Betrayal - By Lee Nichols Page 0,5

though I wasn’t sure how I’d stop them.

But it was enough for Natalie. She nodded, looking relieved.

I crossed the hall to the bathroom and set the shower to blistering. I stepped in and scrubbed my hair and skin, trying to scrape away the feelings along with the dirt: all the anxiety, pain, and fear from the last week. It didn’t work, but at least I no longer stank.

My bedroom was down the hall, across from an oil painting of one of Bennett’s stuffier-looking ancestors. Inside, I found my suitcase open on the bed where Celeste—the resident ghost maid—had undoubtedly left it. She knew I didn’t like her packing for me, but she always wanted to help. I put on black jeans and a gray wool sweater, then rifled through my clothes. After a minute’s thought, I packed everything else I owned that was black. In New York, I wanted to blend in.

I was zipping my suitcase when my stomach rumbled. I’d skipped breakfast that morning, nervous about summoning Coby, and was suddenly starving. I went downstairs to the kitchen for a few bites of whatever was filling the house with a delicious smell.

I found Anatole pulling popovers from the oven. Before he died, Anatole had been resident chef to one of Bennett’s ancestors, and his spirit had lingered. It was odd how quickly you could get used to a French ghost serving your meals. Yum. Can I have one now?

Oui. I made them for you. He slathered one with butter and handed it to me on a blue and white china plate.

Fameux, I told him.

I’d been looking up French words on the Internet to please him. Hopefully excellent had the same connotation in French as in English, and I hadn’t just said excellent … in bed, or something. There was no telling with the French. He and Celeste, who was sitting in the breakfast nook, appeared unimpressed, so I guessed it was okay.

What are you up to? I asked, sitting down beside her. It was unlike Celeste not to be occupied with some household task. Unless she was telling Nicholas to do it.

Waiting for you, she said. She was young and pretty, as ghosts went, and wore a gray dress and white apron. I wondered if she ever got tired of that outfit and wished for a day off.

I finished my packing. I bit into the popover, which was like eating a buttered cloud.

Oui, but you are off to ze big city— She gestured to an assortment of beauty products on the table. I do your hair and makeup.

Oh. The last time Celeste gave me a makeover, I ended up strapped to a ducking chair and almost drowned. I don’t know if I need …

I will be quick as a quicky quick, she said. Talk about lost in translation.

I don’t think that’s an expression.

She paid no attention as she drifted behind me and worked product into my hair without touching my scalp.

I finished my popover and brushed crumbs from my chest as she applied blush and mascara. I wiped my mouth with the linen napkin Anatole handed me, then puckered for her to apply lipstick. She fluttered around me for another few minutes, then said, Fini, and handed me a mirror.

I looked exactly like myself, only prettier. I don’t know how you do that.

She’d even made my hair look longer. I’d been trying to grow it, despite remembering with a shiver that Bennett had told me he liked it short. You had to like a guy who wasn’t looking for a Barbie doll.

Celeste smiled a secret smile, then told me to be careful in New York.

Oui, chéri, Anatole said, leaning against the table. You cannot trust those people.

Which people?

He shrugged meaningfully, but before I could press him, Bennett stepped into the kitchen.

He eyed the three of us at the breakfast nook, and Anatole leaped to serve him a popover while Celeste tidied the makeup away. Bennett frightened them a little, because he couldn’t communicate with them, only see them—and dispel them, if he wanted. Which he wouldn’t.

I frowned. At least, I thought he wouldn’t. Last week I’d finally heard from my mother. She’d left me a photo of Bennett in the mailbox with the cryptic message: Don’t trust him.

Thank you, Mom, for that detailed letter after you’ve been missing for two months. So glad to hear that you and Dad are having a marvelous time, wherever you are. Oh, and thanks for keeping the fact that I’m a ghostkeeper a