Emmaline brought me a plate of gingersnaps and broiled marrowbones. She dusted the snaps with cayenne pepper, which helps the night seem not so cold. I’ve been letting Emmaline read the letters I write to you. I’m letting her read this one, even as I write it. She sits with her cheek near mine, criticizing my handwriting, complaining that she can hardly read a word. There’s been no talk of how long I might or might not stay. The Old Sisters Egan and me grow sleepy at the same hour, grow chilled at the same temperature of an evening. And I’ve told Emmaline about you, about the Fair, about Doxie. I tell her I’m only telling a ghost story, but Emmaline tells me I’m wrong. Ghost stories have ghosts in them, she says. But you, Cecily, haven’t so much as said boo to me. Emmaline’s starting to think that I’m the ghost. And who can blame her? Emmaline wants you to know that her favorite character in my ghostless ghost story is the baby in the carpetbag.
