Epilogue
FOR decades the attic has been used as storage. Nothing but boxes and old chairs and superseded printing materials. The building itself is home to a publishing house, and the faint smell of paper and ink has impregnated the walls and floors. It is rather pleasant, if you like that sort of thing.
A knock at the door and a young woman skips across the floor from the windowsill.
It’s a particularly wide sill, perfect for perching, which is just what she’s been doing.
The girl is drawn to the window. The flat faces south so there is always sun, particularly in July.
She likes to look out across the garden, along the street, and to feed the sparrows who have started to visit her for bread crumbs.
She wonders, too, at the strange dark patches on the sill, almost like cherry stains, that refuse to remain hidden beneath the coat of fresh white paint.
Edie Burchill opens the door and is surprised and pleased to see her mother standing there. Meredith hands her a sprig of honeysuckle and says, “I saw it growing on a fence and couldn’t resist bringing you some. Nothing brightens a room quite like honeysuckle, don’t you think? Have you a vase?”
Edie hasn’t, not yet, but she does have an idea.
A glass jar, the sort that might once have been used to hold jam, was turned up during the renovation and is sitting now by the sink.
Edie fills it with water and puts the sprig inside, pops it on the windowsill where it will catch some sun.
“Where’s Dad?” she says. “He didn’t come with you today? ”
“He’s discovered Dickens. Bleak House.”
“Ah, well then,” says Edie. “I’m afraid you’ve really lost him now.”
Meredith reaches inside her bag and pulls a pile of paper from within, shakes it above her head.
“You’ve finished it!” says Edie, clapping her hands.
“I have.”
“And this is my copy?”
“I’ve had it bound especially.”
Edie grins and takes the manuscript from her mother. “Congratulations—what a feat!”
“I was going to wait until we saw you tomorrow,” Meredith says, flushing, “but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted you to be the first to read it.”
“I should think so! What time’s your class?”
“Three.”
“I’ll walk with you,” says Edie. “I’m on my way to visit Theo.”
Edie opens the door and holds it for her mother.
She’s about to follow when she remembers something.
She’s meeting Adam Gilbert later for a drink to celebrate the publication of Pippin Books’ Mud Man and has promised to show him her first edition Jane Eyre, a gift from Herbert when she agreed to take over at Billing it is a happy place.
“Are you coming, Edie?”
It’s Meredith, poking her head around the door, anxious not to be late for the writing class she loves so much.
“Coming.” Edie snatches up Jane Eyre, checks her reflection in the little mirror propped above the porcelain sink, and runs after her mother.
The door closes behind her, leaving the ghostly lovers alone once more in the quiet and the warm.