Cackle(42)

I hear a rattling sound and peer behind us to see the lemonade tray following us up the stairs. Carrying itself.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll take care of the ghosts, I promise. I didn’t think they would bother you. I understand if you don’t want to come here anymore.”

There’s such sadness in her voice, such defeat.

“Maybe not for a swim,” I say.

Her smile is bright as a firework. “Really?”

“And I don’t want to sleep in that room,” I say. “There’s a ghost in there.”

“Is there really?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry, pet. Truly, I am.”

“It’s okay.” I’m not capable of staying mad at anyone. I don’t have the stamina.

She carries me to the conservatory. It’s basically a fancy greenhouse, a giant glass room brimming with plants. It’s balmy and smells incredible. There’s a gorgeous array of colors from all of the flowers. There are rows and rows of herbs. Vines hang from the ceiling.

I’m reminded.

“Hey,” I ask her, “did you put up a plant in my stairway?”

“Hmm?” She sets me down on a stool in a corner, next to a workbench. She wastes no time busying herself, grinding away with a stone and pestle.

“I noticed there was a plant hanging above the stairs up to my apartment,” I say. I gesture to the room around us. “Wondering if maybe you had something to do with that.”

“Hm . . . oh, yes,” she says. “Mistletoe. It’s often misunderstood and absurdly misused. It brings peace. When we met, I sensed you were in need of peace.”

“Oh. Okay.” I’m not sure how I feel about her sneaking into my stairway to hang a plant, but I know her well enough by now to know that her intentions were good.

“Is that weird?” she asks me after a minute of silence. “Was that a strange thing to do? Be honest with me, please.”

“Kind of, yeah,” I say.

“It’s been so long since I . . .” She sighs. “I don’t know how to be any other way. I suppose I’m out of touch. Terribly uncool.”

“Are you about to heal my foot with magic?” I ask her. “Because that’s pretty fucking cool.”

She giggles. Her cheeks go pink and she hides them with her hands.

“I am!” she says. “I am about to do exactly that! Close your eyes.”

I do. There’s a moment of pain as she covers my foot in some kind of cold, wet paste. I hear her walking away from me, and when she returns, I hear the sound of running water and feel the spray of liquid passing gently across my foot.

“All done,” she says. “You can open your eyes now.”

My toes are straight; there’s no blood, no swelling. And more than that, there’s no more dead skin or calluses. It’s like I just got a pedicure.

“Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “I feel too guilty to be thanked. You’re not still mad, are you?”

“No,” I say. “But honestly, I don’t think I’ve really accepted what just happened.”

I don’t think I’m digesting any of this information. About Sophie, about the town, about the fact that I was just almost drowned by a ghost that could somehow manifest in physical form. My brain doesn’t know what to do with any of this. It’s like being a doctor stumped on a diagnosis. It’s probably fine. Monitor the symptoms.

“I can walk you home if you like,” she says.

I shrug. “I don’t have anything to do at home.”

At least here, I have Sophie. I have company. I don’t want to be alone, sad and thinking about Sam, about why he texted me this morning.

I wonder why he texted me this morning.

“What should we do?” she asks. “Are you hungry? Should I make the goulash? Do you want to read? Watch a movie?”

I notice a wet stain on her dress. I realize, in total horror, that it’s my blood.

“Sophie,” I say, “I think I bled on you.”

I point.

“Oh,” she says. A grin splits across her face. “Human blood. My favorite!”

That was definitely a joke.

“Come upstairs with me. We can go into my closet. Play dress-up,” she says.

“Okay!”

I put my pajama pants back on, my sweater, my socks. My bathing suit is still damp, and now my clothes are damp, too. It’s uncomfortable, and I look like a slouch compared to Sophie, who is the epitome of elegance despite her dress being stained with blood.

We go upstairs, to the east wing. Sophie opens a set of French doors and announces, “This is my room.”

It’s very black. Black-and-silver damask wallpaper, a monumental four-poster bed with black velvet curtains, a black crystal chandelier. There are bouquets of black roses in black vases all around the room. It’s intense, severe, but somehow beautiful in its severity.

“Closet is through here,” she says. She opens another set of French doors.

The closet is almost as big as the bedroom. We’re surrounded by dresses, mostly black. They seem to sway on their own, to dance in a nonexistent breeze.

Sophie walks with purpose all the way to the back of the closet. She pulls some dresses aside to reveal an armoire. She opens the bottom drawer and begins sifting through it.