“What stories?”
He lifts his head from the soil and looks at me. “That the house is haunted.”
I swallow.
“By Lilibeth?”
He chuckles, but he doesn’t answer.
“How was she?” I crouch down and pull the gloves over my hands. “Miss Danvers still respects her very much.”
“Everyone respected Lilibeth. She was a strong woman. Confident, too.” He tilts his head toward me. “But...” He stops. “She was so lost. She would leave at night, and who knows where she went, then come back an hour or two later, and the next morning she wouldn’t be herself. Mr. Rosewood worked so much he was never home, and Helena...”
“Was she the daughter?”
“Yes,” he says. “His first wife died in childbirth, giving birth to Helena. Lilibeth was the closest thing to a mother she ever had.”
His eyes drift back to the roses as he digs the hole and lowers one of the roots into the ground. “People say a house holds memories, and this one holds nightmares. Everyone is afraid of it.”
“We should be more afraid of people than ghosts,” I say, helping him steady the roses.
“True,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “but the ghosts here are just as deadly.”
Footsteps draw near, grass and dirt crunching under each step.
“What are you two blabbering about?” Margaret asks.
“Life,” I say, looking at the ground. Then I tilt my head toward her. “Death.”
She lifts a brow. “Aren’t you two rays of sunshine?” She takes two steps back, then lowers herself into the chair. “Did you get any calls or mail I should know about?”
I look at Victor, and he gives the slightest shake of his head, like he knows something I do not.
“No,” I say quickly. “Just me and the old house.” I force a smile.
“Oh, great.” She claps her hands together. “We’ve had some strange calls before, and I forgot to mention you shouldn’t answer them after midnight.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I glance at Victor.
Margaret stands and comes closer again. “You two finish here, and I’ll prepare a list of the things we need from town.”
She walks away slowly, and I turn to Victor, staring at him. “What are you not telling me?” I whisper.
He gets to his feet fast, brushing dirt from his knees. His eyes stay on the ground, avoiding mine. “I’m not allowed to say,” he says, then hurries toward the house.
My gaze drops to the roses, then to the ground beneath them, as if the earth might be holding answers. That feeling comes again. The sharp, crawling sense that someone is watching me.
I lift my eyes.
The man stands beside the tree.
Watching me.
Nine
AURELIA
Night has fallen, and they have left. Victor refused to speak to me after I asked him about the calls, and Margaret avoided me with the excuse that she was too busy dusting shelves inside the house. So, I refused to go into town, and they brought me food and left earlier today.
