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that was almost electric.
    As suddenly as it had come, it vanished. For a moment Zenobia’s hand, soft and smelling of spice, rested itself against her cheek.
    And then Zenobia’s voice, kind and calm, spoke in her mind: Be brave, Marilyn. Be brave, because I am going to need your help .
    The joy Marilyn felt at hearing her aunt’s voice vanished with her next words, for even after death Zenobia’s voice quivered with horror when she spoke them.
    Be careful, Marilyn. Be careful … and beware of Guptas!
    The hand went limp. Zenobia’s presence vanished.
    As if a spell had been broken, Marilyn’s voice returned, and she began to scream.

5
    A LETTER FROM ZENOBIA
    Marilyn sat in the kitchen, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. She had a dark blue blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her mother stood behind her, rubbing her neck.
    Upstairs they could hear the men from the ambulance service poking around in Zenobia’s room.
    â€œWhy were you in there, anyway?” asked Mrs. Sparks softly.
    Marilyn sighed. She had already answered the question twice. Wearily she told about the missing amulet for the third time. “I was worried about it, because I figured it was very valuable. And I thought Aunt Zenobia might still be awake. Sometimes she writes …” she stopped, corrected herself. “She used to write in the middle of the night, sometimes.”
    â€œI know,” said Mrs. Sparks. Her voice carried the old note of disapproval. “She used to keep me awake.”
    Let it rest! thought Marilyn. The woman is dead. Can’t you finally stop resenting her?
    Her father appeared at the doorway. “Well, they’re gone,” he said. He walked to the table and dropped heavily into one of the creaky chairs.
    Geoff came in after him, looking glum. He had not been nearly as fond of Zenobia as Marilyn was. Even so, her death had struck him deeply.
    â€œWhat happens now?” asked Marilyn. Her voice had a tiny quaver in it.
    â€œThey’ll take her to Flannigan’s,” said Mr. Sparks wearily, as if he knew the routine all too well. “She’ll be embalmed. Tomorrow we’ll go and pick out a coffin. There’ll be viewing hours. Relatives we haven’t seen in years will show up, expecting to be fed and sheltered.”
    â€œDon’t be cynical, Harvey,” said Mrs. Sparks. “There’ll be plenty of people bringing food.”
    â€œDon’t forget the reporters,” said Geoff.
    Mrs. Sparks looked startled. “What?”
    â€œReporters,” repeated Geoff. “Aunt Zenobia was famous. Plus she had that new book coming out next month. Her publisher was pushing it as her best ever. This is going to be big news.”
    â€œOh, God,” moaned his mother. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    â€œWill they be able to fix her face?” asked Marilyn suddenly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHer face,” she repeated impatiently. “It looked awful. Will they be able to fix it?”
    Mr. Sparks actually chuckled. “Of course they will, sweetheart. It’s not that unusual to have facial contortions with a heart attack. They’ll just—”
    â€œI don’t want to know how!” said Marilyn vehemently. “I just wanted to make sure they could do it. Aunt Zenobia was beautiful and people should remember her that way.”
    They sat for another hour, talking quietly in the way that people do when the presence of death has been brought to their minds. The night was still dark when they made their way back to their separate rooms, their separate fears.
    It’s funny how death enters a house , Marilyn thought, lying in her bed. It comes to steal the most precious thing of all, and it doesn’t make any difference how many locks you have on the doors. When it wants to come in, it comes in .
    She had often wondered if death was accidental or planned. Was there a time when you were destined to