should have waited until more time had passed, until he and Alba had a chance to create a less fragile bond, one that couldn’t so easily break. But it’s done now. It’s said. There’s no going back now. “He was cruel, and we shouldn’t have gone along with it. At the time we were angry, we blamed you and Mum for his leaving. We swore never to tell, but now they’re both gone and I wanted you to—”
“And what about Mum?” Alba can hear her voice sounding shrill. “You let her go through all those interrogations, the whole village treating her like a leper, you saw what it did . . . it broke her, it killed her!”
“I know,” Edward says. “I’ve regretted what we did every day.”
“But not enough to undo it? You had, what, ten years to tell Mum the truth. Why didn’t you?”
But Edward doesn’t have a satisfactory answer. It’s something he’s asked himself over and over again. “I’m so, so very sorry. I hope one day you might forgive me.”
Alba just stares at him. “I think you should go.”
“Please,” Edward says, “please . . .”
Alba can hear the crack in his voice. She can see the desperation in his eyes. But she shakes her head. She hears a small sigh from the kitchen sink, but Alba ignores Stella too.
“Now,” she says softly, “leave now.”
Edward wants to beg her to let him stay, to say he can’t bear to lose her again. He wants to weep and plead for the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. But instead he stands and walks slowly out of the kitchen and out of the house. Alba, her eyes fixed to the floor, doesn’t watch him go.
—
When Alba ventures into the kitchen two days later, the ghost is sitting in the kitchen sink, as if she hasn’t moved an inch. Of course, except for reading, Alba has no idea how Stella otherwise passes her infinite time, so perhaps she hasn’t.
“Don’t talk to me about my brother,” Alba says before she sits down. “Whatever advice you have, I don’t want to hear it, okay?”
“Okay.” Stella shrugs. The problem of Edward will have to wait; she’s got a more immediate issue to address first.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Alba reaches her chair by the stove, frowning at the ghost. “You look like you’re up to something. I don’t like it.”
Stella smiles with exaggerated innocence, then says:
Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down and music and life will mingle.
Alba listens to the words from her parents’ favorite book, suspecting Stella is attempting to make some sort of point, but since she hasn’t touched a piano in twelve years and doesn’t play anything at all “wonderfully,” or even well, that point isn’t entirely clear.
“So.” Stella raises her eyebrows. “What do you think of that?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Alba admits.
“You are exceptionally intelligent, talented and will no doubt be successful at anything you choose to put your hand to,” Stella says. “But so far you only apply your brilliance to the study of life’s retelling rather than life itself.”
Alba says nothing.
“My hope is that you, like Lucy Honeychurch, will allow your passion for literature to leak into life,” Stella says. “And for that, you have to act.”
“Take to the stage?” Alba jokes. “How will that help?”
“Yes, very funny,” Stella says. “But I have a feeling that if you don’t do it now—”
“What’s the rush? I’m fine. I’m not even twenty. I’ve got a whole lifetime.”
“So you think,” says Stella. “But if you don’t do it now, with the power of the house behind you, then I’m afraid you probably never will.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“It’s time to face the things you really want. Not just in your fantasies, but in your life.”
“What do you mean?” Alba asks again, hoping that Stella doesn’t know about the Chocolates book but rather suspecting she probably does. Her heart quickens.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Stella says. “That girl loves you. And it’s time to find the courage to love her back.”
It’s time. Alba grabs a summer jacket from the coat rack and sees Florence Nightingale wink at her from the opposite wall. Alba stops. “What?”
“You’re finally doing it, well done.” Florence smiles. “You certainly took your time about it.”
Alba pulls on her jacket. “We aren’t all blessed with the courage of an