the edge of manhood, and I could see every one of those years between us upon my face. Not hers, though; she appeared as young as the day she left, as if not a single day had passed.
“She raised her own hand and pressed it to the glass opposite mine, and I swore the window grew colder. Her large blue eyes screamed with a sadness so profound I found myself bordering on tears, unable to turn away from her. Then she was gone. As simple as that. Perhaps I blinked, perhaps I did not, but, either way, she disappeared in that instant. I had full view of the square; as with the candy store all those years earlier, there was simply no place to go, yet somehow she had, leaving not a trace behind.”
Thornley finished and studied his empty glass. I reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured another round for my brother.
I asked, “Was this the last time you saw her?”
Thornley shook his head. “The last time was no more than three days ago, but this final experience was more akin to the first. Emily and I attended the theater for the Friday-evening performance of Caste, and I thought I saw Ellen exit the mezzanine; only a glimpse, mind you, for we were in the balcony, but I am certain this was her. She wore a gorgeous flowing red gown and appeared to be in the company of a gentleman. I considered going to her, but I had no idea how I would explain such a thing to Emily, and I quickly realized how pointless it would be—she would no doubt vanish as I neared, as she had on the other occasions.” Thornley took a long drink, then added, “I think the man who accompanied her may have been O’Cuiv. I recall thinking just that when I first saw him; but believing him to be dead, I dismissed the thought as preposterous. But, now . . .”
“How certain are you?” I asked of him.
“I cannot be sure; the light was dim, and we were far apart, but the man had a similar form and dressed his hair in the same way.” He paused for a moment, then: “There was a child, too.”
“A child?”
Thornley nodded. “Dressed in a beautiful little gown; she looked like a doll. She made me think of O’Cuiv’s daughter, the one who lived.”
“Maggie?” Matilda said.
“Ah yes, Maggie. That was it.” He took another drink. “Of course, it could not have been her; she would be in her twenties by now. From what I recall, she was around six or seven at the time of the murders.”
All of this information puzzled me. “Did Ellen know the O’Cuivs? I don’t recall her ever mentioning them when we were children. Even on that one instance when the O’Cuiv family supped with us, they did not appear to be anything but newly acquainted.”
Matilda said, “We were children. Would we have realized if they were familiar?”
“Ma would know,” Thornley pointed out.
“We mustn’t involve Ma in this,” I said. “Pa, either.”
Thornley finished his whiskey. “Involve them in what? I don’t know what any of this means.”
“It means Nanna Ellen never really left us. All of this means she has been nearby all these years,” Matilda said. “Who or whatever she may be.”
Thornley laughed gruffly. “And what do you mean by that? ‘Whatever she may be’?”
Matilda looked to me, and I immediately understood what she contemplated. We never told Thornley what we discovered in the castle tower the night before Nanna Ellen left us. Nor had we told him what we found in her room, under her bed. We told only Ma and Pa and they both dismissed our story readily. When nothing was found there the following day, these mysteries were never spoken of again.
I gave Matilda a nod. “Tell him.”
And so she did. Nearly an hour passed, and between Thornley and me the whiskey was almost depleted. When she finished, the three of us stared at the embers of the fire; I rebuilt it as Matilda recapped the events.
Thornley turned to me. “You have never seen her?