whether his look of pure, unmitigated horror had been equaled anywhere other than in silent films.
His reaction, though comic, was wholly understandable. I never cried. I rarely even whimpered. The last time Tom had seen me in tears was almost twenty years earlier, when he'd accidentally slammed the car door on my hand. Even then, the flood had been modest, nothing like the terrifying outburst of great, soul-wrenching sobs he was witnessing now.
'Julia?' His tone was uncertain. It was several minutes before I could recover myself sufficiently to answer him.
'I'm fine, really,' I told him between sniffles. 'I'm just losing my mind.'
Tom took a seat opposite me, frowning. 'What?'
'Going insane,' I elaborated. 'Cracking up. There's no other explanation for it.'
'You've lost me.'
The tears had subsided now, and I took a deep, shaky breath, wiping the dampness from my face with the heel of my hand. 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' I said.
'Try me.'
I gave him a long, measuring look, heaved another unsteady sigh, and started talking. I began at the beginning, from the moment I'd first seen the man on the gray horse, through the incident in Blackfriars Lane, to my discovery of Mariana Farr's headstone in the churchyard and my waking dream of last night. Mrs. Pearce drifted noiselessly in and out of the room, depositing pots of tea and plates of biscuits and whisking the remains away without once interrupting the course of my narrative, while my brother sat quietly in his chair, listening. When I had finished, he leaned back and lowered his eyebrows in contemplation.
'These ... experiences,' he said finally, 'do they come on suddenly, or do you have any warning?'
I tried hard to think back. My first inclination would have been to say that there was no warning whatsoever, but ... 'I sometimes hear a ringing in my ears," I told him, 'or I feel a little dizzy. Or both.'
'And you're definitely a participant in the action. It doesn't feel like you're in the audience watching a play?'
'Definitely not. I don't even feel like a cast member, come to that. Cast members have scripts, but I never have the slightest idea what's going to happen next. It's just like real life ... just like this! I spread my hands, palms upward, in a gesture that encompassed the room and the two of us. 'Even the time and space they occupy is real. I obviously move around, since I started off outside the house last night and ended up in the studio this morning.'
Tom thought about this. 'And when you have these experiences, you don't remember anything about being Julia Beckett?' I shook my head. 'But when you come out of it again, you can remember clearly being this other woman?'
'I remember everything.'
'Setting aside the insanity theory, for the moment,' he said slowly, 'what do you think is happening?' 'I suppose ... I suppose it could be the ghost.'
"This Green Lady that everyone talks about, you mean?'
I nodded. 'The dress I was wearing last night, when I was her ... when I was Mariana ... was green. I don't know. Could a ghost take possession of a living person, do you think?'
'I'm hardly an authority on the subject,' Tom admitted. 'I suppose it's possible, but in your case I wouldn't think it likely. Not unless the ghost followed you to London last weekend.' He frowned. 'There is one possibility that you haven't considered, yet.'
'Which is?'
He raised his head and looked at me. 'That everything you're seeing, everything you're experiencing, may actually come from your own memory. That you may, in fact, be Mariana.'
'You can't be serious.'
'Why not? Reincarnation is an accepted phenomenon in lots of cultures. There are even a few distinguished Church of England types I could name who support the theory.'
'And what do you believe?' I challenged him.
"Well." He smiled. 'It's one of the requirements of my job that I believe in the eternal life of the human soul. And where that soul goes after death is a question that only the dead
His reaction, though comic, was wholly understandable. I never cried. I rarely even whimpered. The last time Tom had seen me in tears was almost twenty years earlier, when he'd accidentally slammed the car door on my hand. Even then, the flood had been modest, nothing like the terrifying outburst of great, soul-wrenching sobs he was witnessing now.
'Julia?' His tone was uncertain. It was several minutes before I could recover myself sufficiently to answer him.
'I'm fine, really,' I told him between sniffles. 'I'm just losing my mind.'
Tom took a seat opposite me, frowning. 'What?'
'Going insane,' I elaborated. 'Cracking up. There's no other explanation for it.'
'You've lost me.'
The tears had subsided now, and I took a deep, shaky breath, wiping the dampness from my face with the heel of my hand. 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' I said.
'Try me.'
I gave him a long, measuring look, heaved another unsteady sigh, and started talking. I began at the beginning, from the moment I'd first seen the man on the gray horse, through the incident in Blackfriars Lane, to my discovery of Mariana Farr's headstone in the churchyard and my waking dream of last night. Mrs. Pearce drifted noiselessly in and out of the room, depositing pots of tea and plates of biscuits and whisking the remains away without once interrupting the course of my narrative, while my brother sat quietly in his chair, listening. When I had finished, he leaned back and lowered his eyebrows in contemplation.
'These ... experiences,' he said finally, 'do they come on suddenly, or do you have any warning?'
I tried hard to think back. My first inclination would have been to say that there was no warning whatsoever, but ... 'I sometimes hear a ringing in my ears," I told him, 'or I feel a little dizzy. Or both.'
'And you're definitely a participant in the action. It doesn't feel like you're in the audience watching a play?'
'Definitely not. I don't even feel like a cast member, come to that. Cast members have scripts, but I never have the slightest idea what's going to happen next. It's just like real life ... just like this! I spread my hands, palms upward, in a gesture that encompassed the room and the two of us. 'Even the time and space they occupy is real. I obviously move around, since I started off outside the house last night and ended up in the studio this morning.'
Tom thought about this. 'And when you have these experiences, you don't remember anything about being Julia Beckett?' I shook my head. 'But when you come out of it again, you can remember clearly being this other woman?'
'I remember everything.'
'Setting aside the insanity theory, for the moment,' he said slowly, 'what do you think is happening?' 'I suppose ... I suppose it could be the ghost.'
"This Green Lady that everyone talks about, you mean?'
I nodded. 'The dress I was wearing last night, when I was her ... when I was Mariana ... was green. I don't know. Could a ghost take possession of a living person, do you think?'
'I'm hardly an authority on the subject,' Tom admitted. 'I suppose it's possible, but in your case I wouldn't think it likely. Not unless the ghost followed you to London last weekend.' He frowned. 'There is one possibility that you haven't considered, yet.'
'Which is?'
He raised his head and looked at me. 'That everything you're seeing, everything you're experiencing, may actually come from your own memory. That you may, in fact, be Mariana.'
'You can't be serious.'
'Why not? Reincarnation is an accepted phenomenon in lots of cultures. There are even a few distinguished Church of England types I could name who support the theory.'
'And what do you believe?' I challenged him.
"Well." He smiled. 'It's one of the requirements of my job that I believe in the eternal life of the human soul. And where that soul goes after death is a question that only the dead
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