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I nodded again, and he raised one hand to stroke his chin, regarding me as if I were the freak of nature.

“Do you see me clearly?” he asked, and I didn’t know if he was referring to his physical appearance or his mood. I plumped for the former.

“Yes, I see you clearly.”

Very clearly, in all your glory. You look alive to me.

“How?” He seemed perplexed.

I shrugged. “With my eyes,” I said.

“Oh funny, Beauchamp,” he snapped, and for some unknown reason, this made me want to laugh, but I stifled my smile. Tristan noticed and frowned, although I suspected more in bewilderment than anger. “I just don’t understand how the hell you can see me, or how I can talk to you. It’s never happened before.”

“I see,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I did. “How long have you been… um… like this?”

“Too long.” He frowned, and apprehension, fear even, crossed his face.

“I’ve worked out what you are,” I said.

“Have you, now? It took you long enough.”

Why is he so rude? I ignored his tone. “Well, either you’re a figment of my imagination and I’m completely delusional, or you’re a…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

“I’m a… what?” he teased, looking at me as if I lacked any mental abilities.

“You know what you are. I’m finding it difficult to say, because I’m finding it difficult to believe.”

“Ah. A skeptic.” His smile mocked me.

“Are you teasing me?”

This seemed to throw him, and he blinked a couple of times. Long, dark lashes over cool green eyes. He really was very good-looking… for a ghost. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“How do you know my name?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Emily. He says it all the time, and it’s written on your bloody post. Emily Beauchamp, from Bekesbourne in Kent.”

I gasped. Of course!

“Ah! You know much more about me than I do about you.”

“Of course I do.” His tone was laced with arrogance. “You’re bereaved, depressed, musical, bright, beautiful, extremely observant, constantly overthinking. It must be exhausting.”

Beautiful!

“How do you know all that?”

He shrugged.

“How?” I pressed him.

He shrugged again but began to look uncomfortable.

What the actual…?

“Well?” I prompted, and I was reminded of the interview I’d endured this morning with Dr. Mills. I changed tack. “I know next to nothing about you.”

“What do you want to know?”