Ada had hardly run two minutes through the trees when she felt her feet sinking. First up to her knees, and as she dragged herself further, the water and silt rose to her thighs. She grabbed at the protruding twigs and branches to pull herself along against the irresistible flow of water. A kind of madness had possessed her so that she thought of nothing but flight—flight from that house and its ghastly occupant, that faceless ghoul with cold, black eyes. The house, the ghoul, Willem—all an awful nightmare she must escape!

  Her flight was a bit easier in shirt and trousers as opposed to her dress. Yet it meant nothing if she could not find her way. She felt the familiar cold seep into her bones and rushing now over her bare feet. The shrill whistle of the wind drowned out her thoughts, and the heavy rain flogged her back in stinging torrents. She felt she couldn’t escape it. The house was everywhere; the woods were a mere extension of the grounds—another chamber to lose herself in like a rat in a maze. The whole wood galloped behind her.

  Where once the tangling vines and branches entangled her like a web, now the rising waters pushed her back. Now the black clay caught at her feet, to drag her under. The swirling debris of the forest blew into her eyes and mouth, so that she could not even scream. She dragged at branches and vines to haul herself up as the water climbed higher and higher. Her shirt and coat billowed around her as she sank. Her feet caught on roots that, rather than twist her ankle as before, anchored and tripped her, dragging her head beneath the water.

  She bobbed out with frantic gasps and plunged beneath dirty brown waters running black in the cloudy night. Her brain reeled as the water rushed into her mouth and nostrils. The trees, along with the waves that dragged her across the fallen branches, bushes, and palmettos that raked her back, strangled the flickering lightning. Then, she felt the crack of a heavy branch across her back, and she plunged forward into the murky flood, borne inexorably down by the terrific weight of the fallen firmament. Her outstretched arms strained in vain to push herself above the surface, and her grasping fingers found no purchase. She felt the burning pain of her sprained ankle climbing up her leg again.

  The panic and pain forced her screams and hyperventilating gasps, and bloodstains of crimson dotted the deepening darkness around her. The darkness fed into her, choked her, consumed her as the last gasps of air fled her lips in a bubbling spew. She saw the moon above as she sank. She knew not how. Yet the white of the moon loomed above the glassy surface of the water. The moon that seemed to swell like a sponge overhead until it seemed it would plummet into the water with her. Her heart sick with despair, she reached up through the tangled fingers of crooked branches to grasp the last shred of light that winked above. The moon…the moon amongst the weeds…how close…how close… Darkness took her, her limbs grew numb, and all she knew was the faint chill around her and the sense that she was falling deeper, deeper, deeper into nothing. She gazed at the twinkling moon above that continued to swell and grow until she caught a fleeting glimpse of something more. The man…The man…in the moon…

  The cold and placid darkness boiled, churned and swam with winking stars like sea foam. For a life age, she was nothing—just a grain of sand tossed about by the dark ocean waves, a patch of seaweed bobbing beneath the placid stars. The noise around was faint, susurrant, and yet resonant like a conch pressed to a child’s ear.

  Then, the stars melted and streaked by like comets. The darkness ran like ink, and with a shock the world came rushing back. Like a swimmer breaching the waves, she jerked upright back to reality, vomiting the brackish spume. Then her throat tightened as if her lungs deflated, and she threw back her head in a single, retching gasp of bitter, leaden air that made her teeth ache. She rolled to her side and dragged retching gasps, feeling the damp grass and clay press cooly against her cheek. Then, her breathing slowed, her eyes rolled back, and her haggard, weary body burned with strain. She felt herself sinking as the weight of her weariness bore her down to merciful slumber, and all was dark and silent again.

  ***

  The world came winking back in a canvas of mottled reds and whites like an impressionist painting gradually taking shape. The dark blots spread and deepened like a stain, and the crimson gathered and focused on the center like pooling mercury. She watched it, drifting towards it, trying to discern something through the haze. As the spots faded and coalesced, the colors took on a brighter, warmer glow. Then, she heard the crackling of wood, and the world abruptly snapped back into focus.

