Though . . . speaking of birds . . . a flock of sparrows swooped across the bank of windows, sprawling outward and then rebounding back, as if all tethered to an invisible string.
Metamorphosis. Change. Transformation.
Obviously, I take birds and their omens seriously—their arrival, their calls and flight patterns . . . all these things have meaning for those willing to learn and observe.
So, let me clarify.
We Italians are a superstitious lot. We never reach across another’s arms when shaking hands in a group. We eat plenty of lentils on New Year’s Eve for good luck. And we always throw a pinch of salt over the shoulder to shoo away themalocchio—the evil eye—when salting pasta water.
I definitely considered myself Italian. And, more to the point, I really liked researching bird omens and what they meant.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Change. We all definitely needed change.
“This isn’t working, Jack. You living here.” I motioned at the space between us.
Jack flinched.
Okay, so maybe that was putting it a little too bluntly—my verbal filters obviously were faulty—but that didn’t stop it from being true.
I continued, working to take my tone from bossy to coaxing. “I know that it’s frustrating we’re not finding any solutions to your ghostliness. I get you are grieving and adjusting. But I also sense that you’re just coasting, waiting for something to change. Sometimes, you have to force the change. Make something of yourself.”
Jack choked back a bitter laugh. “Make something of myself? I’m a damned ghost, Chiara, in case you had not noticed.” He swept a hand down his transparent chest. “What do you propose I do?”
“Well, as I have heard close to thirty times already today, you were Lord Knight, a celebrated archaeologist with loads of money.” I gave him my bestgo get ‘emsmile. It might have had a sarcastic edge, but whatever. Jack was deliberately pushing my buttons. “I’m sure you have ideas. You went to ‘Lord School,’ didn’t you?”
“Lord School? You mean the bully-ridden hazing that was Eton circa 1802?”
Ooooookay. “My point is . . . you’re here now. No matter what happens in your future, one thing is crystal clear—your past is utterly gone.”
“Thank you for the reminder.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
Ugh. So was now the time to mention that my interpersonal skills obviously needed work? Things just jumped out of my mouth before being thoroughly vetted.
Case in point.
I dug in deeper. “It doesn’t mean it’s not true. We all care about you and we’ve been talking—”
“We?”
“Claire and I. Well . . . and Tennyson, too.” I paused. “And maybe Mom. Lucy had some good ideas, but Nonna said that—”
Jack’s gaze turned glacial.
I shook my head. “The point, Jack, is that we’re concerned about you. It’s looking like you’ll be a ghost for a while yet. We want you to feel like you belong here, that you can do more than simply exist. Use all those fancy lording skills”—I waved a hand indicating his entire person—“and carve a place for yourself in this new world.”
Silence.
Jack moved his hands to his hips, head hanging, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak without shouting.
I kinda wanted him to lose his temper. Rant. Rave. I bet it would be spectacular. But in true British fashion, Jack pursed his lips, stiffened his spine and stayed silent until he reigned in his emotions.
“You’ve been talking about me? Behind my back?” he asked, voice taut.
“It’s not like that, Jack. More like an intervention. Tennyson suggested maybe you should move in with him,” I replied. “He likes the idea of you hanging out with him.”
Jack laughed. Caustic. Angry. “Of course. Why not pass me along to another member of the family. Jack Knight-Snow—the unwanted family pet.”
