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Pickering takes Daisy to work with her on a regular basis, then
     Daisy will have spent a lot of time at Skeaping Manor. She’s probably heard dozens
     if not hundreds of visitors discuss the silver sleigh. I suspect she was parroting
     words she’d heard others utter and adding some imaginative embroidery of her own.
    “I doubt she’s heard more than a handful of people comment on the silver sleigh,”
     I retorted. “The curator told me that hardly anyone goes upstairs to look at the pretty
     exhibits. According to him, most visitors concentrate on the icky stuff.”
    Most, perhaps, but not all. You and I are living proof—more or less—that some people
     prefer the pretty to the icky. It’s possible that a single, vivid discussion of the
     silver sleigh made a strong impression on Daisy, one that stayed with her long after
     she’d overheard it. And what makes you think she’s never seen a diamond stud or a
     stiff collar? You told me yourself that the curator dresses in Edwardian clothes.
     It seems likely to me that such a man would be perfectly happy to explain his attire
     to a bright and inquisitive child.
    “I think he would have explained it to me, if I’d shown the smallest sign of interest,”
     I said with a wry smile. “He’s an enthusiast.”
    There you are, then. You have a little girl who prowls the museum on her own, asking
     the curator questions, listening in on other people’s conversations, and repeating
     what she’s heard.
    “Without supernatural intervention,” I said, shaking my head at my own foolishness.
    Soul channeling isn’t as common an activity as so-called mediums would have you believe,
     my dear. It is, in fact, an extremely rare occurrence, one which you yourself experienced
     a few years ago. As I’m sure you’ll recall, the soul in question changed your entire
     aspect. It altered your behavior as well as your voice. Daisy may have employed an
     unusual vocabulary, but her voice and her manner didn’t change radically from one
     moment to the next, did they?
    “No,” I admitted.
    In that case, I think we can safely rule out supernatural intervention.
    “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But honestly, Dimity, the way Daisy looked at the
     silver sleigh and the way she talked about it . . . It just seemed very . . . odd . . .
     at the time.”
    You were under the influence of dim lighting and bizarre surroundings, Lori. Your
     encounter with Daisy was bound to seem odd.
    “I suppose so,” I conceded. “And I may have let my emotions get the best of me. I
     felt so sorry for her, with her skinny legs and her ratty old parka. I wanted to reach
     through the glass and give the silver sleigh to her. I wish . . .” My voice trailed
     off into a forlorn, frustrated sigh, but Aunt Dimity seemed to read my mind.
    You wish you could rescue her. The thing is, Lori, she doesn’t seem to need rescuing.
     Her father may have failed her, but she has a hardworking mother who appears to care
     very much for her. Daisy may not be as well fed or as well dressed as Will and Rob,
     but she seems to be well loved. And love, as you know, can make up for deficiencies
     in diet and dress.
    “Even so—” I broke off as the sound of raucous voices came to me from the kitchen.
     “Sorry, Dimity. Gotta run. The arctic adventurers are back and they’re howling for
     hot chocolates.”
    Go, my dear. And try not to worry about Daisy. I seem to remember another bright and
     inquisitive little girl who was raised by a hardworking mother—and she turned out
     quite well.
    I smiled ruefully, closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, and gave Reginald’s
     pink flannel ears a fond twiddle before heading for the kitchen. I tried to put all
     thoughts of Daisy Pickering behind me as I left the study, but when I saw my rosy-cheeked
     sons I couldn’t help remembering the girl’s pale face and the burning look in her
     eyes as she gazed at the silver sleigh.

Five
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