and it had felt good to talk about Lydia with someone who understood. Most of all it was a relief to know that he, too, had seen the ghost. Impulsively, she asked, “Do you want me to bring you anything next time?”
“Blueberry muffins.” He answered so quickly that Ellen giggled. “The food here isn’t bad,” he explained, “but they never serve blueberry muffins. They were always my favorite.”
“I’ll make some myself,” Ellen told him. “I can’t come tomorrow, because tomorrow is Halloween and the haunted house opens early, but I’ll try to come on Saturday.”
“Next time, Ellen Streater,” he said, “I’ll know your name.”
As Grandma drove Ellen home, she said, “All the money in the world and the only thing he wants is a blueberry muffin. How nice that you thought to ask him.”
Ellen did not answer. She was planning what she would do at the haunted house that night. She would look inside the oldest piece of Wedgwood, the big black urn. She would see if the remains of Josiah Clayton had been disturbed.
Chapter
11
S he wasn’t afraid anymore. Mr. Clayton said Lydia had never hurt anyone and she believed him. Besides, the photograph of the happy young mother with her baby had made Ellen want to help the ghost if she could. She’s a troubled spirit, Ellen decided, and for some reason she thinks I’m the one who can help her. Well, perhaps she’s right; maybe I can help. I’m going to try.
Once, on a vacation, the Streaters had wandered through an old graveyard in a small town, reading the headstones. Ellen remembered asking her parents why so many of them said,
Rest in Peace.
Mom explained that many people believe unhappy souls become ghosts and wander the earth. Those who are happy have a peaceful eternal sleep.
Lydia was clearly an unhappy soul and Ellen wanted to help her. She felt sorry for anyone, even a ghost, who was in such anguish.
Besides, if she could solve Lydia’s problem, whatever it was,Lydia would quit haunting her. Even though she was no longer afraid of the ghost, she did not relish the idea of being awakened again in the middle of the night by an ice-cold hand on her neck. Or of always wondering if Lydia, unseen and unnoticed, was standing beside her.
All she had to do was figure out what Lydia wanted her to know. If the ghost was only worried about the remains in the urn, why did she urge Ellen toward the Fairylustre?
Lydia always repeated the same word, a moaning sound with “end” as the last syllable. Ellen started going through the alphabet, thinking of words that ended with end. Amend, attend, bend, blend, commend, defend, dividend, fend, friend.
She stopped. Could it be “friend?” Was Lydia trying to tell her that she meant no harm, that she was Ellen’s friend?
She continued through the alphabet—intend, lend, mend, offend, pretend, recommend, send, spend, tend, trend, upend. None of the others made any sense in connection with the ghost. Friend did.
That night, Ellen walked through the great hall with a sense of anticipation. If Lydia appeared, she planned to ask her if that’s what she meant. Surely the ghost would be able to give some sign if Ellen was right.
After she slipped into her Joan of Arc robe and removed her shoes and socks, she still had a few minutes to spare before it was time for Agnes to tie her, so she hurried into the dining room. The octagonal Fairylustre bowl was back in its usual place. Ellen ducked under the rope to get a closer look. She wondered if she might be able to see where Agnes had repaired the chip.
The bowl looked the same as it always had. Carefully, she picked it up, turning it around and around in her hands. She saw no hairline cracks nor any evidence of glue. She ran onefinger around the rim of the bowl, feeling to see if it was smooth or uneven. She could detect no place that felt like a repair.
She turned the bowl again, to admire her favorite scene, and then stopped. The shoes of the fairy flying over
“Blueberry muffins.” He answered so quickly that Ellen giggled. “The food here isn’t bad,” he explained, “but they never serve blueberry muffins. They were always my favorite.”
“I’ll make some myself,” Ellen told him. “I can’t come tomorrow, because tomorrow is Halloween and the haunted house opens early, but I’ll try to come on Saturday.”
“Next time, Ellen Streater,” he said, “I’ll know your name.”
As Grandma drove Ellen home, she said, “All the money in the world and the only thing he wants is a blueberry muffin. How nice that you thought to ask him.”
Ellen did not answer. She was planning what she would do at the haunted house that night. She would look inside the oldest piece of Wedgwood, the big black urn. She would see if the remains of Josiah Clayton had been disturbed.
Chapter
11
S he wasn’t afraid anymore. Mr. Clayton said Lydia had never hurt anyone and she believed him. Besides, the photograph of the happy young mother with her baby had made Ellen want to help the ghost if she could. She’s a troubled spirit, Ellen decided, and for some reason she thinks I’m the one who can help her. Well, perhaps she’s right; maybe I can help. I’m going to try.
Once, on a vacation, the Streaters had wandered through an old graveyard in a small town, reading the headstones. Ellen remembered asking her parents why so many of them said,
Rest in Peace.
Mom explained that many people believe unhappy souls become ghosts and wander the earth. Those who are happy have a peaceful eternal sleep.
Lydia was clearly an unhappy soul and Ellen wanted to help her. She felt sorry for anyone, even a ghost, who was in such anguish.
Besides, if she could solve Lydia’s problem, whatever it was,Lydia would quit haunting her. Even though she was no longer afraid of the ghost, she did not relish the idea of being awakened again in the middle of the night by an ice-cold hand on her neck. Or of always wondering if Lydia, unseen and unnoticed, was standing beside her.
All she had to do was figure out what Lydia wanted her to know. If the ghost was only worried about the remains in the urn, why did she urge Ellen toward the Fairylustre?
Lydia always repeated the same word, a moaning sound with “end” as the last syllable. Ellen started going through the alphabet, thinking of words that ended with end. Amend, attend, bend, blend, commend, defend, dividend, fend, friend.
She stopped. Could it be “friend?” Was Lydia trying to tell her that she meant no harm, that she was Ellen’s friend?
She continued through the alphabet—intend, lend, mend, offend, pretend, recommend, send, spend, tend, trend, upend. None of the others made any sense in connection with the ghost. Friend did.
That night, Ellen walked through the great hall with a sense of anticipation. If Lydia appeared, she planned to ask her if that’s what she meant. Surely the ghost would be able to give some sign if Ellen was right.
After she slipped into her Joan of Arc robe and removed her shoes and socks, she still had a few minutes to spare before it was time for Agnes to tie her, so she hurried into the dining room. The octagonal Fairylustre bowl was back in its usual place. Ellen ducked under the rope to get a closer look. She wondered if she might be able to see where Agnes had repaired the chip.
The bowl looked the same as it always had. Carefully, she picked it up, turning it around and around in her hands. She saw no hairline cracks nor any evidence of glue. She ran onefinger around the rim of the bowl, feeling to see if it was smooth or uneven. She could detect no place that felt like a repair.
She turned the bowl again, to admire her favorite scene, and then stopped. The shoes of the fairy flying over
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