HE CAN SEE ME.

I lean against the ancient wall as though I’m real again; a woman waiting for tea not a ghost waiting for the ever after.

I do not know how or why, but he can see me so much sooner than anyone else ever has. He must be different. Perhaps he will be the one that frees me...

Mr. Spencer Kilbourn can see spirits bound in place by Creole voodoo. I wonder if he’s the descendant of Laveau, sent home to torment me in a new way. I consider his physique. His familiars are ghosts, and he has one foot in the grave.

Something scrapes across the floor upstairs.

But even as the suspicion comes, I dismiss it. Spencer has the bearing of a knight prepared to give his all to make things right. Providence has led him to my asylum.

It has been over one hundred and eighty years since I have had a conversation, a real human conversation... with someone other than myself.

With anyone other than them... My gaze drifts to the ceiling, and I press a hand to my mouth to suppress a whimper. Not yet.

If Spencer can see me, maybe he can hear me... talk to me.

I’ve not spoken with someone in so long. I ache for that human interaction.

Because of my mother. Because she saved herself, paying with my life. I shake my head, stop my thoughts. I’ve replayed the memory over and over. No use to do it yet again. I push the ugly thoughts away.

More thumping and rattling chains... I try not to focus on them.

Richard.

His name anchors me. I know they’re coming, but anything to not think about the pain to come.

Richard.

His were the conversations I missed most. My body shudders at the memory of him, and I instinctively wrap my arms about my chest, try to stay the tremors. I miss him.

I miss him so much. It’s a constant aching in my belly, whenever I’m awake to feel it. There’s something about this new arrival, Spencer, that causes the ache to be nearly overwhelming this time, like my fingers are pressed to a darkened glass with Richard on the other side.

Quakes assault my body once again and the fierce hold of my own arms around me do nothing to calm them. I’m a ship at sea, the weather stormy, the crests bowing over the deck and threatening to upturn me.

I used to be jealous of her, of Annabelle. I wanted to be her, with a family that adored and mollycoddled her. I guess now I can look at it in a different way.

She is long dead, and I am a ghost, the left-behinds of a person. Maybe there’s not much difference between my cage and a crypt nestled against the New Orleans’ grass, but I can still hear and see the world around me.

And this new arrival. This Spencer... It’s a hope to hold to.

Thinking of Annabelle draws me down to the large mirror hung at the first landing halfway up the stairs. It is joined by a narrow table and a set of pewter candlesticks that have been part of this house since before my arrival. They were lit that night, along with a hundred other tiny flames, when I faced Laveau.

Looking at the dusty, reflective surface, a woman looks back. She is not me, yet she is what I have become during my imprisonment. The shadows have crept into my features, darkening my once golden-red hair into a black so deep it shines with navy hue. My eyes, once blue pools of sparkling water, are deep gray and framed by rings of iridescent, ghostly silver. My skin rivals the paleness of those silvery circles.

I used to be rosy-cheeked. I used to be kissed by the warmth of the sun, blushing and demure on Richard’s arm.

Now I am walking darkness.

And no one could love me. Not like this.

It plagues me, the alterations. I wonder often how much more will change. What will become of me if the spell is not broken? Will I continue to pale until I am transparent? Will I disappear into the ether, a lost thing that no one will miss?

I sweep a hand through my disheveled, waist-length hair. Once, the hair had been piled atop my head in an artful style, reddish curls spinning down the back in ringlets that caught the light. The dress had been untorn, floral and lace with delicate black buttons running from waist to neck. My hands had been soft, despite the lash scars across the palms.

Turning around, I see the back of my gown, the way it is ripped and falling off my shoulders to reveal my upper back. In my era, the amount of skin I am now showing would be inappropriate, lewd, better suited for opium dens and brothels. There are more scars peeking out there, whip marks running from lower neck to hips. She always did it there, in places the abuse would not be seen. Mother had always made me wear gloves in public also. So many old wounds. Reminders.

A monster in our home. A respectable madam in the streets.

Facing the mirror again, I frown. No, no one could love me how I am now. Not my Richard and especially not this Spencer, who has made me feel more alive than I have in forever.

Tears.

They build in my eyes and stream down my cheeks.

I can feel them and it is a sensation that has been lost to me these many years. Another teasing cruelty in this prison, that I have been impotent to shed tears and release my grief.

As I study my face, the droplets of salty wetness are a mix of both joy and sadness. And, in a brief moment so fleeting that it is instantly lost to doubt, I see a stream of blue enter the silver of my eyes and wash away. I shouldn’t dare to hope.

The top step creaks.