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don’t want ye, her wants Miss Sophia. Nobody else. Just her.”
    â€œBut Nellie, how can that be? Sophia is dead. Aunt can’t bring her back.”
    â€œDawson says Miss Crutchfield be daft.” Nellie tapped the side of her head.
    I didn’t know what to say. I was so accustomed to Miss Medleycoate’s behavior, I’d assumed Aunt was of a similar disposition. Mean spirited and cross, but not crazy.
    â€œIt’s on account of Miss Sophia that there be so few servants,” Nellie went on. “Folk from the village are scared to work here. Some even say Crutchfield Hall be haunted.” Here Nellie’s eyes widened, and her voice dropped. “Do ye ever feel someone a-watching ye?”
    â€œSometimes.” The room was quiet, hushed.
    â€œThey say it be Miss Sophia,” Nellie whispered. “They say her won’t lie quiet in her grave.”
    Suddenly Nellie hid her head under her apron like a child hiding under the blankets. “Oh, lord, I be a-scaring meself,” she cried. “I can’t bear thinking on spirits, miss. It’s only the wicked what comes back. The good stays in the ground and waits for the Lord’s call on Judgment Day.”
    Equally scared, I patted Nellie’s shaking shoulders. I’d never given much thought to ghosts before. Just getting through each day at the orphanage had taken all my energy. But now, in this dark house, with time to spare, the spirit world seemed very real. Maybe even dangerous.
    At last, Nellie emerged from her apron, her face blotchy with tears. “Oh, miss, I pray there be no ghosts here.” With that, she jumped up and headed for the door. “Dawson must be a-wondering where I’m at. There be work to do afore I goes to bed.”
    No longer hungry for my supper, I went upstairs to my room. There I undressed quickly and climbed into bed. With the covers snug around me, I felt warmer and safer. I planned to read
Vanity Fair
until I was too sleepy to make sense of the story, and then I’d go to sleep.
    Just as I’d gotten comfortable, I heard a knock on my door. It was Uncle, come to say good night.
    â€œI hear my sister was quite cross with you this afternoon,” he said.
    â€œYes.” I bit my thumbnail and looked at him sadly. “I’m very sorry I broke the glass on the frame, Uncle. I hope I didn’t ruin the photograph.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Florence. The picture is fine. All it needs is a new piece of glass.” He reached for my hand and looked at my finger. “Did you wash the cut?”
    â€œYes, Uncle. It was just a nick.”
    He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth my blankets and adjust the lamp’s wick, before he crossed the room to the fireplace. “The picture was taken almost a year ago, shortly before Sophia died.”
    I sat up straight and stared at Uncle. “How did she die?”
    He stirred the fire with a poker. The blue flames leapt a little higher and made shadows dance on the wall. “Sophia had a bad fall,” he said in a low voice. “She and James were playing together when it happened.”
    Giving the fire another poke, Uncle said, “Sometimes I fear the boy wants nothing more than to die himself. It’s as if he believes his death will atone for hers.”
    We sat together and watched the fire. The wind tugged and pried at the windows, making the curtains sway.
    After a while, Uncle got to his feet. As he leaned down to kiss me good night, I found the nerve to ask him one last question. “What was Sophia like?”
    â€œSophia.” Uncle spoke her name as if it were a long, soft sigh, a winter wind in the treetops, a drift of snow, a wash of water over stones. “It’s hard to say what Sophia was like. She was a difficult child, quick to anger and long to sulk. She was quiet and secretive, not always truthful, and often unkind to James.”
    I looked at Uncle, puzzled.