“Dead bodies are such trouble,” Evie said with a little sigh, and Mabel had to turn her head away so as not to laugh.
“Indeed,” Miss Lillian clucked. “When the Bennington was built, in 1872, it was said that the architect, who had descended from a long line of witches, fashioned the building on ancient occult principles so that it would always be a sort of magnet for the otherworldly. So as I said, don’t pay any mind to the odd sounds or sights you might experience. It’s just the Bennington, dear.”
Miss Lillian attempted a smile. A blot of red lipstick marked her teeth like a bloodstain. At her side, Miss Addie smiled into the distance and nodded as if greeting unseen guests.
“Please do excuse us, but we must retire,” Miss Lillian said. “We’re expecting company soon, and we must prepare. You will do us the honor of calling one evening, won’t you?”
“How could I not?” Evie answered.
Miss Addie turned suddenly to Evie, as if truly seeing her for the first time. Her expression was grim. “You’re one of them, aren’t you, dear?”
“Miss O’Neill is Mr. Fitzgerald’s niece,” Mabel supplied.
“No. One of them,” Miss Addie said in an urgent whisper that sent a shiver up Evie’s spine.
“Now, now, Addie, let’s leave these girls to their dinner. We’ve work to do. Adieu!”
The Proctor sisters were barely out of the dining room when Mabel convulsed in a fit of giggling. “ ‘After the fever, there were the paupers,’ ” she mimicked, still laughing.
“What do you suppose she meant, ‘You’re one of them’? Does she say that to everyone she meets?” Evie asked, hoping she didn’t sound as unsettled as she felt.
Mabel shrugged. “Sometimes Miss Addie wanders the floors in her nightgown. My father’s had to return her to her flat a few times.” Mabel tapped her index finger against the side of her head. “Not all there. She probably meant you’re one of those flappers, and she does not approve,” she teased, wagging her finger like a schoolmarm. “Oh, this really is going to be the best time of our lives, isn’t it?” she said with such enthusiasm that Evie put Miss Addie’s upsetting comment out of her mind.
“Pos-i-tute-ly!” Evie said, raising her glass. “To the Bennington and its ghosts!”
“To us!” Mabel added. They clinked their glasses to the future.
Evie and Mabel spent the afternoon catching up, and by the time Evie returned to Uncle Will’s apartment it was nearly seven, and Will and Jericho had returned. The apartment was larger than she remembered, and surprisingly homey for a bachelor flat. A grand bay window looked out onto the leafy glory of Central Park. A settee and two chairs flanked a large radio cabinet, and Evie breathed a sigh of relief. There was a tidy kitchenette, which looked as if it rarely saw use. The bathroom boasted a tub perfect for soaking, but devoid of even the simplest luxuries. She’d soon fix that. Three bedrooms and a small office completed the suite. Jericho showed her to a narrow room with a bed, a desk, and a chifforobe. The bed squeaked, but it was comfortable.
“That goes to the roof,” Jericho said, pointing to a fire escape outside her window. “You can see most of the city from up there.”
“Oh,” Evie managed to reply. “Swell.” She intended to do more than watch the city from the roof. She would be in the thick of it. Her trunk had arrived, and she unpacked, filling the empty drawers and wardrobe with her painted stockings, hats, gloves, dresses, and coats. Her long strands of pearls she draped from the posts of her bed. The one item she did not put away was her coin pendant from James. When she’d finished, Evie sat with Jericho and Uncle Will in the parlor as the men finished a supper of cold sandwiches in wax paper bought from the delicatessen on the corner.
“How did you come to be in the employ of my uncle?” Evie asked Jericho with theatrical seriousness. Jericho looked to Uncle Will, whose mouth was full. Neither said a word. “Well. It’s a regular mystery, I guess,” Evie went on. “Where’s Agatha Christie when you need her? I’ll just have to make up stories about you. Let’s see… you, Jericho, are a duke who has forfeited his duchy—funny word, duchy—and Unc is hiding you from hostile forces in your native country who would have your head.”
“Your uncle was my legal guardian until I turned eighteen this year. Now I’m working for him, as his assistant curator.”
The men continued eating their sandwiches, leaving Evie’s curiosity unsatisfied. “Okay. I’ll bite. How did Unc—”
