I reach up to brush my fingertip over one of the smooth pearls, remembering how Jack told us, as Cordelia was attaching the fixture, that he wanted to explore the ocean someday like Jacques Cousteau, search for sunken treasure. I teased him: Well, what'll it be, then? The desert or the sea? You have to choose. And Jack grinned, said, I'll explore both! And the stars, too! I ruffled his hair, gave him a hug, promised to take him out on the Maid of the Mist before he heads home to Toronto.
Already, so many fond memories have been born within these walls.
I pause, stiffen, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Well, it isn't as if I'm growing fond of this place, only that we've put so much work into it, and I believe the house ought to go to someone who appreciates our efforts, who notes the little details, the history, the heart.
After I pee, I flush the toilet and start to rise to wash my hands, but my toe nicks the old conch shell lying beside the bathtub, sending it spinning across the floor. I dive to catch it before it strikes the opposite wall and cracks. Despite my aching muscles, I manage to stop it just in time. But when I pick the shell up and tilt it to one side, something shifts inside of it.
“What the...” I turn the shell over in my hands, inspecting its amber surface for signs of damage. It's in remarkably good shape for a relic of its age—glossy and smooth as glass. Finding nothing, not a scratch, I close one eye and peer into the dark inner whorl.
My breath catches: something glints back at me...almost as if it's winking. “Well, hello there.” Heart beating fast—just as it does when I'm about to make a discovery in the field—I rummage around in the medicine cabinet until I find my tweezers; then I squeeze the tweezers between my fingers and catch at the object inside of the shell, drawing it out into the light.
I had expected something metallic, like coins or jewelry, but instead I discover a shiny lock of golden hair, tied with a velvet ribbon around a paper scroll. The edges of the scroll crumble when I touch them. The paper is as fragile as eggshells, browned with age and probably water-damaged, too.
Carefully, I cradle the scroll in my palm and carry it out of the bathroom and downstairs, into the kitchen. There, beneath the bright overhead light, I allow it to roll onto the tabletop while I search for my magnifying glass. I'd loaned it to Jack so that he could inspect a beetle in the garden. Knowing him, he probably became distracted by some other natural wonder—an ant carrying a crumb; a blue jay feather; a sparkly rock—and left it outdoors, buried in the grass.
I move back into the entryway and shiver, chilled all over. Granted, I'm not wearing much, just a tank top and shorts, but I feel as if I've stepped into an underground cave—that cold and that oppressed. I rub at my arms, exhaling a shaky sigh. The house is dark, silent. I hear nothing indoors, nothing outdoors, only my erratic breaths and the complaining floorboards beneath my feet. And, thank God, I don't see any ghosts on the staircase.
So when I hurry through the entryway and slip through the door leading into the backyard, I'm startled by the bright light that greets me there—so startled that I nearly trip over Jack's discarded trowel.
A ghost. At first, that's all I can take in, all my brain can process. Honestly, you'd think I'd be used to this by now, but my body responds as if it's in a supernatural presence for the first time: racing heartbeat, goosebumps, shallow lungs. Soon enough, my tired eyes focus, and I realize that the ghost—hovering just above the weeds—is Victoria. And she's aglow. Her china-smooth skin, her loose hair, the whole length of her, haloed in silver.
She looks like a fallen star.
As my eyes flit up toward the sky and the full moon, the myriad stars, I realize that, weirdly enough, there's a natural explanation for Victoria's illumination: she's awash in moonlight. Cascade Avenue may be lined with streetlights, but, like everything on this block, they aren't well-maintained; most of the ones nearest to my house have burnt-out bulbs. Scary for nighttime excursions, but it's an unintended advantage for amateur stargazers. One night, Jack and I were even able to see the Milky Way.
But I can't see the Milky Way tonight, and I have no interest in the stars, because Victoria is a hundred times more beautiful than all of them. I've never seen her so clearly before, not while I was awake; somehow, though, she looks just as she does in my dreams, with her blonde tendrils stirred by the breeze, her sad, pale eyes locked onto mine.
Suddenly, she holds her hand out to me, beckoning me to take it, to touch her.
