“I know, but did you see their faces last night? They were truly fascinated by what you can do, but they weren’t afraid. They want to help.”
“By reenacting murders and embroidering hankies,” Lucien mumbled.
“Be nice,” she insisted. “They’re my friends. They could be yours, too.”
From the parlor, a satisfied Viola cried out loud.
“Once the ghosts are gone,” Lucien said on the fading echoes of Viola’s cry, “you’ll… stay here? In Plummerville and in this house?”
“That is my plan,” Eve said softly.
“A normal life,” he said. “With normal friends and a normal man to court you.”
She smiled gently. “I think I can forget about that normal man. Everyone in town surely knows that I’m living in sin with a fortuneteller.”
Lucien arched his eyebrows. “It’s bad enough to be accused of a crime one has committed, but to be labeled as a sinner when there has been no sin seems a real indignity.”
“There’s been a little sin,” Eve whispered.
Of course there had been. He could still taste the sin on his lips, and it only made him want more.
“Can I speak my mind with you?”
“Of course.”
Lucien swallowed hard. Eve had been right about one thing: he was more comfortable communicating with the dead than with the living. “A woman like you will be wasted here, in this sad little town.”
“Plummerville isn’t a sad little town,” she said defensively. “It can be a lovely place, and some of the people here are friendly and warm and welcoming. I’ve always wanted my own home, a place where I know my neighbors and they know me and one year rolls into the next with a comforting symmetry.”
He didn’t understand that desire, not completely.
“I’ve wandered all my life, first with my father, then with my writing. Something’s missing,” she said, her voice lowered.
Him! Why couldn’t he just say it? He was what was missing from her life. And she was most definitely what was missing from his.
The words he wanted to say to Eve stuck in his throat, and he wished for a touch of Lionel’s glibness, a moment where he was as carefree and easygoing as O’Hara.
O’Hara. Lucien was not finished with that scoundrel. He’d had the nerve to put his hand under Evie’s dress! The man should be shot. Well, pummeled might do, when he saw the man again.
There were a few uncomfortable minutes of silence while Lucien searched his mind for the right words, while Eve waited silently and seemingly serene. In the background they heard the ghostly lovers on the sofa. The rustle of clothing, the soft moans.
From the parlor Alistair groaned loudly, and then all was silent. Did he hear a soft, muffled giggle? An answering laugh, just as low and pale?
Lucien waited a few moments, and then he stood and offered his hand to Eve. She took his hand and he assisted her to her feet. Together they walked to the foyer, arriving just in time to see a laughing Viola and Alistair exit the parlor and take the stairs. Their clothes were askew, they both had mussed hair and swollen lips and brilliant smiles on their faces. Halfway up the stairs, Alistair swept Viola into his arms.
“I love you,” he said, the words clear and true. Not at all muffled by the passage of space and time.
Viola laid her hand on his face. “And I love you.” They disappeared down the hallway, and the door to their bedroom was kicked shut.
Lucien laid his eyes on Eve, who continued to watch the stairs. “He didn’t kill her,” he whispered.
“I hope you’re right.”
*
Enduring the sounds from upstairs had been more difficult tonight than ever before. They seemed so real, so close. And she knew what was coming.
Lucien didn’t seem to hear the moans, the cries, the creak of the busy bed, or be disturbed by them. He’d spent the evening analyzing the gunk his ectoplasm harvester had collected, occasionally muttering a low fascinating or a surprised exclamation.
Eve frowned. She wasn’t even as fascinating as goo.
As the time for the oft-relived murder approached, Lucien put his experiment aside and started collecting lamps from around the room. He placed them all near the parlor entrance, so that they shot their light into the parlor and onto the foyer floor.
Eve shuddered. She hated the sight of Viola’s death. Why did it need to be more well lit for their perusal, especially tonight when Viola looked and sounded so real?
There was a new element to tonight’s scene; Alistair came down first. He was usually absent during this time, but as they watched he walked down the stairs in his dressing gown. Eve held her breath. He looked so solid. Alistair carried a single candle in his hand, and squinted as if his eyes were fighting the dark.
“Hello?” Alistair whispered. He came to the end of the stairway, glanced around, and then looked down. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s working,” Lucien muttered.
Alistair’s head snapped up and he looked into the parlor. “Hello?” he called again. “Who’s there?” He took a step toward the parlor, stepped right through Eve and Lucien, and kept on walking. And then he disappeared.
“Damn,” Lucien muttered. “Where did he go?”
Viola came running down the stairs. “Alistair!” she cried. “What was that noise?” She stopped at the foot of the stairs, peered into the parlor, and then turned away to look toward the dining room.
That’s when she was grabbed from behind.
“No,” Eve said softly. Everything was too real. The fear on Viola’s face, as she was held by the intruder, was all too clear. Eve wanted to reach out and stop what was happening, even though she knew she could not. Her fingers itched, her hands worked into tight fists. Viola jerked as the blue wrapper she wore was split by an invisible knife, as her blood, red and quick, ran down her back and stained the wrapper. She swayed for a moment, then fell to the floor with a thud.
“Yes,” Lucien said. “It’s working.”
