The ghost furrowed his brows, his lips mouthing the letters as he painstakingly pointed them out. It was clear he knew how to spell his name and very little else.
Theodore Daye.
Leena smiled. “Thank you, Theodore Daye.”
Suddenly shy, the ghost dropped his gaze, tugging at the collar of his livery.
“How do you know Mr. Orley?”
A shivering fear transformed Theodore’s face, and he backed a step away.
Leena understood.
She thought of Orley and Mrs. Van—their creeping long hands, their expanding eyes, their overwhelming presence—so inhuman, soother.It had become an obsession of hers, even as she spent her time tending to Rami alongside Mrs. Van. The housekeeper had proved to be an essential asset in the sickroom. Her knowledgeregarding herbal remedies far superseded Leena’s own, and they spent the long hours boiling broths and preparing poultices.
A tepid understanding had arisen between them.
Yet although she was grateful for the housekeeper’s assistance, all her previous misgivings about Mrs. Van still lay like a hard lump in her throat. In those wakeful nights, Leena thought of the dream she had had—How long must he survive this?—and she could not shake the feeling that it was essential that Mrs. Van confirmed Leena’s suspicions. That if the Saint dealt withothercreatures, then to be left in the dark might prove dangerous for her and her brother. Especially in her hunt for Lord Avon.
She found Mrs. Van in the kitchen. Leena seldom wandered in there, it being the domain of the stern housekeeper, but it was surprisingly cozier than the unlived-in state of the rest of the house. The fire in the grate was welcoming, the herbs procured from the market hung by the window wafting scents of lemongrass, and somewhere a kettle had been set to boil.
Mrs. Van was finely mincing roots with an experienced hand. She turned at Leena’s approach and wiped her bony fingers on her apron. Theodore Daye followed closely behind her and planted himself in the open doorway.
“Miss Al-Sayer,” Mrs. Van said, briefly curtseying before adding the roots into a mortar.
Leena smiled tentatively. “Rami’s been complaining that you are going to bully him into good health.”
“It is as the master wanted,” she said, but the corner of her mouth lifted.
“Where did you learn about healing?” Leena asked.
Mrs. Van crushed the roots into a fine paste. “I’ve lived many lives.”
“Any of them good?”
“This one is,” she replied softly.
Leena slid onto a stool and began to peel the potatoes Mrs. Van had left soaking in brine.
“Do you know why Mr. St. Silas hired me?” Leena asked.
The crushing sound of mortar and pestle stopped. “He has not told me. The contract forbids him.”
“Ah, yes, his contracts. How he enjoys those.” The potato slipped from Leena’s hands and the knife almost slid into her bare skin. “Would you like to know why?”
“If you are willing.”
“Will you answer one of my questions in return?”
The kettle whistled.
Mrs. Van seemed to think for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
“The reason Mr. St. Silas hired me is because I can see ghosts.”
A moment passed. Mrs. Van blinked. Theodore Daye nodded as if he already knew this.
“Ah.”