  The unreality of it all filled her with a stark terror almost as great as when she was drowning. Had she been drowning? Was it all a dream as she slept in that strange bed piled with discarded clothes? A nightmare induced by the trauma of the evening’s events? A fever brought on by the pouring rain? The consequences of an overactive imagination and a morbid turn of mind? Was she simply going mad? She glanced around the room from where she lay, and that’s when she noticed the bed was clear. The clothes had been cleared into a corner of the wall, and she rested now beneath a pile of colorful, checkered quilts. She threw her gaze at the glow of the blazing hearth. A lump lodged in her throat, and her limbs tensed up like bowstrings.

  A figure sat Indian style before the hearth, hunched and spiderlike with its back to her. Its damp, black hair hung in matted tangles around its shoulders, and it appeared to be dressed in a heavy black coat. Ada shuddered at the sharp sounds, like a violent crack as sharp as bone, followed by the soft grind and smack of chewing. The sound mingled with the crackling pop of the fire and lent it a visceral quality that turned her stomach. The pattern of noise continued, with the character showing little to no signs of movement apart from occasional, slight shifts at the shoulders.

  Ada watched him in tense silence as if it were Polyphemus himself crouched and crunching on the bones of Odysseus’ men. Her breath caught as the lanky frame rose to full height, and she glimpsed between its legs before the hearth leaned a rucksack brimming with red apples. Her tension was numbed now by confusion as she watched the figure cross slowly to a corner beside the hearth, drag forth a tarnished copper ashbin, lift the lid, and drop an apple core into it with a clatter.

  The figure set the bin to one side and made a motion like wiping his mouth with a sleeve. Then, he spoke, and his sonorous voice cut through the gloom like a carillon bell. “I would advise against repeating your flight for the night. The storm is making a hell of the river right now, and I do not fancy another swim.” His accent had that same rustic tinge born of the Gaelic Isles, especially in how he rolled his ‘r’s. Yet there was also a kind of rigid formality in his broader enunciation that suggested more the Anglo-Saxon. “Not to mention you’re already in danger of a fever, what with being drenched coming in and going out.” There was silence between them for a space, and then he spoke again, “Are you hungry?”

  Ada did not answer. The entire scene seemed unreal to her, and the images of the eerie figures downstairs played constantly upon her mind. Her throat tightened as he rose again, and she expected him to turn around and fix her with those black eyes again. She did not know if she could bear to see that ghoulish face again. Yet she could not deny the night’s events had made her famished.

  Her mysterious host sighed deeply and lifted the bag of apples. Then, he backed slowly toward the bed. Ada trembled and dragged the covers beneath her eyes, but the fatigue and fear rooted her in place. She watched as he stopped about a foot from the bed, his back still to her. Then she saw his thin, white hand stretch out to the small bedside table and then slide back, revealing a plump, red apple where he had left it. Then, he shuffled towards the door, gripped the knob, and stopped.

  “If you wish to read,” came his clear voice again, but a bit lower, scarcely above a murmur, “I have set your books against the wall on the other side of the bed.” He lifted a finger towards the opposite wall, and then let his arm dangle at his side. Then, he set the bag of apples next to the door, bid a terse, “Good night,” and closed the door behind him.

  Ada was left ambivalent by his passage, though it might have been more because of her weariness. She stared at the door in a kind of daze, her body too spent from grief and fear to feel anything but that it was all a dream. Some quiet part of herself whispered that she would wake again the following morning and find herself snug in her bed at home. Even the hurricane seemed now a distant memory. The whole effect was like a numbing feeling, and she could only lie back and stare at the darkened ceiling while the flickering candle burned lower and dimmed the room like dusk. When sleep took her, she did not know until the musical trill of birdsong stirred her eyes to wake.

  The room filled with the pale light of morning, still straining through the dismal veil of placid grey sky. The storm had left its lingering traces in the air like clouds of dust after a stampede. The air was still, and all was unnaturally quiet. Wisps of smoke curled up from the ashes and embers in the fireplace. By the light through the window, she could see that the plaster of her bedroom walls was exposed in a couple of corners (one near the hearth), revealing whitewashed brick beneath.

