Hang on, just had to take a moment. I shivered again, remembering it.
Then a voice spoke through the wind.
It was faint, and at a whisper, and it barely sounded like a human voice at all. But the wind spoke. The ghost spoke.
And it said:
“NOT”
“MINE”
“YOURS”
We almost bolted. If Julian hadn’t been there I definitely would have bolted. And I think he would have, if I hadn’t been there. It wasn’t even the words. It was that there were words at all. The ghost was getting stronger.
I mean, remember, it started with random poltergeist stuff, knocking things over, and then it could write in thedust. And now it could speak. Why was it getting stronger? Was our presence doing it? Was it the repairs, somehow? Did the dagger make it stronger?
And how strong would it get?
Julian got his voice back first. “Mine?” he said. “You’re saying the dagger is mine?”
And then—by the Angel, Bruce, the hair on my arms is sticking up just to write this—the wind spoke again, and it said, “CARSTAIRS.”
I couldn’t speak. Julian said, “Emma? The dagger is hers?”
The wind shifted direction. All the candle flames tilted the other way.
It spoke again. It sounded a bit more like a human voice, now, a man’s voice speaking softly, as though we were hearing it from the next room over.
“TAKE”
“HOME”
“CARSTAIRS”
“Home?” I said. “Home, like, our home? Los Angeles?”
“Or this home?” Julian suggested. “Maybe it needs to be taken to someplace in the house—”
The wind kicked up loudly and said, in the strongest voice it had managed so far:
“HOME”
“CARSTAIRS”
“CIRENWORTH”
The wind dropped, the candles went out, the room was bathed in darkness. Julian called out, “What about the silver band?”
But there was no response, or even a gust of wind. The ghost had gone. I could feel its absence. The silence hurt my ears.
***
I have the dagger with me now. I took it to bed with me and I don’t want to let it out of my sight for some reason. I keep turning it over and over in my hands. “Cirenworth” meant Jem, of course, so maybe it was his dagger once upon a time. Or maybe it belonged to someone who lived there when the ghost was alive. The image of Carstairs ancestors of the past keep going through my mind. When I close my eyes, I feel like I can see whoever owned this dagger once, standing over me—protectively, even, as if they know we’re related and want to stand by me, even through the centuries.
***
I think Magnus is right that the ghost means well. I don’t think a malevolent ghost would be as helpful as this one is clearly trying to be. And the faeries working on the house seem totally unbothered by it, which they wouldn’t if they thought it had evil intent. Which makes me think the ghostisn’t part of the curse, but instead, maybe the ghost is trapped here by the curse.