To touch her?
I swallow. Though I've encountered Elizabeth several times now, I never considered touching her. Well, she never invited me to touch her. But I guess I assumed that it wasn't possible, that ghosts are made of mist and memories.
Now, half-frightened, half-thrilled, I reach for Victoria's fingers...but touch nothing, no one, only empty air. Then I fall forward a little, off-balance. “I'm sorry,” I stutter, my voice low and hoarse, though I'm not certain what I'm apologizing for. Maybe for that fact that Victoria's eyes darkened when my hand passed through hers, and now her expression, sad but beseeching earlier, is withdrawn, somber. Hopeless.
She looks dimmer; she's beginning to disappear. I feel as if I've failed her, but what does she want?
I draw a deep breath into aching lungs. My heart feels heavy, like a dead weight inside of me, struggling with each and every beat. “Victoria, are you... Are you looking for Elizabeth?” The words are whispered, hardly audible; my throat is too dry, too tight.
But Victoria hears me, because she nods her blonde head and gazes wistfully up toward my bedroom window, lifting her arm to point at the curtained panes.
“Okay. Great. Good.” I cross my arms over my chest and shiver. “I just... I don't understand. She's in there. In the house. And you're out here. You want to see one another. But if you went inside, or she came outside, you could be together—”
“No. I—we can't...”
Instinctively, I take a step back, startled not by the sound of her voice but by the sudden crushing sorrow that forces me to my knees. My bare shins sink into the damp grass as I support myself with my arms, knuckles pressed deep in the cool mud. This isn't my sorrow; it's hers. Victoria's. I experienced the same thing in Elizabeth's presence last night. Apparently ghosts communicate better through emotion than words—maybe too well. I feel as if the grief of the world has taken up residence in my heart.
“You can't?” I force out through gritted teeth, wincing against the pain. “Why? What can I—”
“Necklace,” Victoria answers, hissing out the word. Her features are clenched, as if in frustration. With noticeable effort, she adds, “Locket.”
“A locket?” I exhale a ragged breath, swiping a tear from my eye. “Okay. Where can I find it? Is it in the house?”
“Need—” She flickers, starts to dissipate into small, pixelated teardrops of light.
“No, Victoria. Tell me—”
“Bess...doesn't...the locket!” she exclaims, crouching down, curving her hands into claws as she drifts closer, reaching out for me. Her arms move through my body, and I feel the faintest sensation: as if someone is blowing on the back of my neck, or breathing into my ear. It's creepy, unsettling; I recoil, even as I continue to stare into Victoria's fading eyes.
“Please,” she whispers, cradling her head in her hands.
A blink, and she's nearly gone, a faceless spiral of silver hovering just above the grass.
“Victoria, how can I find the locket?” But it's too late: I'm alone, talking to the darkness. I feel her absence more than I see it. The sorrow left me—in a startling whoosh—along with Victoria's ghost, though my own sorrow quickly occupies the vacated space; I feel more confused than ever. Day by day, reality slips further and further away from me. God, if Lucia, if any of my colleagues could see me now—kneeling in the dirt, convinced that I just communed with a Victorian ghost—they'd have me committed.
Calm down.
I have to remind myself that I'm not the only person who has
seen ghosts at V. Rex. If I'm crazy, we're all crazy. Maybe there's something in the water...
I brush my hands off on my shorts and stand up, despite my knees' painful protests. I'm so spent that I stumble into the house, trip up the stairs and fall into bed—without remembering to look for the magnifying glass or put away the fragile scroll lying on the kitchen table.
Chapter Eight
“Wake up, Auntie Alex!”
“Hmm?” I squint at the sunlight and roll onto my back. “Jack?” I croak, fumbling for my cell phone on the suitcase bedside table. “What time is it?”
“Seven o'clock!” My nephew sounds as if he just inhaled a balloonful of helium. How can anyone be so cheerful at seven in the morning? Or so energetic? He bounces onto the mattress, narrowly avoiding my stomach, and positions his syrup-smeared face two inches away from mine. “We brought you breakfast in bed!” he exclaims, breathing on me sweetly.
