to get into the room, seeking a little advice about what to do next. She needs some help. But, for some reason she’s quite unable to make sense of, the powers that be aren’t giving her any. Peggy’s frustration mounts and she sighs. Then she clenches her fists and gives the door a swift kick. She waits for some sign of life, a sound from the other side. But there is nothing. Just silence.
“You can’t lock me out forever,” Peggy snaps. “I’ll bash down that bloody door if I have to.”
—
Carmen is dreaming. She’s three years old, standing at the bottom of her childhood garden, hiding behind her favorite tree. She gazes up at the apple blossoms scattered along the branches: a thousand tiny moons against the evening sky. Her throat is tight and dry and Carmen realizes she hasn’t yet spoken a single word aloud. She leans one pudgy hand against the tree trunk, kicks off her shoes and plucks at the grass with her toes, waiting.
A moment later she takes a deep breath and starts to sing. The notes are soft and sweet, their echoes dancing through her tiny body long after they’ve disappeared into the night air. Everything is silent. Carmen looks up at the blossoms, then opens her mouth to sing another note. It sweeps out of her and, caught by a breeze, floats gently through the air. Carmen watches it drift upward, wishing with all her heart she could follow it, gliding above the garden, past the chimney tops and into the clouds. Instead she stands perfectly still, utterly captivated by the sound that has come from within her but seemed to come from somewhere else altogether. It’s so surprising, so beautiful, she laughs. Then, behind the tree, she sees a shadow. Someone else has stepped into her dream. And the sight of him so scares Carmen that it wakes her up.
—
When Alba opens her eyes she can already feel her sense of sight getting stronger. The hurricane in her head has stilled. She’s stopped shaking. The parts of herself that have been breaking off and scattering into the air are, piece by piece, coming back and beginning to settle. She can see sounds and smells again, just as before, long before she hears or sniffs them. And very gradually, as though looking through an out-of-focus telescope, she’s starting to get a picture of what’s buried under the midnight glory.
Alba knows her senses are stronger now because of the healing powers of the house, and because of Stella. That the ghost appears only to her at least makes Alba feel rather special. They now meet every night, just after midnight.
Alba isn’t intrigued by Stella because she’s a ghost, she’s seen ghosts before, but because she’s a complete mystery. Stella talks about everything but nothing personal, she asks questions but never answers them. So far all Alba really knows is her name; everything else is guesswork. Alba’s fascination with Stella has achieved what, so far, no living person has done: tempt her away from books. In the last few days she’s read only two biographies and three novels: Great Expectations, The Mandarins and Far from the Madding Crowd. Considering her average is usually thirty textbooks a week this is a significant slow-down. And she’s visited the library only once. Now, except for the hours when she reads, Alba talks to Stella all night and sleeps all day.
They talk about everything: literature, history, philosophy, politics, science, art . . . But most of all, they talk about books. Stella, it seems, has spent her death working through every great work of fiction ever written.
“What are your top ten books of all time?” Alba asks. Talking about her greatest passion doesn’t exactly heal Alba’s heart, or solve the problem of what she’s going to do next—but it certainly lifts her spirits.
“That’s an impossible question.” Stella laughs. “What are yours?”
“Rebecca. Middlemarch. Mrs. Dalloway. Those are my top three, after that I’m not sure,” Alba admits. “Okay then, which books have changed you?”
“The Golden Notebook,” Stella says, “probably more than any other.”
“I haven’t read it,” Alba admits reluctantly.
“Oh dear,” Stella smiles, “Doris Lessing wouldn’t be too impressed to hear that. She actually stayed here while she wrote it, a few years before I arrived. She now resides on the living room wall. You should visit her, she’s an inspiration to any writer.”
“I’m not a writer.” Alba frowns. “I’m a historian. At least I . . .” She doesn’t quite have