They were fervent, urgent, but not frantic. There was something about being together…. What they shared wasn’t superficial, not something destined to end quickly, and they both felt confident about that.

When Sarah slept, she did so feeling more secure than she had in all her life. She didn’t fear the darkness, didn’t fear ghosts, and in his arms, she also had no fear of the living.

She was awakened suddenly by his abrupt movement. She blinked, then jackknifed into a sitting position, wondering what had happened, fear seeping into her blood.

“Caleb, what is it?” she whispered.

He was sitting up himself, staring toward the foot of the bed.

Suddenly he rose, as if he hadn’t heard her.

As if she didn’t exist at all.

13

“Caleb?”

He heard Sarah call his name, but it seemed to come from a distant place, or maybe he was only hearing it in his mind.

He opened his eyes…

And saw himself.

No, not himself. His double. That other Caleb was standing at the foot of the bed, his hair longer than Caleb’s own, and he was wearing a gaudily plumed hat. He had a moustache and goatee, and long sideburns. He was handsomely dressed in Victorian attire, silk waistcoat, tailored overcoat and white shirt.

And his expression was grave.

Help me.

Caleb stared, sure that he was dreaming, yet he couldn’t shake the dream.

Help me, please. And help yourself. I know what happened to her, and who did it. I loved her, and it wasn’t me.

As he continued to stare, the apparition beckoned to him.

Please.

Caleb rose slowly, still staring at the man who was—and yet was not—himself.

Cato MacTavish. He was staring at Cato MacTavish.

At last, certain that he had Caleb’s attention, Cato turned and walked from the room.

Unable to help himself, Caleb followed.

They left the bedroom and walked along the hallway to the small, narrow staircase that led up to the attic.

There were two small eyebrow windows, and the pale pastel light of the early dawn was just beginning to seep in. The light fell over old trunks, broken chairs and several dressmakers’ dummies, headless sentinels guarding the attic realm. Motes of dust danced in the pastel light.

Cato MacTavish paused in the center of the room, surrounded by the past, and looked at Caleb with great sadness.

I have looked forever, he said. And finally I have found her.

He moved to stand by a huge wooden steamer trunk with tarnished metal strapping.

Brighter light flooded the room as the sun continued its inevitable rise, and Cato began to fade. Caleb realized he was standing naked and alone in the dusty attic in the coming light of day.

“Caleb!”

He started and turned, feeling the warmth of Sarah’s delicate touch on his arm. She was staring at him with deep concern shining from her enormous silver eyes.

She was so enticing, her hair a wild mane around her head, her skin so soft, the silk wrap she had grabbed to follow him seductively draping the curves of her body. The sight of her, the feel of her, triggered something within him.

“Caleb?” she repeated.

He looked at the trunk and gave himself a mental shake, pulling himself free from the mists of sleep and dreams.

“The trunk,” he said hoarsely, pointing.

He knew he was awake at last, but memory of the dream was vivid. He walked closer and saw that the trunk was padlocked, preventing him from opening it. He looked around and saw that someone had stowed a set of dumbbells in a corner—years ago, judging by the coating of dust, and yet not so many years as the trunk had been there. He strode across the room, oblivious to his own nakedness, and picked up one of the dumbbells.

“Caleb?” Sarah said, louder now, firmly. “What are you doing?”

Without answering, he smashed the lock and lifted the lid of the trunk, revealing a trove of loosely piled Victorian clothing. He drew out hose, capes, petticoats, stays, throwing things aside…until at last he found what he was seeking.

Bones.

Bones nestled in decaying silk and satin. Wisps of hair still clinging to a skull with leathery skin still covering the bone. Dried and mummified flesh adding substance to the bones. She was real, and yet she appeared to be nothing but a decorative prop for a macabre haunted house.

“Oh, my God…” Sarah breathed from behind him.

“It’s Eleanora,” Caleb said with grim certainty.

“How do you know?” she whispered.

“There’s a locket around her neck—with a likeness of Cato,” he said. “Cato didn’t do it. He loved her.”

“What?” Sarah asked, shaking her head in concern and stepping back, as if she were afraid to touch him. “I don’t understand.” She studied him for a moment, and then realization lit her eyes. “You saw him, didn’t you? I didn’t dream him. He’s a ghost,” she whispered.

“I had a dream,” he said, but even as he spoke, he wasn’t sure he believed his own words. And if not, what did he believe?

What had he seen, and how had he ended up in the attic?

“It was a dream,” he insisted. “We were talking about the past and what happened here, and I had a dream that led me here, that’s all,” he said. “Call Jamison. And then you might as well call that professor—Dr. Manning. I need to shower and dress—we both do. She’s been in that trunk for over a hundred and fifty years. Another hour isn’t going to make any difference. In fact, I don’t want to call anyone yet. I’m going to go see Floby anyway, and then I’ll bring him back here and we can figure out how to proceed and whether this has anything to do with everything else going on.”

“Caleb, it all has to be connected,” Sarah said. “Whatever you say, I know we both saw a ghost. And he’s not trying to haunt anyone or hurt them—he’s trying to help. People accused Cato of having killed Eleanora and the others, and he left because he couldn’t prove the truth.”

He set his hands on her shoulders and wondered why he of all people—a man who worked for Adam Harrison and spent his time investigating the incursions of the paranormal into the real world—couldn’t admit to having seen a ghost.

Sarah was still staring at him as if he had changed in some fundamental way. She looked wary. She looked…

Afraid.

He winced and tightened his grip on her shoulders. “All right, here’s what I think. Something terrible happened here years ago. Maybe that housekeeper, Martha Tyler, conned people into believing she had some kind of power, like the tricks Marie LeVeau used in New Orleans. She would listen. She would get people to tell her things they didn’t even know they were telling her. That way, she could tell one heartbroken woman that there was nothing she could do to help, then tell another that she could help her win the man of her dreams. She would have mixed her potions and convinced people of their efficacy, and maybe she even had a certain power of her own. But, she couldn’t have been working alone.”

“Brennan,” Sarah said. “Brennan was working with her. She worked for him, not Cato—he was the one who brought her here. He got here ahead of the Union occupation, and old Mr. MacTavish needed money, so he took him in as a boarder. And then Brennan talked MacTavish into using the house as a funeral parlor. MacTavish would have been willing to do anything to survive the war and save the house so his son could inherit the old mansion when he returned. But MacTavish died, and when Cato finally came back from the war, Brennan was already established in his house. There were all kinds of ways for the carpetbaggers to keep a man from reclaiming his property. And with Eleanora missing, and then the other women, the accusations would have started—fed by Brennan, no doubt—and eventually Cato MacTavish must have had enough, and he left. Brennan was a nasty man—his own daughter wrote about how much she hated him. She stopped writing, though, and I don’t know what happened to her, but a son inherited this place. I don’t know where he came from. Maybe he was born later, or maybe he was fighting with the Union army when his father and sister moved down here.” She paused, staring first at him, then sadly down at the trunk and its pathetic contents. “If this is Eleanora, how did the line go on? How can you be his descendent?” she asked.