If there was a spirit in this house, it was me; if there was a haunting, it was my own.
Am I awake? I murmured to my reflection the morning after Hetty had told me of my nightly wandering, watching the slow way my mouth moved, the swallow of my throat.
Am I dreaming? I thought as I sat on the lip of the bath in my tower bathroom, staring down at my body, my limbs, the pool of water beneath my chilled feet.
Am I real? I said out loud as I buttoned up my slip and settled a necklace my father had given me for my last birthday around my neck, the empty locket a spark of cold on my breastbone that made me shiver.
Maybe my mother had been right to lock me in, I thought, as I ran a hairbrush through my wayward curls, as I patted powder over the freckles on my cheeks, and then I screwed my eyes shut so I did not ruin everything and cry.