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age。 it was her hand that lifted a diary from one place and hid it in another； her hand that replaced it later。 if； as you turned into a corridor； the curious idea occurred to you that you had just missed seeing the sole of a shoe disappearing around the far corner； then the little ghost was not far away。 and when； surprised by the back of the neck feeling as if someone has their eye on you； you raised your head to find the room empty； then you could be sure that the little ghost was hiding in the emptiness somewhere。
her presence could be divined in any number of ways by those who had eyes to see。 yet she was not seen。
she haunted softly。 on tiptoe； in bare feet； she made never a sound； and yet she recognized the footfall of every inhabitant of the house； knew every creaking board and every squeaky door。 every dark corner of the house was familiar to her； every nook and every cranny。 she knew the gaps behind cupboards and between sets of shelves； she knew the backs of sofas and the underneath of chairs。 the house； to her mind； was a hundred and one hiding places； and she knew how to move among them invisibly。
isabelle and charlie never saw the ghost。 living as they did； outside logic； outside reason； they were not the sort to be perplexed by the inexplicable。 losses and breakages and the mislaying of random items seemed to them part of the natural universe。 a shadow that fell across a carpet where a shadow ought not to be did not cause them to stop and reflect； such mysteries seemed only a natural extension of the shadows in their hearts and minds。 the little ghost was the movement in their peripheral vision； the unacknowledged puzzle in the back of their minds； the permanent shadow attached； without their knowing it； to their lives。 she scavenged for leftovers in their pantry like a mouse； warmed herself at the embers of their fires after they had gone to bed； disappeared into the recesses of their dilapidation the instant anyone appeared。
she was the secret of the house。
like all secrets； she had her guardians。
the housekeeper saw the little ghost as plain as day； despite her failing eyesight。 a good thing； too。 without her collaboration there would never have been enough scraps in the pantry； enough crumbs from the breakfast loaf； to sustain the little ghost。 for it would be a mistake to think that the ghost was one of those incorporeal； ethereal specters。 no。 she had a stomach； and when it was empty it had to be filled。
but she earned her keep。 for as much as she ate； she also provided。 the other person who had the knack of seeing ghosts； you see； was the gardener； and he was glad of an extra pair of hands。 she wore a wide…brimmed hat and an old pair of john’s trousers； cut off at the ankle and held up with braces； and her haunting of the garden was fruitful。 in the soil potatoes grew swollen under her care； aboveground the fruit bushes nourished； producing clusters of berries that her hands sought out under low leaves。 not only did she have a magic touch for fruit and vegetables； but the roses bloomed as they had never bloomed before。 later； he learned the secret desire of box and yew to bee geometry。 at her bidding leaves and branches grew corners and angles； curves and mathematically straight lines。
in the garden and in the kitchen the little ghost did not need to hide。 the housekeeper and the gardener were her protectors； her guardians。 they taught her the ways of the house and how to be safe in it。 they fed her。 they watched over her。 when a stranger came to live in the house； with sharper eyes than most； with a desire to banish shadows and lock doors； they worried about her。
more than anything else； they loved her。
but where did she e from？ what was her story？ for ghosts do not appear at random。 they e only to where they know they are at home。 and the little ghost was at home in this house。 at home in this family。 though she had no name； though she was no one； still the gardener and the housekeeper knew who she was all right。 her story was written in her copper hair and her emerald eyes。
for here is the most curious thing about the whole story。 the ghost bore the most uncanny resemblance to the twins already living in the house。 how else could she have lived there unsuspected for so long？ three girls with copper hair that fell in a mass down their backs。 three girls with striking emerald eyes。 odd； don’t you think； the resemblance they both bore to the little ghost and she to them？
‘when i was born；“ miss winter told me； ”i was no more than a subplot。“ so she began the story in which isabelle went to a picnic； met roland and eventually ran away to marry him； escaping her brother’s dark； unbrotherly passion。 charlie； neglected by his sister； went on a rampage； venting his rage； his passion； his jealousy on others。 the daughters of earls or of shopkeepers； of bankers or of chimney sweeps； to him it did not really matter who they were。 with or without their consent； he threw himself upon them in his desperation for oblivion。
isabelle gave birth to her twins in a london hospital。 two girls with nothing of their mother’s husband about them。 copper hair—just like their uncle。 green eyes—just like their uncle。
here is the subplot： at about the same time； in some barn or dim cottage bedroom； another woman gave birth。 not the daughter of an earl； i think。 or a banker。 the well…off have ways of dealing with trouble。 she must have been some anonymous； ordinary； powerless woman。 her child was a girl； too。 copper hair。 emerald eyes。
child of rage。 child of rape。 charlie’s child。
once upon a time there was a house called angelfield。
once upon a time there were twins。
once upon a time there came to angelfield a cousin。 more likely a half sister。
as i sat in the train with hester’s diary closed in my lap； the great rush of sympathy i was beginning to feel for miss winter was curtailed when another illegitimate child came to mind。 aurelius。 and my sympathy turned to anger。 why was he separated from his mother？ why abandoned？ why left to fend for himself in the world without knowing his own story？
i thought； too； of the white tent and the remains beneath it that i now knew not to be hester’s。
it all boiled down to the night of the fire。 arson； murder； abandonment of a baby。
when the train arrived in harrogate and i stepped out onto the platform； i was surprised to find it ankle…deep in snow。 for although i had been staring out the window of the train for the last hour； i had seen nothing of the view outside。
i thought i knew it all； when i had my moment of elucidation。
i thought； when i realized that there were not two girls at angelfield but three； that i had the key to the whole story in my hand。
at the end of my cogitations i realized that until i knew what happened on the night of the fire； i knew nothing。
。。
The Thirteenth TaleBONES
it was christmas eve； it was late； it was snowing hard。 the first taxi driver and the second refused to take me so far out of town on such a night； but the third； indifferent of expression； must have been moved by the ardor of my request； for he shrugged his shoulders and let me in。 “we’ll give it a go；” he warned gruffly。
we drove out of town and the snow continued to fall； piling up meticulously； flake by flake； on every inch of earth； every hedge top； every bough。 after the last village； the last farmhouse； we found ourselves in a white landscape； the road indistinguishable at times from the flat land all about； and i shrank into my seat； expecting at any moment that the driver would give up and turn back。 only my clear directions reassured him that we were in fact on a road。 i got out myself to open the first gate； then we found ourselves at the second set； the main gates of the house。
‘i hope you’ll find your way back all right；“ i said。
‘me？ i’ll be all right；“ he said with another shrug。
as i expected； the gates were locked。 not wanting the driver to think i was some kind of thief； i pretended to be looking for my keys in my bag while he turned the car。 only when he was some distance away did i grab hold of the bars of the gate and clamber over。
the kitchen door was not locke