Alistair had appeared once more, lying on the parlor floor.
“Viola!” Lucien shouted. “Look this way!”
She seemed not to hear.
“She won’t listen to me,” Lucien said. “She can’t hear me. Call to her, Eve. You two have connected. Call her. Make her look this way so she’ll know the man who stabbed her is not Alistair.”
Alistair lay there near Eve’s feet, his arm outstretched, his blood staining the floor. His mouth moved, but no sound was made. She read his lips as he tried to cry out. Viola.
Eve stepped into the entryway as the wrapper was pulled down and off Viola’s body by the intruder no one could see.
“Look at Alistair, Viola,” Eve called. “He’s not behind you. He’s trying to reach you.”
Viola did not respond. She was too much in her own time, too lost in her own pain. She wouldn’t turn her head to look, to see that it was not the man she loved who killed her, and again she would die with that betrayal in her heart. A betrayal that would keep her from finding peace. A betrayal that cut so deep she could not bear it for another night.
There was only one way to do this. Eve dropped to her knees beside Viola’s image. The wound in the ghost’s back looked painful, and so real. Blood flowed. Eve reached out a trembling hand.
“No!” Lucien cried. “Eve Abernathy, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you dare!”
She ignored him and lowered herself into the image that was Viola. As real as she appeared to be, there was no substance to the dying woman, so Eve found herself lying on the floor, her cheek pressed to the wood, Viola all around. “Come with me, Viola,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
A sharp pain burst through Eve’s chest, as Viola’s spirit joined with hers. She tried to tell Viola what had happened in the past, what was happening now. Time shifted and danced, reality was fleeting. It was now, but it was also then. Eve felt Viola’s fear and confusion. More than that, she drank in everything that
was Viola, for a moment. Secrets, pain, regret, they were all a part of the woman on the floor, the woman who died every night.
It took a great effort, but Eve turned her head—Viola’s head—so she could peer into the parlor. Lucien, standing there so close, didn’t seem at all distinct. His legs were fuzzy, his voice… far away. He wasn’t real; he wasn’t here. Alistair was very much here. Solid and pale. A streak of blood marred his cheek.
Alistair crawled an inch at a time, each of those inches an effort, trying to reach his wife, trying to call out a warning. Blood covered the floor as he struggled to get to Viola; bloodstained fingers reached desperately for his wife. Every move causing her pain, Viola shifted her arm and reached for him, as well. Their fingers were inches from meeting.
Eve felt the cold air against her bare back, and a low voice whispered in her ear, “I love you, my little Violet.”
“Alistair,” she whispered, and then the most terrible pain she had ever known shot through her. Sharp and deep, it eclipsed all else. Blood flowed down her back and her sides, and she felt the life draining from her body as if it had taken form and drifted away.
But the pain, horrible as it was, was so much less tonight than it had been in the past. It wasn’t the man Viola loved who’d stabbed her; it wasn’t Alistair who’d taken her life.
Eve tried to escape, to stand up and leave Viola and this pain behind. She had done what needed to be done; she’d forced Viola to look at her husband, to know that he hadn’t killed her. That was done.
But she couldn’t move, she could not separate herself from Viola. They were one being, two souls so entwined they could not be separated. Eve’s heart thudded too hard, her breath wouldn’t come. She was dying, just as Viola had died every night for thirty years. She could actually feel her life slipping away.
And she was going to die without telling Lucien that she loved him, that she forgave him, that she could forgive him anything. Well, almost anything. Who would feed him when she was gone? The man simply could not take proper care of himself. Not without her.
“Evie!” She heard the voice, as if it reached over a long distance. A strong hand grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the floor. Something… someone tried to hold her back, but the hand on her wrist was stronger than the force that attempted to hold her down.
“Lucien,” she whispered as he pulled her into his lap and against his chest.
He sat on the floor by the door, cradling her in his arms, rocking back and forth and cursing beneath his breath. Eve turned her head to watch the last of the nightmarish scene before them, as a dying Alistair reached his wife, as he placed his body over hers as if he could shield her, even though she was already gone. And then Alistair was gone, too.
The light from all those lamps Lucien had lit earlier filled the entryway, harsh and unforgiving. Shadows, sharp and deep, filled the corners. And Lucien held her so close, so tight, she could barely breathe. That was all right, Eve decided as she melted into his embrace.
The ghosts were gone. For good? Perhaps. The house was quiet. There was just the hammering of her heart and Lucien’s uneven breathing to fill the silence.
“Why in God’s name did you do that?” Lucien rasped.
“Viola wouldn’t listen to either of us,” Eve said, her voice weaker than she’d intended it to be. “I had to make her understand before it was too late.”
“You could have died.”
“I didn’t know that,” she whispered.
“I thought you were… gone.”
Eve lifted her head and looked up into Lucien’s terrified eyes.
The pain in her back was gone. Viola was gone. Eve was firmly in the present, and she didn’t want to waste a single moment. She lifted her hand and caressed Lucien’s cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Lucien continued to sway, ever so gently, rocking and comforting her there on the floor.
“I don’t want a normal man,” she said, her fingers tracing his jaw, studying the stubble there with her fingertips. “I want you.”
