Fair point. I’m poised to argue, anyway, when I hear thedelicate, pearly notes of a harp drift in from somewhere behind us. Morgan must hear it, too, because he lowers his violin. Somebody’s playing along with him.
When the harp stops, Morgan picks up where they left off. Then when he stops, “In the Hall of the Mountain King” resumes on harp.
“Who’s doing that?” he yells.
The unseen harpist ceases their duet and does not play again.
I’m trying to remember if any of our neighbors have a harp, when lightning brightens the sky. Oh no!
“Right on schedule,” Gilda remarks, packing up. All the vendors scurry about, collapsing their tents, rushing crates of goods to their vehicles before the rain begins. It’s not even ten yet, and usually the night market stays open until eleven.
“ ‘Right on schedule’?” I can’t help saying to Gilda, exasperated. “This wasn’t in the forecast. We were supposed to have clear skies all night.”
“Saw it inthisforecast,” Gilda replies, gesturing grandly to her crystal ball.
I help a lady pile her turquoise jewelry back into a box. “You’re all impossible.”
With my head tipped back, I only just manage to spot a scintillating winged creature up in the fairy lights that connect Wafting Crescent and The Magick Happens. It’s the color of liquid mercury, moving so quickly that it leaves streaks in the atmosphere like smoke trails after a firework.
“I think I’ve seen this before,” I say, and all the lights gutter out.
Whatever I saw appears to have gone with it.
—
Half an hourlater, I’m in the streets with my umbrella and a flashlight, inspecting the fairy lights. Their power has returned, and I could be imagining it—however, I do not think I am—but Ithinktheir coloring has been affected. They gleam a bit bluer now.
“What are you looking for?” Morgan calls down. He’d left his window for a spell, but now he’s back.
“Shh!” I flap my arm through mist; the air is warm and heavy with water. “Keep it down, will you? It’s late. People are trying to sleep.”
“Yeah, with you shining a light into their windows. What’re you doing? You see something strange?”
“Yeah.” I aim my light at him. “Right there.”
He grins crookedly. “Set myself up for that one.”
I continue with my business, determined. A drone, maybe? A tiny drone. We’re under attack by foreign adversaries, or perhaps a mischievous thirteen-year-old.
Morgan’s window creaks as he pushes it up higher. It judders back down a couple inches, right onto his head. He rubs his crown.
“You’re going to hurt yourself not minding your business,” I warn.
“Can’t mind my business. You’re acting weird, and if there’s one thing I’m gonna do, it’s pay attention to weird. Maybe you saw a ghost? I could help you look. I know lots about ghosts. Bet you don’t have any EMF readers, either.”
“You talk absolute fairydiddle, Morgan. And you’re distracting me. Go home.”
“Iamhome.” He brings a mug to his mouth, sipping slowly, shrewd eyes trained on me. “You know—”
I switch off my flashlight. The streetlights are dim, most of them shadowed by tree foliage, painting the puddles of Vallis Boulevard citrine. All I’d wanted to do was have a look around, but I can’t focus with all his commentary.
“You know,” he repeats, louder, as if I won’t be able to hear him as well in the dark. “I can help you, if you just tell me what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t evenknowwhat I’m looking for.”
“A phantom. Specter. Apparition.”
“Stop pushing your ghosts onto me. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