  Ada propped herself on her forearm and rubbed her eyes with her other hand. Then, her eyes were drawn to the opposite end of the bed where lay a floral dress of blue cotton and a matching bonnet. They appeared old, yet unfaded and cleanly pressed, as if they had been prepared long ago but never worn. She found no stockings or shoes with the ensemble, so she made do with it and approached the door barefoot after dressing.

  She gingerly turned the knob and pulled the door inwards, peeking out into the hall again. All was as it had been before, but in the light of day presented more of a drab, grey appearance than the menacing gloom it had taken on in the night, enhanced by the gleam of light through the hovering dust particles. Setting a foot gently out into the hallway, she could not suppress the groan that sounded from the floorboards. She froze on the threshold, as if expecting something to come bursting through one of the other rooms like a trapdoor spider. Yet the other doors were all closed and silent. By the time she made it to the middle of the landing, she was confident that nothing else occupied the upper story with her.

  The ground floor was likewise. The quiet gloom settled almost like a fog throughout the building. She recoiled a bit from the parlor, averting her gaze from it as best she could and turning instead into the dining hall. There, she stopped cold. It was not the room itself that gave her pause. The peeling, gilded wallpaper, faded red carpet, and dusty chandelier were about what one would expect from a house of this make and affluence. Even the few carved figures seated here and there at the long table were to be expected. Rather, it was the head of the table, backed by the long window facing the porch, where a jug and cup of milk, and a steaming plate of beans, salted pork, and eggs before a cast-iron pot and skillet of cornbread caught her eye.

  For all her quirks of personality, Ada was still very much a proper young girl. She was as ordered and delicate as other girls her age, a rather disarming trait that ill prepared others for her compulsive writing and fits of inspiration that sent her scurrying off, crouching in a corner like a gargoyle, and scribbling away at one of her many journals. Despite those quirks, she was a figure of grace and ladylike comportment to be proud of. Yet her etiquette had gotten stuck in the mud some two miles back through the woods around the time she twisted her ankle.

  Hobbling over to the high-backed chair, she plopped down and furiously shoveled spoonfuls of beans into her mouth in a thoroughly unladylike manner. It took her only seconds to scarf those down before she cut a cake of cornbread for herself and began wolfing that down between bites of pork and eggs. She ate like an urchin and did not care a hang. It took a good three heaping portions of beans and cornbread and half a jug of milk before she could start acting civilized again.

  Dropping the silverware on the table, she leaned back with a sigh and allowed her brain to focus. Then her ears reddened, and she bowed her head, murmuring a sheepish, belated blessing. She glanced around as if expecting her host to wander into the room abruptly or some hereto unseen servant to bustle in and clear the table. While she had relaxed and recovered some from the fear and panic of the night before, she still sat uneasily. She wondered what her host’s intentions were and what he might require of her. She thought of that ghastly face and shuddered at the thought that she might see it again peeking around a corner or waiting for her in a doorway. Then, she thought of her father and mother, who must be searching frantically for her, and of poor Cora and Peter. She must get home, but how? She did not know the way. The grim realization dawned upon her that her life might still lie in the hands of her frightening host.

  She finally decided no good ideas would come to her sitting, and so decided she might as well explore the grounds. So, she returned upstairs and scrounged around her bedroom, checking in the closet and beneath her bed until she found a pair of thick boots. Then she returned downstairs and pondered for some time in the entrance hall. Stopping for a moment before the door to the dogtrot, she breathed softly through pursed lips and smoothed out her skirt, bracing herself. Then, steeling her nerves, she lifted her chin and opened the door.

