
“Morning,” I said. “Um, is Bennett awake? I need help with my tie.”
“Come here, dear. Happy to help.”
“Oh! That’s okay, thanks. Bennett’s got this special knot I’m learning.”
Her eyes twinkled. “The one that requires him doing it for you?”
“No!” I said, glancing at the door to check Bennett hadn’t overheard.
“He’s already back at school. He lost a week, fetching you from California and investigating … his other research. He’ll be busy for a while.”
“A while,” I said despondently, flopping into a seat.
“A while,” she repeated firmly, as though she disapproved of my interest.
She taught me a knot—not an Oriental—and I watched Anatole flit about, preparing my lunch. Cutting the crusts from sandwiches and tossing tangerine segments into a fruit salad.
Then he turned to me and said, Ma chère, what may I bring you this matin?
Except I didn’t hear him with my ears, but inside my head. I goggled at him for a moment, then thought back: You talk!
But of course—and so have I always. He stroked his luxuriant mustache. But you, now you’ve started to listen. Your ability grows with each passing day. What may I bring you?
Is there any oatmeal? I could kill a bowl of oatmeal.
Ze porridge? Oui. But there is no slaughtering involved.
I smiled. Cool.
He frowned. You prefer ze porridge cold?
Uh, no, I said. Hot, please.
Good, good. I worked in ze town home of a viscount and his wife—I will not call her ze viscountess—she refused any dish warmer than tepid. Fah! He took a heavy-bottomed saucepan from the rack. Also, she ate custard two meals a day. Those days tried a man’s soul, to see my talents wasted.
That must’ve been difficult, I said, suppressing a giggle.
Oui, a terrible waste. He bustled about, setting oatmeal and a little bowl of brown sugar on the counter. But then he got an odd look on his face and paused. The liveliness faded from his eyes as he opened the fridge and removed a carton of eggs. Instead of making oatmeal, he cracked eggs into a cast-iron skillet.
“Did you just compel him to make eggs? I asked him to make oatmeal.”
Martha cross-checked her list. “Oh, he can’t hear you.”
“Um. He asked what I wanted. And then he started to make oatmeal, before you compelled him to make eggs.”
Her attention snapped to me. “What?”
“Eggs are good. I don’t need oatmeal.”
“No, Emma. I mean you can communicate with him?”
“You can’t?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I can merely compel him.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to make eggs?” I asked, glancing at the stove where Anatole was unhappily flipping eggs. “What if he wants to make oatmeal or huevos rancheros?”
Martha furrowed her brow. “A compeller compels, Emma. And while I like and respect Anatole … the dead serve the living, not the other way around. We aren’t concerned with their desires.”
Well, maybe we should be. But I kept that little tidbit to myself. Martha had only been kind to me and I didn’t understand the philosophies and ethics of ghostkeeping. Yet.
“It’s a rare gift, communicating with ghosts,” she said. “Odd that Bennett thought you were a summoner.”
“I think because I kind of did. Summon them, I mean. In the garden.”
“Nobody has more than a single power. Perhaps you just … asked them to come near? And they were already present?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Because what did I know about ghostkeeping? And as Anatole handed me my eggs, he definitely understood my Merci.
You’re welcome, chère. Do not worry about Martha. She’s an old friend, and means well.
I only had a chance to finish a few bites of egg before the church bells on the corner struck eight. I grabbed my backpack and gave Martha a kiss good-bye, which seemed to please her. I smiled at Anatole as he handed me my lunch and headed outside.
I ran into Sara in the apple orchard, and she said, “Coby likes you.”
I’m not that girl who pretends she doesn’t know that a guy is into her for more than just friendship, so I didn’t bother denying it. Still, I didn’t know why he liked me. With Sara’s long chestnut hair, raspy voice, and electric blue wool coat, if I were Coby, I’d like her.
“Does he always like the new girl?” I asked.
Maybe that was just his MO. Or maybe he cycled through the girl geeks. There’d been a guy like that at my old school—and a new awkward dweebette each week, dressed in a turtleneck to cover the hickeys.
“Does he seem like that kinda guy?” she asked, a little sharply. “Because he’s not.”
“I just don’t know why he’d like me.”
“He’s the quarterback, Emma. He’s smart, he’s cute, he can like anyone he wants.”
I remembered they’d grown up together, and now she was acting like a protective sister. Maybe I should’ve told her I wasn’t inter
ested in Coby, but that seemed like a conversation I should have with him first. Besides, maybe I was interested. I wasn’t sure of anything at the moment.
Sara suddenly took a step back and eyed my new uniform. “What happened? You used to look so cute. Easy, but cute.”
“Bennett noticed,” I said.
“Bennett Stern?”
“Yeah.”
“Hot,” she crooned. “I’ve seen him at Harry’s parties. What’s your relationship again?”
“Um, he’s my guardian? My parents are traveling overseas.” Which didn’t exactly explain everything, but wasn’t a total lie, either.
“Harry says you like him.” She fluffed her hair as we walked up the school steps, and managed to look even more perfect. “That is so twisted romance novely.”
I pulled on the ends of my own hair, trying to get it to grow. “If Harry gossiped any more, he’d be a girl.” I thought of the ghosts. “Anyway, it’s more of a horror film than a romance novel.”
She paused at the school door. “Because of your clothes? Where’s your phone? I’ll give you the number of my tailor.”
I knew her clothes fit too well to be off the rack. But I wasn’t about to flash her the purple dinosaur. “I forgot to recharge it. Text me later?”
Harry caught us in the front hallway. He looked me up and down and said, “Goody Vaile, you seem to be missing your bonnet.”
The day went downhill from there.
The man in the brown suit greeted me with a bow in Trigonometry.
I rolled my eyes. Go away.
Ah! Now she talks.
Thanks for disappearing on me in the attic, I said. That wasn’t scary or anything.
I’m a ghost, Miss Vaile. Grant me my little moods.
I ignored him as Mr. Sakolsky passed out a pop quiz. If you’re going to stick around, at least help with my quiz. What’s the answer to number two?
No idea. I taught American history in this room, back when Thatcher maintained higher standards. Before they let girls in.
I shot him an evil look—which Coby thought was aimed at him, and appeared wounded.