“You did?”
“I made the orange juice,” he boasts, sliding back a little as Cordelia comes into view. She's carrying a wooden tray in her hands and wearing a smile that rivals Jack's in its sunniness.
“Well, it's been years since you've had my secret recipe raspberry pancakes, and Jack squeezes a mean orange. Now, sit up.”
Obediently, I raise myself onto my elbows as she rests the tray across my lap: it's laden with pancakes slathered in butter, a carafe of syrup, and a glistening glass of cold orange juice. I shake my head, stunned. “Thank you. This is... Wow. I can't remember the last time I had breakfast in bed.”
“You've been sleeping on cots for far too long,” Cordelia chastises me gently. She drags the vanity chair over to the side of the bed and sits down on it. “I figured, it's a cozy, rainy day—perfect for pancakes.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the fork and smile softly. “Mom always made pancakes for dinner when it rained. I crave them, even now, whenever I hear thunder.”
“Me, too.”
I meet my sister's warm green-gold eyes. Her brown hair is loose, shining on her shoulders, and she's wearing a Toronto Blue Jays jersey. She, David, and Jack are big baseball fans and try to attend every home game.
Must be nice to share a tradition like that. Baseball games. Raspberry pancakes on rainy days...
Something shifts in my chest as I gaze down at the golden stack on my plate. Wait—I don't even like baseball. My sister and nephew just made me a delicious breakfast, and suddenly I feel like crying? God, maybe Victoria's emotions haven't fully sifted out of me yet.
Or maybe... Maybe Niagara Falls has begun to change me, after all. Marie Rosenfeld assured me that it would, but I thought she'd attended one too many New Age lectures. I thought I would leave this experience a little richer but unaltered, with a successfully flipped house under my belt. I thought I'd run back into the field without a single glance over my shoulder.
And I thought my one-night stand with Trudy would be just that—one night—but it's become something else entirely. Something I could have never predicted. Throw a couple of angsty ghosts into the mix, and my life is unrecognizable from its former state of being. So I guess it makes sense that I might start to feel differently about some things than I did in the past...
I'm just not sure that I like it.
“You look like you're a million miles away. What's up, Alex?” Cordelia prompts me, narrowing her brows. “Too much butter?”
“No such thing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Sorry. I didn't get much sleep last night. But I'll be pancake-powered soon enough.”
Apparently, my words fell a little flat, because Cordelia is staring at me doubtfully, her lips pursed to one side. “Did something happen last night? Did you see another ghost?”
“It was Victoria,” Jack replies, as he idly plays with a toy airplane, rolling it back and forth over my comforter's folds. “Wasn't it, Auntie Alex?”
I lift a brow and shake my head, laughing. “Kid, sometimes you scare me.”
“Mommy says that, too.”
Cordelia ruffles her son's messy hair with a fond smile. “Geniuses always scare people. It's a compliment, sweetheart.”
I pour some syrup over my pancakes and then cut into the stack with the side of the fork, taking my first bite.
“Good, right?” Cordelia asks, leaning back in her chair with a self-satisfied smile.
“What can I say? You're the Canadian Martha Stewart.”
Jack pipes up, jumping to his feet on the mattress and nearly toppling my tray: “Try my juice! Try my juice!”
I down a gulp and transform my face into an exaggerated expression of bliss: “You ought to become a professional orange juice squeezer, Jack.”
“Nah. I'm only going to do that part-time.” He falls back onto the bed and picks up his plane again.
“When you aren't digging in the desert or scuba-diving in the sea?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cordelia and I exchange a smile. “I admire your ambition, sir,” I tell Jack, and then I shovel more pancake into my mouth, grinning at my sister appreciatively.
“So you really saw Victoria?”
“Mm. In the backyard. I was—oh!” I drop my fork and sit up straight, eyes widening. “I found this scroll in the bathroom last night—”
“You mean, this scroll?” Cordelia reaches behind her back and brandishes the scroll to me. I take it, examine it: it's wrinkled because she was keeping it in her jeans pocket, but it looks fine otherwise. It's still wrapped in velvet ribbon and that golden lock of hair.
