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Maggie made a vague humph in reply.

“Come, Tom is bringing the bags upstairs. Shall we go see our new home?” He offered his arm, like a gentleman, and Maggie slid hers through with a small sigh.

The stairway to the second-floor apartment was what Maggie would charitably describe as “poky”. Narrow—Tom’s broad shoulders almost brushed the walls—and with steps so steep, Maggie’s thighs were tingling by the time they reached the apartment door. Tom, in a rare moment of showmanship, whipped out the gangly skeleton key and unlocked the door, swinging it open with a loud clang.

All three of them poked their heads into the room. It was dark, much darker than downstairs, and had a faint musty odor. Maggie crossed the threshold first, lifting her skirts up in case of dust or puddles of God knew what. The entryway was as narrow as the stairs had been and hosted a line of pegs for coats. A small built-in cabinet for shoes was tucked into the wall, grimy and displaying generous flecks of mud. Bridgers shuffled them along to the main room, and Maggie let out a surprised “oh!”

The parlor was large and bright with sunlight streaming in from windows lining two walls. The wallpaper, like downstairs, was faded, but it gave the room a comfortable, broken-in air, and the wood framing the doors and windows was a warm oak.

Two doors, presumably leading to hallways, were on either end of the room, and Maggie headed to the left one.

“Rather bigger than I thought,” Bridgers chirped. “Hard to judge its size from downstairs, with all those little rooms taking up space.” He sniffed, pointing down the hall Maggie was walking towards. “Maggie, the listing said the bedrooms are down there. You take those while we explore the family areas.” He absently grabbed Tom’s hand, tugging him to the right. “Come, Thomas, let us investigate.”

Tom shot her a grin as he was yanked into a room to the right, disappearing behind the door.

Maggie paused for a moment, smiling at the retreating men’s backs, and advanced towards the door. She pushed it open, wincing at the shrieking creak it emitted, and stepped into another narrow hallway. Four simple doors lined the walls, two on each side, and the hall flared slightly at the end to allow space for a wide window overlooking the grimy building next door. A sitting nook, padded with worn, rather pitiful cushions, was tucked below the window. She strode forward, opening the first door on the right and stepping inside.

The room was dark, a strip of murky light pouring in from the gap between the sill and the bottom of the sheet tacked over it. She ripped the covering off, folding it and plopping it on the floor, and turned to observe the room. A pale, sickly blue wallpaper adorned the walls, and a small bed sat squat in the corner, the only furnishing. Maggie glanced at the sad, crumpled sheet, wishing it wasn’t the most welcoming part of the room, and turned to leave. The other rooms proved similar, with one boasting a larger bed and a rickety side table with a dusty Bible on it. Maggie tore down the sheets covering the windows and, in one upsetting instance, a mirror, and collected them in her arms, wrinkling her nose at the must emanating from them. Being in a somewhat reduced circumstance, they couldn’t afford to waste things like sheets, so she would give these a good wash and reuse them. Even the one from the mirror, which was almost certainly cursed or haunted.

Bridgers wandered into the hallway, hands in his pockets. “All good?”

“Can sheets be haunted?” she asked, holding up her pile like an offering. Bridgers eyed it critically, considering.

“I don’t see why not. Ghosts use sheets, don’t they? I wouldn’t presume to know more than the professionals.” He jerked a shoulder towards the door out of the hallway. “Come see the living area, dove. I think you’ll like it.”

“The bedrooms are small,” she said, following him, “but they’ll do. And there are four of them, so we have two extra rooms.”

“Excellent. Perhaps one of us can take up needlepoint and claim it as a craft room that is never used.” He steered her into the foyer. “Go look at the kitchen, woman, and stake your territory.”

Maggie, the worst cook among them, reached over and, with some hostility, pinched his left buttock.

Chapter

Three

The village, Roslyn, was—Maggie hated to use the word—quaint. She had been sent on a mission to familiarize herself with the area and she took it to heart; she assumed this request was a weak excuse for the boys to be alone and, having no interest in hearing their quiet, impassioned grunts, she readily accepted. She had discovered, so far, a tapestry shop, a greengrocer, two general stores, and a photography studio (apparently more business-savvy than the one they currently occupied), and she had taken enough pocket money to visit the butcher for a cut of stew meat.

Terrible cook she may be, but purchaser of items was a role she excelled at.

The door to the shop, named Barrow & Sons, stuck when Maggie tried to open it, and she needed to employ her shoulder, silently grateful for the deserted street around her. A dull bell thudded as she opened the door, tripping inside, and she shut it behind her, leaning into it to firmly close it against the resistant frame.

Chicken carcasses hung just below the counter, bobbing gaily from their suspension and the gust of air she’d let in. Slabs of meat—What kind? Who knew?—hung from the wall like a museum exhibit. Maggie approached the counter, silently considering what she would be able to afford with the modest amount of money she had left the apartment with. No one was present, so she rang the small bell dangling on the counter like a lily of the valley, and waited, putting a hand on her hip as she took in her surroundings.

“Sorry!” a voice called from the back room, shielded with a sheet. Was there a glut of multi-purpose sheets in Minnesota?

A man emerged, harassed-looking and shabby. His dark hair flopped onto his forehead in careless curls; his smile was wide and his eyes bright. That smile, Maggie noted, was familiar, and then she saw it: the dimple below his left eye. The light blue of those eyes, crinkled in welcome.

Theodore. Several suspended moments flashed through her mind—sad widower, father, refusal of payment. Maggie’s lungs emptied themselves and she drew in a great breath, her ribs pinching against her corset.

“Oh,” he said, his smile fading into something inscrutable. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” she agreed, feeling somewhat faint. In eleven years of traipsing around the country and lying to people’s faces, she had never encountered those faces out in the wild; they never stood still long enough to risk it. The chances of meeting this man here—here!—miles and miles from where she had given him that pitiful reading were … Well, Maggie was not very proficient in mathematics, but she imagined the chances were quite slim.

“What … How did you find me?” He tossed a bloody towel over one shoulder and crossed his arms. His not-quite-smile had frozen in place, and his eyes had turned suspicious. Maggie blinked several times.

“I don’t know.” No, that wasn’t right. Why can’t you think. Her brain had tied itself into a knot at the sight of him. His sad, pretty eyes; his grief surrounding him like a cloud. He had been hard to shake off. Impossible, apparently. “I was looking for stew meat.” The words hung in the air above her, awkward. “I … Do you sell that?”

“Yes, this is a butcher shop.” He dropped his arms. “Miss, uh …”