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you saw
, not
what you
think
you saw
.
    ‘Grandfather used to see ghosts.’
    She met his eye, startled.
    ‘Seriously. He never talked to me about it, though. He told Dad, who told me. Of course no one believed him and after a while he just stopped talking about it, apparently. I got all excited about it when I heard – I even tried to ask him about it, but he just gave me this look, like it was a serious matter, you know, and certainly not for the likes of me. Not something to laugh about.’
    Emma shook her head. ‘He saw something
here
?’
    ‘Hell – I didn’t mean that.’ He frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t know where he saw it. I never really got the whole story, and I never thought to ask where he was. I suppose it might’ve beenabout the time he bought this place, but it’s not all that likely – he didn’t stay here very long.’
    ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’
    He looked surprised. ‘Why?’
    ‘Well, I— Never mind. I’m not sure. It was just a stupid idea.’ She hadn’t even seen his face, the man last night. And anyway, she’d got the impression of someone who wasn’t quite that old; he was stooped, yes, but not a man in his eighties as Clarence Mitchell had been.
    She pushed the thought away and looked around the room once more. It did look better – it looked
right
. If she half-closed her eyes she could picture it with furniture in place, and how she’d sit and read a book, light falling across the page. She could almost see it: a dark winged armchair with a high back, grand enough for its position in the room, and a tall, elegant standard lamp, and her sitting there quite straight – and she found she couldn’t breathe. There
was
someone sitting there. The armchair was faded, the arms rubbed almost bare, and the windows were clouded because he was smoking; she saw the wreaths of smoke quite clearly, obscuring his face, leaving nothing but the dark smudges of his eyes.
    She blinked and he was gone, but she was quite sure that it had been the same man, the one she’d seen last night. The only difference was that he was wearing his suit. He had found his pipe too. Of course she was imagining things, but she found herself trying to remember what she’d done with that; she could remember picking up the suit, ready to throw it away, but not the pipe. She thought, though, that the last time she’d looked in the cupboard, the pipe had been gone.
    She blinked. There was only the window, full of soft brightness.
    ‘Are you okay?’
    It must have been a trick of the light, that was all. She was seeing things, summoning them out of shadows and bad dreams. She was tired and she was hungry; that didn’t mean she’d seen a ghost. Perhaps she’d just been spooked by the big old empty house last night – and yet the house didn’t feel frightening to her. It felt like home. It felt like
hers
.
    ‘Emma?’
    She started. She had almost forgotten Charlie. She turned and smiled and he looked reassured. He grabbed hold of the roller again. ‘I’ll get this finished, then I’ll head off.’
    Then she would be alone. Perhaps that would be better; when she knew the house was truly empty she wouldn’t be listening for odd sounds from dark corners. She wouldn’t imagine she’d seen someone where there was nothing. Still, she couldn’t help feeling vaguely disappointed. As she left the room, she breathed in deep; the paint fumes filled her lungs, almost – but not quite – masking the richer, spicier scent of pipe tobacco beneath.

CHAPTER NINE
    ‘Well good luck, almost-second-cousin, or great-grand-niece-in-law-by-marriage or whatever it is that we are.’
    Emma smiled. ‘It was good to see you,’ she said, and she found that she meant it. He held out his arms and she hugged him back, feeling the warm strength of his body under his sweater. She suddenly wanted to apologise again for waking him in the middle of the night, but it didn’t feel necessary – his smile was clean and open,