Chapter Eleven
“We are so happy y’all could join us,” Cece said when they reached the top of the stairs and started down a drafty hall. “She’s been
a little mopey. Since she fell ,” she added in a whisper. Like it was a crime to admit that Eleanor was human. And frail. And, in fact, an eighty-one-year-old
woman and not just the icon who lived in Maggie’s mind.
“How bad was it?” Ethan asked.
“Oh, it was more scary than bad.” Cece waved the worry away. “The runner was loose and the railing was old and, well, she’s
just not a young woman anymore. It could have been a lot worse.”
Maggie had lost her mom and dad at eighteen. She’d never even known her grandparents. Maggie didn’t have family memories or
family heirlooms or family in any way at all. Maggie had no one. Maggie had nothing. But Maggie had always had Eleanor, and
the thought of what might have happened...
“This is her office.” Cece paused for a moment in front of a large door and Maggie stumbled to a stop. “But I wouldn’t go
in there if I were you,” Cece warned. “She doesn’t like people touching her new book. Even if they were just dusting and didn’t
mean to mess up chapter twenty—”
“New book?” Maggie didn’t even try to keep her voice down. “She’s writing number one hundred?”
“Oops.” Cece’s cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t supposed to mention that.”
Maggie was aware, faintly, of footsteps walking away, of the air growing colder and stiller around her. But, mostly, she could
feel herself leaning, teetering, starting—
A warm hand slipped into her cold one. “Come along, Margaret Grace.” She forgot to put up a fight as Ethan dragged her away.
Five minutes later, Maggie was starting to wish she’d run a string, left a bread trail, maybe invested in some high-end walkie-talkies
because she was pretty sure the only way she was going to find the first floor again would be to go to a window and jump.
The halls were long and twisty and the whole house felt like a maze as they followed Cece up staircases and down corridors,
past bookcases and alcoves and windows that overlooked twenty thousand acres of very empty England.
“Your rooms are just up...” Cece trailed off as a sharp scream pierced the air outside.
“Is this place haunted?” Ethan whispered to Maggie. “Five bucks says it’s haunted.”
And maybe he was on to something because all the color drained from Cece’s face as she went to the window and started wiping
condensation off the glass.
“They’re early.” Cece groaned as the sound of slamming car doors echoed up from the drive below. “They must have tried to
beat the storm...” She was already walking away when she stopped and pointed to a pair of open doors. “Those are your rooms.
We have cocktails in the library at six. Don’t be late for cocktails. Aunt Eleanor hates it when people are—” More shouts
sounded from outside. “If you need anything, there are bell pulls and—” A baby’s cries echoed through the glass. “Library.
Six o’clock.” Then Cece turned and dashed away.
“My money’s still on ghost.” Ethan sounded smug.
“That was a baby.”
“Name me one thing that’s creepier than a baby ghost.” It was the most serious she’d ever seen him and Maggie bit back a smile
because she didn’t dare agree.
Instead, she chose a room at random, but before she could step inside, Ethan eased in front of her and rested a forearm on
the doorframe and just kind of... leaned. He looked big and strong and confident while Maggie stood there, grateful she
hadn’t fallen on her face in Eleanor Ashley’s driveway. Worse: she knew her ability to stay upright had been largely because
of him, and Maggie knew she should say thank you. Or something. She should definitely say—
“So how will we pass the time? Wanna make out?” He flashed a grin and Maggie darted under his arm.
She could still hear the deep timbre of his laughter long after she’d closed the door and thrown herself onto the four-poster
bed and screamed into the pillow.
You’ve been invited to spend Christmas with your biggest fan , Deborah had said. It was probably an exaggeration. Maggie didn’t actually believe that Eleanor Ashley had read her books.
But Eleanor knew Maggie’s name. She’d invited Maggie into her home.
The mattress bounced. The bed-curtains jiggled. And Maggie let herself think that maybe—just maybe—Christmas might not be
so awful after all.