  Sunlight glimmered through the drops of fallen rain dripping from the edges of the awning that canopied the open breezeway. The statues stood there as before in pantomime of frolics and ambulation. Only now, in the light of day with a lucid mind, could she admire their lifelike craftsmanship. A glance around to the left showed her a view of the front yard, and her breath caught at the sight of fallen branches, some as big as a horse, strewn hither and yon, and a titanic oak torn by its roots to prostrate itself across the path to the front door. Luckily, the oak had fallen between two of the trees that gauntleted either side of the path. She recognized now that these leafless wretches she had seen the night before were in fact barren apple trees like in her father’s orchard at home.

  She started a bit at the sound of dull, rhythmic blows that echoed out in a sequence and then stopped. She looked around for a space, and after a brief interval of silence, they sounded again somewhere to her right. Turning around and seeing nothing but the looming willows bent with bearded moss. Then, the sequence echoed again, and she craned her head up, thinking she heard it above her, before bringing the movement full around and to her right when she realized the echo came from behind the house. She stiffened for a moment and then shook it off, set her jaw firmly, and attempted to stroll gracefully around the corner. Unfortunately, this proved a rather awkward exercise, for a young lady certainly cannot stroll anywhere, much less with any considerable grace, wearing work boots fitted for a grown man without tripping up regularly on her skirt or her own feet. It could be said then that she plodded, despite her best efforts, around the corner, struggling not to topple over when her boots got caught in the soft clay.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Keeping near the siding with a bracing hand, she managed to round the corner with the grace of a newborn foal. There, she stopped to look at the back porch and its familiar, if more peculiar, occupant.

  The figure stood leaning around a rather sizeable trunk of cypress, picking away at it in slivers and chunks with a mallet and chisel. Of course, you could hardly tell now that it was cypress but for the furrows around its base where the large roots had been hewn off.

  Ada could see that the sculptor was clearly her gloomy host, but she was struck by how the light and circumstances had somewhat changed her impression. She could see he was not quite as tall as she had formerly imagined. In fact, by his height and build, he could hardly be more than a couple of years older than her. Where before she had thought him gaunt and craven looking, she saw now he was merely wiry, not so spiderlike now, but like a scarecrow. Yet his frame suggested one of good health. However, his hands and forearms, she could now see from the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt, were possibly even paler in the dull light of day. If anything, the waxen sheen of his flesh took on a more translucent hue in the daytime. Apart from his shirt, he wore only a pair of grey suspenders and perched barefoot atop his stool. His black hair still hung about his shoulders like seaweed. Ada half anticipated half dreaded the glance of that formless face, fighting feelings of dread and morbid curiosity.

  Then, good Christian sense overtook her, and she chided herself quietly with a scowl. The boy, whatever his appearance, had plucked her from the jaws of death itself and given her food and lodging. Could she now shun his hospitality for a deformity? Shame on you, Ada! She inwardly rebuked. By night, in tempest and confusion, is understandable, but am I to persist in folly with a clear mind? What might any man or beast do in the face of tragic circumstances? Why, what an ass am I! A gold ring in a pig’s snout if I should marvel at men’s scars in stinking taverns and yet blanch vainly at my savior’s deformity. Properly chastised, she smoothed out her skirt with her hands, crossed them over it, and strolled forward.

  The sculptor’s body seemed to sense for a moment but continued his work normally, making no gesture or sign that he noticed the approach of his guest. He continued to chip away at the wood, if a bit clumsier. Even when she stood directly behind him, he only showed signs of slower and a bit more deliberate progress.

  Ada cleared her throat and lifted her gaze to look at him. “Good morning,” she said politely.

  The sculptor stopped a moment as if considering, then shifted his tools to one hand and dug around in his trouser pocket until he produced a dingy rag and appeared to dab his face with it. “Good morning,” he replied in the same sonorous tenor. His voice was full, and yet had a distant quality, like an echo down a well. It was almost too old for so young a speaker. After a pause, he cleared his throat. “I…hope you slept well despite the…circumstances.” His cadence was awkward despite his resonant voice, as if he were trying to catch words flying by him at a hundred miles an hour.

  “I slept very well, thank you.” She was a bit unsure of the veracity of that statement, still feeling in a bit of a daze. She cleared her throat and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Thank you for the meal. It was delicious.”

