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He shook his head. “Sit. Eat,” he ordered, pointing to one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

I sat down, and he took a seat beside me. He tucked into a crumpet. Reluctantly, I took one and bit into it. The warm crumpet was delicious, softened with melted butter combined with the sweet taste of the honey.

“Mmm, this is yummy,” I murmured.

“Finally,” Dylan said, grinning with his mouth full.

Mmm. I ran my tongue up my thumb, licking off the honey and butter.

“Do you want a napkin?” Dylan offered dryly, his expression dark and unreadable. He passed me a paper towel, which I gratefully accepted, flushing.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t apologize. I’m only teasing.”

“Not you, as well.”

“Someone else has been teasing you?” Dylan sounded surprised.

I flushed again. “Um… no. It was just something Claire said,” I bluffed.

I can’t tell him about Tristan. I changed the subject. “I’d like to get my hair cut. Can you recommend somewhere?”

“Why do you want to cut it? Your hair is lovely and such an amazing color. Like molten fire. I like it down,” he added, then frowned and busied himself with taking the tea bag out of his mug.

I blushed again, embarrassed by his unexpected compliment. “You sound just like my mother.”

Mother. Mummy.

My chest sang with the familiar pain reminding me of my loss.

“Your mother liked your hair long?” Dylan asked.

“She never let me get it cut.”

“It’s your hair, of course, but she had the right idea. I like it long too.”

“Well, maybe I’ll keep it long. Though it needs a trim.”

“There are plenty of hairdressers on the High Road. I’m sure one of them will give you a trim. We can book you into one, if you like.”

He smiled, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

Kind, helpful Dylan.

I liked him.

Chapter IX Aspirin

Champagne and medicines, dreams and psychiatrists, rain and sun, euphoria and sorrow, Tristan and Dylan, and seeing my beautiful family once more—as I lay in bed that night, thoughts and memories of the day churned through my head. There was so much to process that I hardly knew where to start. Dr. Mills had said grief was a high-speed roller coaster with twists and turns. She was not wrong. She said it was normal to experience highs and lows. I snorted out loud. What had happened today did not come under the Normal heading.

A ghost? Really? A ghost named Tristan.

He was an enigma. Nineteen or twenty-one, he’d said. Did that mean he was nineteen when he died? And if he’d been alive today, he’d be twenty-one? I did a quick mental calculation—that meant he died about two years ago. I wondered when Dylan had taken possession of the house.

How did Tristan die? Could I ask him? Was it polite to ask? What was the etiquette in addressing a dead person? Did he die here? He must have done to be haunting the place. Is that how it worked? And what was the connection between him and my dream today?

I turned to stare at the photograph of my family, the four of us captured in one precious happy moment. They resembled the family I’d seen today in the bleak hazy landscape of my dream.