Matt, who had been hovering a short distance away, heard me. He stepped back, turned abruptly, and strode up the hill to his Jeep.

Neither of us spoke on the way home. I knew Matt thought that I was telling him to leave me alone, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. He wouldn’t believe I had been talking to a ghost.

He parked in front of the house and got out of the Jeep without glancing at me. Following him up the porch steps, I noticed the clay and mud caked on the thick rubber soles of his Nikes.

“Our shoes are a mess,” I said, sitting down on a bench to remove mine. He checked his, then sat opposite me. By the time he started unlacing his shoes, mine were off and I was carrying them into the house.

Grandmother met me, coming through the door from the back wing. “You’re late.”

“For dinner?” I glanced up at the landing clock. It wasn’t five yet.

She stared at my shoes. “What were you doing after work?”

“Hanging out.”

Matt came in the door and Grandmother’s eyes darted to his shoes. Color rose in her cheeks. “Where have you been?”

Though the question was fired at him, I answered, since the trip had been my idea. “To the mill.”

“Why did you take her there?” Grandmother demanded, still focusing on Matt.

I saw the wary look on his face. “1 asked him to,” I said.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Megan wanted to see the place,” Matt replied, “and I thought it’d be safer if I went with her.”

“Megan wanted to see the place,” Grandmother mimicked.

“I did,” I said. “I was curious.”

Grandmother took a step toward me. “I told you the day you came that I expected you to respect my privacy. Didn’t I?”

I nodded silently.

“I’m speaking to you now. Answer me aloud!”

“Yes, Grandmother.” I couldn’t snap at her. If I was feeling haunted by Avril’s presence, I could only imagine how she felt.

“So now you’re going to be sweet and soft-spoken,” she observed, her lips curling. “Sweet and sneaky.”

“Ease up, Grandmother,” Matt said. “Did you ever tell Megan not to go to the mill?”

“Are you defending her?”

“All I’m saying is you’re getting all worked up over a little visit to the mill,” he replied.

“And Lydia Riley,” she added.

I looked at Grandmother, surprised. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you promise not to speak to her again.”

“Why?”

“Don’t talk back to me!” Her voice was shrill.

I sat down on the steps, hoping to make this a conversation rather than an irrational shouting match. “I wasn’t talking back,” I explained. “I was just wondering-”

“You’re living in my house, you’ll follow my rules.”

I bit my lip, then nodded.

Matt rested a hand on her arm. “Grandmother, be fair.

Megan was just asking-” She turned on him. “I don’t have to explain my rules to anyone, including you, Matt.” Her jaw began to shake. “I can’t trust you anymore. Not since she’s come.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’re loyal to her now.”

He stared at Grandmother. It was as if he had to be on her side, or my side, and wasn’t allowed to care about both of us at the same time.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he said, and walked out the back door of the hall.

Grandmother stood in front of me, her head held high, then strode into the library and shut the door behind her.

I remained sitting on the steps, bewildered by her jealous suspicions. Some wounds heal, others fester, Mrs. Riley had said. Maybe Grandmother had never really healed from her first betrayal. Matt was the most significant person in her life now, and she the most consistent person in his. I wondered if she saw me as someone like Avril, putting myself between them. Maybe Grandmother was afraid of losing out again.

Well, that was her problem. She was the one who chose to spin her world around one grandchild, rejecting my parents and brothers and me. I rose and climbed the stairs, feeling torn between pity and anger. Then I heard the machinery of the big clock begin to wind. I took the steps two at a time, hurrying past before it could start its dismal tolling.

twelve

Wednesday morning I saw Matt just long enough to ask if I could pick up my e-mail from his computer. When he’d left for school, Grandmother informed me that she had an early appointment. I didn’t ask where, not after yesterday’s reminder about her privacy. She drove off and I went upstairs to retrieve my mail. I had several messages from friends at home, but it was Mom’s letter I was most eager to open. I printed it out, deleted the electronic copy, then sat back to read.

Hi, Sweetheart!

Dad and I loved your e-mail. We felt like we were back on High Street again.

Life here isn’t the same without you. Pete and Dave have both said they miss you, though I promised them I wouldn’t squeal (crossed my fingers).

In your note you barely mentioned Grandmother. I know you, Megan, and I worry when you get silent. I’m counting on you to let me know if there’s a problem.

So you found the dollhouse! It was built for Grandmother and her sister. I played with it as a kid, but I can’t find a photo of it anywhere.

Why do you ask?

About Aunt Avril. Neither Mother nor Dad spoke much of her. I’ve never even seen her picture — perhaps they were all put away when she died. We weren’t supposed to ask questions about her. Dad said it made Mother sad to think about her sister. I do remember putting birthday flowers on her grave in April — Avril is the French word for that month. In October, too — I think that’s when she died.

She had a close friend named Angel, Angel Cayton. Angel’s father was a doctor, and someone told me that Avril was brought to him the night she died. That’s as much as I know.

Everyone’s well here. The Naughtons’ spaniel had puppies. Write soon. And this time don’t leave out whatever you were trying to skirt around in your last e-mail.

Love, Mom I printed out my friends’ notes, then logged off. As soon as I got to work, I’d ask Ginny to help me find Avril’s friend.

“Angel Cayton,” Ginny said, stuffing tissue down the arms of a pale silk dress that was decorated with seed pearls.

She and I had put the dress on a seamstress form so Ginny could photograph it for an out-of-town client. “I haven’t thought about her in ages. She died fifteen, no, must be twenty years ago now. Angel was a character-very active in town affairs and generous with her money. She started the Watermen’s Fund.”

“Did she leave behind any family?” I asked, though I had little hope of someone remembering stories they were told more than twenty years ago.

“I don’t think so. Evie?”

Evie Brown, one of our elderly customers who came by almost every day, was standing in front of a mirror, trying purses on her arm.

“Evie, do you know if Angel Cayton has any family left around here?”

Miss Brown chewed over the name for a moment.

“Nope,” she said at last. “Angel was an only child and never married. Her sweetheart, Sam Tighe, died in the last war.”

“That’s World War 11,” Ginny whispered to me.

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