  He made a noise she took as something approximating a “you’re welcome” and slipped the hammer and chisel into his belt. He dug around in his pocket and produced a kind of narrow pick that he started using to make precise engravings in what Ada assumed was the face of the statue.

  “My name is Ada Blackwood,” declared Ada, moving to curtsey before realizing he wouldn’t see it and simply smoothing out her skirt again. “Might I have your name?”

  Her host paused, leaning against the trunk, holding his pick in front of him. His hand appeared to waver a moment before she heard a swallow followed by the barely murmured, “Abel.”

  “Just Abel?” pressed Ada, as her governess had when she was a child. She recalled the tone perfectly, somewhere between sarcasm and a warning, and almost felt the compulsive need to correct her tone and repeat it.

  Abel seemed to tilt his head as if striving to remember. “Abel Thorne,” he reiterated flatly and made subtle engravings with the pick. “Though I believe the children of Washington call me Jack or something.”

  “Black Jack,” corrected Ada, like some demagogue of local superstition.

  Abel made a light noise, something like a tittering smirk. “Black Jack,” he repeated with a hint of amusement. “Good Lord. They make me sound like a pirate.”

  Ada couldn’t repress a giggle. “Nothing more glamorous than being a legend. A king could hardly hope for better.”

  “A king, eh?” mused Abel, blowing away some wood chips. “King Thorne of the Thicket. Has a ring to it, I’ll admit.” He stepped down from the stool and moved to an adjoining table while keeping his back to Ada. “I think you were a bit frightened by my projects last night. I must apologize.”

  “Oh, no!” Ada insisted, struggling to find the words. “It was just the, um…Well, it was so dark, and the storm…I had…” Her voice trailed off sadly, and she had to repress the tears that threatened to burst from her eyes, “a stressful night.”

  Abel was dusting his palms off on his thighs. “Hm,” he muttered as if the chaos of yesternight had not occurred to him. “Stressful. Yes. I could understand I’m not the sort you want to run into on a dark night, much less a stormy one.” He let out a quiet laugh and gazed up at the gloomy sky with his hands on his hips. “Oh, I remember that poor boy,” he chuckled. “I thought it was dark enough that he wouldn’t see and, well…” he waved a hand. “Ah, anyway. No harm done. How is your ankle?”

  Ada leaned on it a bit testily. “Oh, my daddy put down a horse for less, but he can’t resist my winning smile.” She grinned to show it. She leaned around to get a better look through the dark locks.

  Abel turned his head a bit to avoid her. “Perhaps not. I can’t have you high tailing it again on that foot.”

  “I’m sure you could catch me before I got too far,” quipped Ada with a winning smile. “I told you, it was dark, and I was stressed. After last night, I could take anything.”

  Abel kept his head turned.

  “Oh, come now. My mother always said I had a morbid turn of mind. I promise I’ll only swoon this time,” she insisted.

  Abel smirked and scratched his head.

  Ada crossed her arms. “Look here, I gave my word, didn’t I? Now I have no intention of conversing with the back of your head all day.”

  Abel was silent for a moment and then sighed down to his feet. Hanging his head so that his locks hung like moss over his face, he turned slowly towards her.

  “If you please, Mr. Thorne. My eyes aren’t in my toes,” Ada pressed, again in the manner her governess often employed when she told her to keep her chin up.

  Abel stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted on his feet. Then, he lifted his head, and Ada felt her breath catch again. To look at him, one could hardly guess he was even human. He was a thing unformed, like modeler’s clay fashioned into a waxen homunculus, and yet devoid of all traits that could be said to be distinctive. His face was smooth, hairless, and masklike, like a wad of cartilage stretched over bone with eyes large, deep-set, and black.

