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mused over whether I should wait out the shower, but in the end I made a dash across the street and round the corner. In no time at all my shoes were soaked and the brown paper on the parcel had stained dark like oil. By the time I reached the apartment I was wet through and the parcel falling apart.
    I let myself into the building, thankful to be out of the rain. The heavy air closed around me and in the gloom I missed the bottom step on the stairs and the parcel and its contents rained down on me in a clatter that echoed in the vastness of the stairwell. I sat on the bottom step and burst into tears from the sheer frustration of it all. I did not want to be here. Not really. I wanted to be home in Manhattan. I wanted my life back. I wanted things to be normal.
    As my sobs faded, I heard the air move and I glanced up the stairs. I thought I saw a woman in a long gown, but I could not be sure. I brushed away my tears and stood to let her aside, but there was no one there. I leaned into the hall to check if she’d somehow passed without my knowledge, but all was silent…
    … and then I felt the softness of silk on my face. I stood transfixed, not exactly scared but not exactly okay with it either. The maw of time yawned wide, though in reality, I could not have stood there for more than a few seconds. Then quite suddenly, the clouds dispersed, and sunshine streamed in through the skylight above the door. The air was heavy with a musky fragrance, dust motes dancing in the rarefied air.
    I had not realised I had been holding my breath and it took me a while to come to my senses. My purchases were strewn across floor, and the brown paper a crumpled wet morass at my feet.  I snatched it up and hurried to collect the items. I do not usually spook that easily, but I have to admit, I was confused and not a little scared by what I had seen. Was she a ghost? Had she made her presence known to any of the other residents in the building? I vowed to knock on a few doors before the day was out.
    *
    Inside the apartment I shed my wet coat, but could not kick off my shoes because the floor was too dirty and I did not want to ladder my stockings. I donned the apron and deposited the soap and cloths in the kitchen. I would banish my fears by cleaning. It had always been my favourite way of dealing with uncertainty. I found a broom in a closet, but the bristles were falling out of the head. At least the bucket under the sink was good. I doubted there would be water, but when I turned the faucet I heard a suck of air and a clanging, which ended in a splutter of brown sludge. Of course, the other residents in the building had water and although the faucet was old and the Belfast sink cracked, I could place the bucket inside and fill it. It would suffice.
    I pulled my notebook out of my bag and found a pen. Armed with wash cloth, duster, bucket, and soap, I took everything into the drawing room. I dropped the wash cloth in the bucket and placed the soap on the mantelpiece. My eyes were drawn upwards to the picture I’d seen earlier. It seems like a cliché but my heart really did skip a beat, for the ghost woman on the stairs was this woman here, right down to the silk of her dress. I was sure of it…
    …but it did not make sense. Was this picture of Berthe?  I could not assume that it was. It could be anyone. I had no way of knowing, and then I remembered the photo that old Michel Pascal had given me. I almost ran into the kitchen to take up my bag and search for the autographed postcard. Where was it? I’d had it with me when… It should be… but it wasn’t there. It was gone. I searched my coat pockets. Perhaps I’d dropped it downstairs, or maybe I had looked at it in the café and left it on the table? Damn it. I flicked through the pages of my notebook and the coronation photo given to me by Berthe’s Hampstead neighbour fell out. Well…
    I peered hard at it, trying to make out whether the Berthe photographed in the Hampstead