Page 57 of Ghostly

“Yes, this year! Or do you want to spend more time as a ghost?”

No, of course she didn’t. But she also understood the unspoken—Gabriel would only be here until this spring. This was her one chance.

“So, what do you think?” Gabriel asked.

She blinked and forced herself to focus. “It’s a lot of work. The backyard, right now, is in shambles. Back when I was alive—well, when I died—I was taking care of it. It was no palace garden, but still, it was nice. Only a few days before, I’d planted three new rose bushes. I still remember what spot they were in.” She’d calculated it precisely, to prevent the house from sinking.

“That’s great.” Gabriel’s face shone with enthusiasm. “Dina does gardening. She can help with advice.”

“But I—I—well, I fell down right by the wall. So the radius would extend into the dining room and the kitchen.”

“The contents of which have long since been replaced.” Gabriel rubbed his chin. “But the contract saysas close to, notthe same. I assume a good replication will do. Mark’s family owns an antique store in town. I’m sure they could procure me some Victorian furniture. You only need to tell me how this place looked.”

“And the house?”

“Huh?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, the facade hasn’t exactly persevered.”

“Then I’ll do a paint job.” Gabriel spread his arms. “Time to put some of my own effort into it, anyway.”

“You’re only leasing the house. Do you think the landlady will let you make all the renovations?”

Gabriel waved his hand. “I’ll charm her. Or bribe her, if the need be.”

“Is bribe always plan B for you lawyers?”

“Not with money.” He leaned in, his lips stretching into a perfect, rascally smile. Nice lips—wide and just full enough to hint how sensual—“With food.”

“Huh?”

He leaned back, stretching his hand on the backrest. “I’ll invite her for dinner, have a nice talk. Trust me, that’s gonna be the least of our problems.”

How would it feel like to have some of her past restored? Ida gazed around the room, and her eyes stopped on the bookcase. Whenever the content in the bookcase changed—such as when a tenant left— she’drearranged it to distribute the weight evenly. An automatic compulsion that stayed with her even as she died, just like straightening the statues and crossing the doorway. She remembered why she used to do it, too.

The bookcase must be balanced,lest the wall collapse. The wall will collapse and Harry’s bedroom is rightabove it; he’ll fall and die.

“So?” Gabriel tilted his head.

Wall will collapse… wall will collapse…

“Excuse me,” she choked out, and glided through the table and straight out into the backyard.

The spot she’d died in, that unfortunate patch of grass, was covered with a thick blanket of snow. Ida stopped near the half-rotten wooden bench and took in the house.

All the rose bushes must be neatly lined up and the soil of perfectdensity, or the left side of the house will sink.

Misaligned statues in the hallway make the floor lean toward the garden.It’s dangerous—you can’t walk on uneven ground. You trip and you fall and youdie.

Jacinda might die in childbirth and I’ll be free of her.

She remembered the thoughts with painful clarity. They couldn’t hurt her now, only make her feel stupid because the rosebushes had been gone for decades and clearly, the house was still fine; the statues got misaligned many times, and no one died of it yet. The house didn’t collapse because one book was out of place in the living room.

But if Ida came back to life, the thoughts would return in full. They would no longer be harmless memories; the voice would live in her head, day and night, make her question and stumble upon every action, make her waste hours of her newly gained life every day just to satisfy something that made no sense.

She wanted to be alive again. But she was also terrified at the prospect.

Closing her eyes, she glided on a short path from the bench to the winterberry bush and back again, and back again, and back again. Was she getting too caught up in her thoughts? She remembered that, too. How she’d analyze every single prospect of a fact until it felt like her brain was overheating.