  Ada breathed slowly and gripped the sides of her skirt, but she kept her gaze steady. Her mind recalled somewhat the night’s previous terror, but in the light of day it gave way more to a sense of awe. She remembered the lines of men’s faces and what they told her, of the droop in their jowls or the crinkle at the corners of their eyes when they smiled. A person’s face was a tableau of the weathered storms and blistering heat, of lines of laughter or age. The arch of a brow or curl of a lip could speak volumes to a person’s characters as could their bearing and demeanor. Yet of his she could find nothing. But for the gleam of the dark eyes, his face seemed altogether lifeless. Clearing her throat again, she stepped back apace and curtseyed a bit. “I would like to thank you for saving my life, Mr. Thorne.”

  Abel blinked at her and returned a short bow of his own. “You are most welcome, Miss Blackwood,” he replied in kind. He glanced around and bit his lip as if struggling for something to say. “I…hope your estimation of my craft will suffer no lingering effect from the unfortunate circumstances of yesternight.”

  Ada looked at the chiseled wood and the rough outlines of an eye and nose that had begun to appear on its surface. “I think they would look lovely painted.”

  Abel glanced at the wood and narrowed his eyes as if the thought had never occurred to him. He scratched his chin with a hand and mused, “Yes…Now that you mention it…I suppose that would give a bit more life to them. Interesting.” He trailed off, somewhere lost in thought. Then he turned abruptly to her. “At any rate, certainly less frightening, eh? I’ll consider it.” He turned back to the table, poured himself a glass of water from a jug, and took a swig. “I saw you had, um, collected some books from my study,” he went on, offering Ada a cup.

  “Ah, yes,” she replied, taking the cup and waiting until he had filled it. “I’m sure it must’ve been quite rude of me to go rooting around in people’s things, but—”

  “No-no, not at all,” insisted Abel, pausing for a sip and wiping his mouth. “Ut conclave sine libris ita corpus sine anima, Miss Blackwood.”

  “A room without books is like a body without a soul,” quoted Ada.

  “Ah, you know your Latin?” remarked Abel in an approving tone.

  “Some. My tutor says I’m a lethal understudy. Were you taught?”

  Abel chuckled. “Ah. When you’re alone for so long, a library becomes your first playmate. My only one, rather. I suppose that’s just a way of saying I have a lot of time on my hands.”

  “Have you read all of those books?”

  “All of them,” he confirmed with a hint of pride. “If necessity is the mother of invention, then boredom is the mother of labor.” He flitted a hand to his project. “As you may have perhaps noticed.”

  “You must be very bored,” remarked Ada, more in genuine wonder than in sarcasm.

  Abel snorted. “How eloquently you put it! Yes. Boredom. I wear my boredom on my sleeve, don’t I?”

  “There are worse things to do when bored,” replied Ada with a shrug.

  “Indeed,” murmured Abel, stepping over and toasting with a clatter of their cups. “Here’s to boredom, then.”

  “To boredom,” she giggled back and gulped from her cup.

  Abel sat at the table, and Ada took the seat across from him. “I’m just glad you didn’t run into the cistern last night.”

  Ada’s head jerked up. “Cistern?”

  Abel motioned to the right towards the dining hall, and Ada saw the brick rim of a cistern some twelve feet from the wall thereabouts. “It’s covered, but I wouldn’t trust the wood. I was worried you might fall into it in your flight last night.”

  Ada shuddered at bad memories that began to surface. She tried her best to suppress them by living in the present. It was the only way she could refrain from bursting into tears. Then, looking around from the back porch, she could see other buildings partially hidden among the trees and tall grass, including a large barn overgrown with moss and weeds, some hundred feet away from the back door. “How long have you lived here?” she queried with a sense of wonder.

  “My whole life,” replied Abel with a shrug.

  A spark came into Ada’s eye, and she leaned over the table at him. “Were you part of the former colony?”

  “Former colony?” His tone and eyes conveyed genuine confusion. “Why…I’m not aware of any former colony.”

  Ada squinted into his eyes. “How old are you?”

  Abel cocked his head back in genuine consideration. “Nineteen, I think. Though I’ve been alone for so long, it’s hard to remember.”

  Ada looked around. “Did your family build this house?”

  “My father did,” elaborated Abel with a hint of pride. “Some three years before I was born. The house itself was imported from Holland when he decided to stake his claim here.”

