Chapter 26
Lanston
How canit be that you come to know someone more than you know yourself? I would know her in any life, this I am certain. I don’t believe in such things, but should reincarnation be real… I’m beginning to think Ophelia is my eternity. We would find each other in every life or death, even as phantoms. We would know, just as I do now. Our souls call and beckon, waiting for the inevitable joining of us.
She looks at me the way Wynn used to, but more. She unshackles me and helps me spread my wings, encourages me to find the light I seek, joining me in my adventure. She is a spark of desire and uncontainable affection.
I’m a hopeless romantic. This I know. But I never knew it was this little rose I’d been searching for.
Ophelia stares up in awe at the towering ceilings of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
As she observes the architecture, her mouth falls open—more than once. I chuckle to myself at her reaction to this place. It is beautiful yet chilling in a way.
The air is heavy beneath these old stones. A mildewy and aged scent lingers, much like how I anticipated a place as old as this to smell. The stained glass windows are breathtaking, letting in colored lighting and dappling the floors with the rainbows of a worshipped god.
“This is… I don’t know. I can’t even express it,” Ophelia says as she slowly makes her way up to the choir. A priest readies his sermon and many tourists gather in the pews. The aisles aren’t very spacious and the old wood creaks beneath the weight of the visitors.
We walk past the priest and up into the restricted portions of the building.
It’s dark up here, the stones aren’t as clean, and the air is thick with dust and moisture. I follow Ophelia, sparing glances at the large paintings that grace the walls.
“It feels off up here,” I say, knowing that I’ll sound like I’m afraid of dark, decrepit places. And, well, I am.
She doesn’t turn to look at me as she says, “Oh, don’t be a baby. No one gets to see these parts of the cathedral. Where is your sense of adventure?”
I give her a sarcastic grin. “I don’t have one.”
Ophelia laughs and holds her hand out behind her, open and waiting for me. I set my palm in hers and let her lead the way.
“What if this place is haunted?” I ask slowly, humorously. Cold ebbs into my bones as we continue through the restricted area. That stops her right in her tracks. Ophelia turns and gives me a sour expression.
“Really?”
“Well, obviously not us, but what if there are unfriendly phantoms lurking around?” My eyes trail through the dark corridors, and I swear I see movement in the far doorway.
“Why would you assume they are unfriendly?” I shrug and she sighs. “Maybe we’re the unfriendly ones.”
I wait until she turns to face forward again before rolling my eyes. A flash of white races across the hall from one door to another. We both freeze and I set my hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I whisper-shout, already turning on my heels. Ophelia brushes my hand off her shoulder and walks steadily toward the room with a phantom. “Ophelia!” She ignores me.
I curse under my breath before following after her; fists curled at my sides with fear as my breaths become hollow and short.
“Hello?” Ophelia says softly. Her voice is like silk, enticing and kind, anyone should answer to such a lilting sound.
We both stop at the doorframe and stare into the large, empty room. A thin, tall ghost dances alone. Her white hair reminds me of starlight and as she slowly twirls, arms lifted slightly, she grins nostalgically. Perhaps she is remembering her partner.
“Hello, phantoms.” The dullness of her voice skates across my spine. Her steps are light and I notice she wears no shoes—only the rag-like white dress that drapes over her shoulders. “Far away from home, aren’t you?”
Chills crawl up my spine. How’d she know?
When neither of us replies, the woman stops dancing and faces the windows that overlook the well-tended gardens below. Rain steadily pitter-patters over the grounds, thickening the air. I have to blink a few times when the mist starts to appear around the woman.
The way she holds herself is so melancholic.
She does not face us as she speaks. “What is it you want?”
Ophelia looks at me, and I shake my head. You’re the one who wanted to chase her, I want to say.
Clearing her throat, Ophelia says, “We are only passing through.”
The phantom lifts her head a bit but still does not turn in our direction. “A journey? What could two ghosts possibly be traveling for? Don’t you have a manor to haunt?”
I press my lips into a thin line, trying my best not to laugh. This woman must be long dead to think in such archaic ways. Must phantoms haunt places?
