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“This is why I do this work,” she continued, unable to stop the thoughts from becoming words. “The only thing I have from them is a box of their correspondence. They loved each other desperately, even when society thought their relationship was a scandal. I lost the box years ago, but I won’t forget their love.” She swallowed hard. “I want to believe love doesn’t end, not with separation or death. Because then my mother still loves me, and my grandfather, too.” Perhaps I’m not entirely alone.

The hanging lanterns flickered, and a slash of lightning bisected the sky outside their window.

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You’re too young to experience such loss.”

The remark slipped under her skin like a barb. “I’m twenty-six, not a child.”

“But you were a child when you started speaking to ghosts?”

When she was a child, she’d nearly become a ghost.

Her chest tightened. What if by trying to deflect him, she’d handed him too much? “Will you use this against me somehow?”

“I’m not—” He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me. I’m clumsy at making conversation⁠—”

“It’s not making conversation when you’re intent on ruining me. And you haven’t shared a single thing about yourself⁠—”

“I am the seventh Earl of Valebrook,” he interrupted. “I became the earl when I was sixteen, when my father, the sixth earl, passed away unexpectedly. The seat of the earldom is at Claremont Abbey, in Yorkshire, which was essentially in ruins when I inherited it. I have spent the majority of my time there, attempting to rebuild it. It’s become something of an obsession since my wife—” He paused, sucked in a breath through flared nostrils. “Since my wife succumbed to a fever four years ago.”

He loved her. The thought barrelled into her chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. “That’s all? You define your life by what you’ve lost?”

“Isn’t your life defined by loss as well?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

He picked at a slab of bread; it was already stale and tough around the edges. “Why do some spirits still stay behind?” he asked. “Why haven’t you made them all move on?”

When he met her gaze, his eyes were haunted. Perhaps she only saw her own loneliness reflected. She’d asked herself this same question enough times that she should have an answer. More importantly, why did some spirits move on when someone wanted to hold on to them with all their heart?

“Some souls don’t wish to move on,” she finally said. “Their entire existence is grief. If we took that away, what would they be?”

“Nothing.” His smile was soft, wistful. “But grief is supposed to end.”

“Mourning ends. Grief doesn’t have to.” She reached across the table and pulled the bread from his fingers, replacing it with a biscuit. “At least when mourning is over, you can stop wearing those dreadful crepes in sad colors.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was a lovely mouth, really.

She shouldn’t think about his mouth. The cooking wine must have been stronger than she thought. Still, she took another sip, passing the bottle to him as she licked an errant drop from her lip.

His eyes snagged on the movement, locked on it, and the pulling hook turned into a persistent ache.

He took his sip of the wine—do not look at his mouth, Bridget!—and cringed, and she slapped her hands on the table.

She stood, lifting a lantern from its hook. “You don’t need to drink that swill.”

“It’s fine,” he protested. But he didn’t look eager to drink more.

“It’s not. Mrs. Keenan planned to serve wine with supper. After this poor excuse for a meal, you needn’t miss out on something else you were promised.”

He stood slowly, as if he couldn’t trust her not to take him somewhere and murder him. Not a bad instinct, if she were being honest. “Where are we going?”

“To the wine cellar.”

CHAPTER 12

The flagstone steps curved into the darkness, and Phineas braced a hand on the cold granite wall as he followed the lantern light into the depths of the cellar.

He’d forced distance between himself and Bridget, mostly to give his thoughts a moment to catch up. So much had happened so quickly, and he couldn’t make sense of a lick of it. Seeing her stripped of the turban and scarves, without the pretense of being a medium—well, it did something to him. Coupled with her confession about her parentage, he’d been flattened.