“So, Jack and I have spent all morning trying to guess what's written on that thing—”
“All morning?” I laugh. “It's seven a.m.! How long have you guys been up?”
“Early to bed, early to rise. Anyway, he thought it might be a treasure map. But I thought it had to be a note from your ghost-hunting vixen.”
“Trudy?”
She arches a brow. “Well, isn't that her hair?”
“No.” I slide my finger over the glossy strands. “It's a similar color, but this stuff is old, Cord. The paper's falling apart. I think it must have belonged to the original owners of V. Rex.”
“You mean, Elizabeth?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, chewing on my lower lip. “Guess there's only one way to find out.” Holding my breath, I slip my finger beneath the knot in the ribbon and tug at it gently. It gives way, fraying at my touch. I catch the lock of hair in my palm as the scroll falls to the bed and begins to loosen.
“What is it? What is it?” Jack asks eagerly, standing on all fours like a puppy. “It's a treasure map, isn't it? Can I help you find it? I have my junior archaeologist kit in my room.”
I swallow and touch the edges of the paper. “I should really be wearing gloves for this—”
“Come on, Auntie Alex!”
“Yeah, come on!” Cordelia laughs, looking nearly as excited as Jack. Her green eyes shine bright with curiosity. “I have a revised guess: I think it's a love letter, never sent. You know how repressed those Victorians were.”
My sister and my nephew press hard against my shoulders as I unfurl the page centimeter by centimeter, revealing, at last, a single printed line. In faded brown ink, I can make out the words—
B. Yours forever. Cross my heart. V.
“That's it?” Jack groans, falling backward on the bed with a sigh. “But I wanted to go on an adventure!”
Mouth dry, I let go of the scroll, allowing it to close in on itself again, and wipe my sweaty palms off on my knees. “Hey, kiddo, we can still go on an adventure,” I say hoarsely, coughing into my hand. “I promised you the Maid of the Mist, didn't I?”
“Really? A ship? Like a pirate ship? Can we go, Mom?”
Cordelia casts me a disapproving glance and shakes her head. “I don't know. Alex, we were supposed to strip the wallpaper in the living room—”
“Tomorrow.”
“But—”
“And, hey, it's already raining, so it won't be a big deal when we get wet on the boat. Migh
t not even have to wear one of those ugly blue ponchos.”
“We're wearing the ponchos,” Cordelia says, in her Mom-knows-best voice.
“What? So we're going?” Jack shrieks. “Yippee!” And just like a Jack-in-the-box, he springs off of the bed and careens into the hallway—presumably to prepare for his great big “adventure.”
Predictably, Cordelia clicks her tongue and gives me a green-eyed glare. “Jack and I will be going back to Toronto in a week and—”
“I know. That's why I want to do this. I want to do something fun. Not that injuring myself with nonstop home renovation isn't fun—okay, it's not fun.” I smile, reach for her hand. “Aside from your lovely company, of course.”
“Well...I could use a break. I was so tired yesterday that I nearly nail-gunned my ear to the wall. How is that even possible?”
“Anything's possible. Remember that time paint dripped off of my brush and right into my mouth? I can still taste it...”
Cord makes a face. Then she flicks her gaze toward the mysterious letter lying between us. “So what do you make of that?”
“Don't ask me yet.”
“What?”
I shake my head, close my eyes for a long moment. My heart is skipping beats, and my temples are beginning to throb. “I'm still trying to piece it together. Last night, Victoria told me that I have to find a locket. She told me that she wants to be with Elizabeth, but—”
“Wait. You think she wrote this letter to Elizabeth—er, Bess? B and V, Bess and Victoria? You think they were in love?”
I pause, considering. It isn't scientific to guess. I should take the letter to a lab, have someone date it, before I jump to any conclusions. After all, B and V could be Becky and Vincent, or Boris and Vladimir, an endless combination of names. The letters might refer to nicknames, rather than first names, making identification difficult. Without more data, the possibilities are immeasurable, astronomical.
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