The girl had a wild mop of tangled hair, was thin as a wisp. She had about her the look of neglect—dirt under her nails, the hem falling on her dress. She smelled of smoke—not cigarette smoke, but of things destroyed by fire. Eloise ignored her, because there was something different about this one. Maybe it was the rage—which was electric. Eloise could feel it as she pushed the vacuum around the living room, looking at the girl out of the corner of her eye. “Try to stay away from the angry ones,” Agatha had warned her. “And those seeking revenge. They’ll shred you.” Eloise often found Agatha’s advice difficult to follow. Maybe Agatha was tougher than Eloise, more in control of her abilities. Because Eloise hadn’t been able to turn away anyone yet, not in ten going on eleven years of Listening, as she’d come to think of it. Though it was more than that, of course. More than Listening. “The dead have no regard for us at all.”