  “You’re Dutch, then?”

  “Oh, no. My family was from Devon. So, my mother said anyway. My father was an artisan, you see—a carpenter.” He tapped his pick on his palm and scoffed lightly at himself. “Ah, but I suppose that isn’t so surprising now, is it?”

  Ada smiled.

  “Well, anyway, I’m not good for much else, so I must while away my waking hours with whittling lest I go mad.” He tapped his pick against the wood with a dull knock. “Less of an art, really, and more of a scrimshaw. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and so on.”

  “Why not earn for yourself then?” posited Ada earnestly. “You obviously have talent, and I’m sure it would be better to peruse the shops rather than scrounge through basements and cellars or tackling hogs with your bare hands.”

  “Ah. Being as I am, I do not think I am suited for civilized company.” He motioned around his face with a hand. “I might frighten the children.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I, ah, noticed you write often. I am to understand that women do much, um…journaling. You…certainly must have a lot to write about now.”

  Ada grinned. “Oh, not journaling really. I just love writing.”

  “Writing what?”

  “Sometimes just descriptions—trying to bring the life out of a beautiful day or dreary night beside the fireplace. I try to make something of them, but in the end, they’re just—well—pretty thoughts.” She sighed and slumped back with a cheek propped against her fist. “What a story I’d have to put down now. If only I had brought it along.”

  Abel scratched his chin. “Is it so hard to tell stories? I thought the frontier would be fertile ground for tales of Indian raids and ghastly hauntings.”

  “Oh, it is! There are!” corrected Ada eagerly. “But…” Her fingers twitched from proffered palms as if striving to snatch the words from thin air. “I remain so long in the shadow of great tales. I cannot live one. I can repeat or repurpose the words of others to tell of worlds I do not know and never will. Yet I cannot summon words to my command as true writers. I cannot craft tales of my own.” She slumped back in her chair. “I have no tongue for poetry or verse. I could write of comfortable home lives, dramas of courtship, or plucky heroes rising above the throes of poverty. Why be an Emily Dickenson or a Jane Austen when I could be a Radcliffe or a Shelley? The best thrill comes from the most danger, I say. What danger is there from Mr. Darcy?” She shook her head. “No. I wish to write adventure and danger, or not at all. I want to write like the pioneers of Plymouth—honest, visceral, and to the point. I want others to gasp and shudder in their seats.”

  Abel gave a small, breathy laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. I…rather like pleasant stories. I get enough danger out here, thank you kindly.” He stopped as he noticed her giving him a peculiar look. He shifted a bit uncomfortably when it held longer, and then he remarked, “Is something wrong?”

  Ada laughed. A full-bodied laugh that slumped her over onto the table. The sound was so shocking in its intensity and so unexpected that you would think she had just had a stroke.

  Abel stared at her and gave a short laugh of disbelief. “It is rather funny, but have you heard the one about the tube and the foolish Dutchman?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that,” replied Ada, waving a hand and suppressing another chortle. “It’s just that this is such a pleasant conversation to be having with a ghost.”

  “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, given how out of practice I am. It would seem the morning does me some credit. I am not so spectral in the sunlight, but merely a ghoul.” He stood and dusted his trousers before standing proper before his guest. “You know, Miss Blackwood, I fear boredom creeps on apace.”

  Ada favored him with a lopsided, puzzled grin. “Boredom, Mr. Thorne? I hope not with me.”

  “No. I fear it is with myself. I’m afraid too long sitting has cut off circulation to my brain and I must get it flowing again. Will you take the air with me?” He offered a hand. “Perhaps if I show you the grounds, you might find your way with more safety should you stumble hereabouts on some other gloomy evening.”

  Ada looked at him a moment, trying to read something in his tone, not from distrust, but to dig as deep as she could through the air of mystique. Yet Abel’s manner bespoke one of a more direct temperament—one who spoke plainly and to the point and expected others to do likewise. Despite frustrated attempts to read between the lines, she found his sincerity refreshing and took his hand gracefully. “I think that sounds lovely, Mr. Thorne."