“A bucket list,” I intervene, “of things we could not do while we were alive.”
The woman pauses. Considering us. Then she turns her head only enough for us to see the side of her face. I tremble and resist the urge to recoil. The nerves in my body shoot fleeing sensations through me.
Where are her eyes?
The woman has only a mouth left; her long white hair seems to weep beside her sorrow. Ophelia tenses at my side as well, taken by the revelation of her missing features.
“You’ve never seen one like me, have you?” the phantom says gently. I’m sure it’s not hard to place the reason for our sudden silence.
We both shake our heads, almost like children. We don’t wish to be rude, but we’re also shocked.
“Be glad for it and pass on to the afterlife. Lest you become like me.”
Ophelia hesitantly steps a bit closer. I want to pull her back, but I keep my hands firmly placed at my sides.
“How do phantoms regress to your state?” she asks boldly.
The phantom holds up her hand, the light from the window spilling through her bones. She says placidly, “I’ve been here far longer than any ghost in Dublin. I suppose I began to notice the change after the first few centuries.”
Centuries? How terrible.My brows pull closer with pity for the ghost. To be stuck here in the in-between for this long is a cruel fate.
“Can we help you in any way?” I ask. If we helped Charlie, then we might be able to help her too. However, I don’t know anything about the city and I’m sure neither does Ophelia.
The woman turns back to face the window and, with a deep breath, her shoulders sag. “There is one thing.”
Ophelia lights up and shoots me a quick, eager look over her shoulder.
“I haven’t left this cathedral in over three hundred years. You see, there was a man I once loved. He would bring me roses and sing to me. After I died, well, I don’t know what happened to him. If you could find out for me, I think that might bring me a great deal of relief. Peace.” She lifts her head once more. I think she’s looking at me, but it’s hard to tell with only impressions on her face where her eyes should be. “My name is Elanor. Please, find my Gregory Briggs.”
It’s a task I wasn’t expecting her to say. I glance at Ophelia and she has her chin held high, tears brimming but not yet falling. Ah yes, my rose is a hopeless romantic as well. Her heart must be breaking for this old, forgotten ghost who dances in the dark, alone and away from the world. Even her face is forgotten.
“I will find what became of him,” Ophelia says, not as a statement but as a promise. Elanor seems pleased by it and resumes her forlorn slow dance.
We see ourselves out of the cathedral and don’t speak until we’re a few blocks away, slipping inside a warm bakery for an afternoon cup of tea and croissants. We help ourselves to the food without a blink from the staff or customers.
The water has long since dried off my clothes, but Ophelia’s hair is still wet. I wonder why she takes so long to dry sometimes. A drop trickles down her face and drips from her nose. I frown and reach over the table with a borrowed scarf from the gal behind us.
Ophelia’s cheeks are red, and she smiles at me innocently as I dry her face and hair.
“Thanks,” she murmurs thoughtfully before sipping on her tea.
I lean back in the wooden chair and take her in. Trying to get a read on this woman is like trying to solve the world’s hardest math problem. And I’ll be the first to admit that I was never any good at math.
She solves it for me.
“How are we going to find Gregory Briggs? We didn’t even get a time period to search for.” Ophelia sullens and takes another long sip.
I laugh and take a bite from my croissant. “Ophelia, we can’t possibly find him. The poor phantom will need to find her peace some other way.”
That earns me a scowl.
“We’ll find a way.”
I swallow thickly, feeling the heat in my veins. I hate confrontation, even as mild as this is. “Ophelia, where would we even start? You said it yourself: you cannot stay in one place for too long. Those Who Whisper might catch up to us again and we’ve already been here for the full day.” I try to say it kindly and with reason, but she looks troubled.
“I saw so much of myself in her, Lanston. I don’t want to leave without giving her something, even a small piece of information that might help her pass on.” Her eyes dim and she stares down into her mug.
She’s right, we have time for at least a quick internet search or rummage through the old libraries.
“How about we look while we’re at Trinity College then?”
Ophelia’s eyes meet mine as she lifts her head. A lovely smile spreads over her lips and I allow my eyes to linger there. I’d do anything to see her smile like this forever.