“Good, because I’m not going to let any normal man have you.” His heart beat hard; she felt it pounding against her. They’d faced a lot of scary things, in the past, and she’d never seen Lucien lose his composure this way. She’d never seen him so completely lose control. She’d never felt him shake.
“I don’t know why we can’t have everything we want,” he said, his hands trailing through her hair. “We can have a house somewhere. This one, if it’s what you want. Neighbors, societies, proper reputations… whatever you want. And we can travel, too. We can travel to the places I need to go. You can… document what happens and assist me on occasion. If it’s not too dangerous,” he added.
“That sounds nice,” she said softly.
Lucien’s strength was coming back, she felt that strength, in his arms and in the way his body lay against hers. “But I swear to God that if you ever pull a stunt like the one you pulled tonight I’ll… I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” she prodded.
“I’ll die.” He pulled her head against his shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it.”
It was a good place to be, snuggled against Lucien’s chest, listening to his heart pound while he stroked her hair.
“We can have babies, too,” he whispered, “if that’s what you want. You did say you wanted babies.”
“Yes.”
“And if you make apple butter I’ll eat it, every drop, even if it’s the most awful apple butter any woman has ever concocted.”
Eve draped her arms around Lucien’s neck. “What more could a woman ask of a man?”
“Marry me.”
“Will you show up this time?”
“Nothing could keep me away.” He kissed her, sweet and then not sweet, desperately hungry and then demanding.
“Yes,” she said when Lucien took his mouth from hers. “I will most definitely marry you.”
Lucien stood, and when Eve tried to do the same he swept her up. “Your legs will likely still be weak,” he explained as she settled into his arms.
Eve didn’t argue, but draped her arms around his neck and held on tight. “Perhaps you should carry me. I don’t yet feel quite sturdy.”
“You might not feel sturdy for a while,” he said. “Have I told you how foolish it was to… to…”
“Yes,” she said. “You did.”
Viola and Alistair were gone. Nothing of the ghostly lovers lingered in the air, not a spark of light, not a shimmer in a dark corner, not a sigh or a distant trill of laughter. Maybe what had happened tonight would be enough to send them on. They wouldn’t know for sure until tomorrow night. Halloween.
“You were right,” she said as Lucien carried her up the stairs. “Alistair didn’t kill Viola. She knows that now, thanks to you.”
“I don’t want to talk about them. Not now. Not yet.” He carried her into her room and laid her gently on the bed. He didn’t walk away, but sat on the side of the bed and hovered above her. “I’ve never been so scared,” he admitted softly, his hand caressing her cheek. “Evie, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, in my life. I imagine I’ll make more mistakes. But I don’t want to imagine what my life would be like without you in it.”
She knew now what her life was like without Lucien in it. Serene. Ordinary.
Loveless.
When he started to rise, Eve reached up and fisted her hand on his shirt. She grasped tightly, not ready to be alone. Would she ever be ready to be alone?
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, very gently drawing him back down.
He came without resistance, whispering, “Never.”
Chapter 17
Her door stood open, and the lamps they’d left burning in the foyer below filled the room with a distant, pale light, as if a few of the beams that filled the rooms below with bright light traveled up the stairs, down the hall, and into her room. It was enough for her to see his face. She needed to see Lucien’s face, now.
Eve
reached up and brushed a dark strand of hair away from Lucien’s cheek. He still looked so worried.
“Did you really ask me to marry you?” she whispered.
“Yes. Did you really agree?”
She nodded silently.
He touched her face, gently, as if she might be suddenly fragile.
“I thought maybe I was hallucinating,” she said. “Tonight has certainly been… different.”
“Regretting your decision already?”
She didn’t hesitate in answering, “No. Never.”
He kissed her. The caress was soft, at first, tender. She tasted his fear, still. Fear for her, for what they’d almost lost. She had never seen Lucien desperate, but she tasted desperation now.
The kiss changed gradually, from desperate to passionate, from fearful to stimulating. Had she once pretended that his kiss didn’t affect her? How foolish. How unnecessary. His kiss did stir her, more powerfully than before. How many kisses had she missed in the past two years?
Gradually, as they kissed, Lucien moved so that he lay beside her. It was nice. Close and comforting, warm and tender. Her arms went around his waist, and his arms snaked around hers. They shifted, their legs entwined, and with a half roll his firm, warm body was over hers.
The way Lucien lay atop her—so close, their bodies so tight—she couldn’t help but feel his response to the kiss that went on and on. She felt it not only in the length that pressed against her, but in the kiss itself. He did want her. Did his body thrum, as hers did? Did he ache?
His mouth left hers, slowly and reluctantly. “When you asked me to stay here with you…” He stopped speaking and shook his head slowly. “You were still scared. You didn’t know what you were asking. I can sleep on the sofa in the parlor.” He almost choked on the words.
She didn’t have a single doubt. “When I asked you to stay I meant stay here,” she said. “Right where you are, in my bed with me. You belong here. This night has been too long in coming, Lucien.”
“It has,” he agreed.
“I don’t want to lose one precious moment, worrying about what I should do and what’s proper and… and whether or not you love me enough.”
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