isn’t a laughing request for a fun tale, but a very specific one.
Do you know the history well? Was there a Lord Thorne named William? Silly question—I’m sure there was when it’s such a common name. But was there one named William with a sister named Cordelia?
Even if Freya doesn’t know, I could look this up online. There’s a reason I haven’t done that. A simple reason. Fear.
Fear of what, exactly?
Everything.
So I just chuckle and murmur, “Yes, I’ve heard there are stories.” And then I spread clotted cream on a scone and change the subject.
Soon we’re talking about teaching, something we have in common. When I discover Freya has a combined degree in English and folklore, I’m overcome with envy.
“I desperately wanted my undergrad in history and folklore, but my mother was horrified enough by the history major. A completely unmarketable field of study.”
“Wasn’t your dad a historian?”
“Yep, still is. So, as much as I wanted to minor in folklore, I agreed to economics instead. Hated it. Only one good thing came of that . . .” I think of Michael and then hurry on with, “Anyway, my dream is to someday go back for a degree in folklore. A couple of Canadian universities offer them.”
“You like folklore, then?” she asks.
I chuckle. “That’s an understatement. My historical era of expertise is Victorian with a particular slant toward women’s roles. Women have always found power in the realm of folklore. Folk magic, charms, witchcraft . . . With the rise of spiritualism, men shouldered them aside, but they were still active participants, equal participants with real power in the movement. It was a way to engage in scientific study and be taken seriously even if it was pseudoscience.” I pause and sigh. “I just switched into Professor Dale mode, didn’t I?”
Freya smiles. “You have a willing pupil here. Lecture away.” She lifts her teacup and says, far too casually, “So you believe spiritualism is a pseudoscience?”
“Er . . . misjudged my audience, did I? Sorry.”
Her smile softens. “That’s quite all right. I’m very fond of lively debate. I just thought it was unusual”—she sips her tea—“coming from one with the Sight.”
I wince. “Aunt Judith told you about the ghosts. It was only one, actually, and even then, it wasn’t real. I had a hypnopompic hallucination. That’s—” I pause, not wanting to presume she doesn’t know what that is.
She nods. “Thinking you wake to see a ghost by your bed, when really, you aren’t awake yet. I’m well aware of the phenomenon, but that doesn’t explain your experience, Bronwyn. You fled from the ghost. You saw it while clearly awake. And Stan . . .” She sips her tea. Then she says, “So you haven’t seen anything since you’ve returned, I presume?”
In my mind, I say no and make some silly quip. What I hear myself say, though, is nothing. Dead and damning silence.
“You have seen something?” Freya presses.
I set down my cup. I want to answer. I want to talk about this to someone exactly like Freya. Kind and open-minded and educated in the subject.
When I still don’t reply, she says, “Whatever you tell me doesn’t go outside this room, Bronwyn. Not even to Del. I might believe in ghosts, but I’m not going to hare off to an online forum and share your story. I don’t think the world needs proof. Either people believe, or they don’t. Trouble only arises when those who see things are convinced they don’t by well-meaning loved ones who persuade them they’ve had a mental breakdown.”
I tense. I can just imagine what passes over my face, as she leans forward, saying, “I’m sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It isn’t. It’s none of my business. I’m the only person your aunt told, and just because she knows I can keep a confidence. She needed to speak to someone about it. She was so angry with your mother, but she couldn’t tell you that and risk your relationship when you’d only just reunited. If it’s any consolation, I talked Judith down when she was in a right fury over it. Your mother didn’t mean any harm. In her world, that explanation made sense.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t normally see ghosts. I never have outside this house.” I force a smile. “God knows, since Michael—my husband—died . . .” I inhale. “I’ve never even seen an eye speck that I could pretend was him.”
I try to say it lightly, but my eyes still