"How do you know what I saw?”

"Because I saw it, too. The first day I was here. I smelled lilies.”

"White lilies in a tall vase," Effie continued, and a tear trickled down her cheek. "I thought it was odd, and sort of sweet, that you'd have flowers in there. Then I thought, for just a minute, well, how did he fix this room up so beautifully, why didn't he mention it? And I stepped in and saw her on the bed. I'm sorry. I really need some air.”

Without a word, Remy scooped her off her feet.

"My hero," she murmured as he carried her toward the stairs.

"You gave me a hell of a fright, chиre. Declan, you get my girl some water.”

For a long moment, Declan stared into the room. Then he followed them down.

He fetched a glass of water, took it out to the gallery where Remy sat with Effie cradled in his lap.

"How do you feel about ghosts now?”

She took the water, sipped while she studied Declan over the rim. "I imagined it.”

"A white robe over the chaise. A silver brush set, some sort of gold and enamel pin.”

"Watch pin," she said quietly. She let out a shuddering breath. "I can't explain it.”

"Can you tell me about the woman?" "Her face was all bruised and bloody. Oh, Remy.”

"Ssh now." He stroked her hair, gathered her closer. "You don't have to think about it. Let her be, Declan.”

"No, it's all right." Taking slow breaths, Effie laid her head on Remy's shoulder. Her eyes met Declan's and held. "It's just so strange, so awful and strange. I think she was young, but it was hard to tell. Dark hair, a lot of dark, curling hair. Her clothes-nightgown –it was torn. There were terrible bruises on her neck-like … God, like she'd been strangled. I knew she was dead. I screamed and stumbled back. My legs just gave out from under me.”

"I need to find out who she was," Declan declared. "There's got to be a way to find out who she was. Family member, servant, guest. If a young woman died violently in there, there's a record somewhere.”

"I can do some research." Effie lowered the water and managed a smile. "That's my job, after all.”

"If there was a murder, it seems we'd have heard stories over the years." Remy shook his head. "I never have. Honey, I'm going to take you home.”

"I'm going to let you." Effie reached out, touched Declan's arm. "Come on with us. I don't know if you should be staying here.”

"I've got to stay. I want to stay.”

Needed to stay, he thought when he was alone and the whooshing sound of his nail gun echoed through the dining room. He wasn't just restoring the house, he was making it his own. If a murdered girl was part of it, then she was his, too.

He wanted to know her name, to know her story. Where had she come from? Why had she died? Maybe he'd been meant to come here, to find those things out.

If those images, those feelings, had driven others away, they were only locking him in.

He could live with ghosts, Declan thought as he ran his hand over the side of his first completed cabinet. But he wouldn't rest until he knew them.

But when he finally called it a day and went to bed, he left the lights on.

For the next few days, he was too busy to think about ghosts or sleepwalking, or even those nights out he'd promised himself. The electrician and plumber he'd hired were hard at work with their crews. The house was too full of noise and people for ghosts.

Frank and Frankie, who were as alike as their names, with beefy shoulders and mud-colored hair, trudged around his gardens, made mouth noises that may have been approval or disgust. Little Frankie seemed to be the brains of the operation, and after an hour's survey gave Declan a bid for clearing out underbrush and weeds. Though he wondered if they intended to retire on the profit from the job, Declan trusted Remy and hired them.

They came armed with shovels, pickaxes and mile-long clippers. From the dining room where he worked on cabinets, Declan could hear the lazy rise and fall of their voices, the occasional thump and tumble.

When he glanced out, he noticed that the tangle was disappearing.

The plasterer Miss Odette sent him was a rail-thin black man whose name was Tibald, and his great-grandpappy, so Declan was told, once worked as a field hand for the Manets.

They toured the house with Tibald scribbling in a tiny, dog-eared notepad. When they reached the ballroom, Tibald looked up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression.

"I always think I've put a picture in my head that isn't there," he said. "Don't think I'd ever get used to seeing this kind of work.”

"You've been in here before.”

"H. The Rudickers took a bid for me on plasterwork. They'd be the people you bought the Hall from. They had big, fine ideas, the Rudickers. But they never did much about them. Anyhow, they were going to hire someone from Savannah. So I heard.”

"Why?”

Tibald just kept smiling at the ceiling. "They had those big, fine ideas, and didn't see how locals could put a polish on them. Seems to me they figured the more money they spent, the higher the gloss. If you know what I mean.”

"Yeah, I get it. The way I look at it, you hire local, you're liable to get people who're more invested in the job. Can you repair and duplicate this kind of work?”

"I did the plasterwork in the Harvest House down on the River Road. I got pictures out in my truck, like a reference. You maybe want to take a look at them, maybe go on down to Harvest House and take a study. They give public tours and hold fancy events there now. Do some work in New Orleans, in Baton Rouge and Metairie. Can give you names.”

"Let's take a look at the pictures.”

One look at the before and after shots of various cornices, walls, medallions, showed Declan his man was an artist. For form, he asked for a bid, and after promising to have one written up by the end of the week, Tibald offered his hand.

"I admit, I'd love to get my hands on that ballroom." Tibald glanced back over at the house. "You doing any work on the third floor?”

"Eventually.”

"Maybe you want to talk to my sister, Lucy. She cleans houses.”

"I'm a long way from needing a housekeeper.”

Tibald laughed, took out a pack of Big Red chewing gum. "No, sir, I don't mean that kind of clean." He offered Declan a stick before taking one himself, folding it in half, and sliding it into his mouth. "Spirit clean. You got some strong spirits in that place." He chewed contemplatively. "'Specially on the third floor.”

"How do you know?”

"Feel it breathing on my neck. Can't you? When the Rudickers were working on the place, they lost two laborers. Those men just hightailed it out and kept on going. Never went back. Could be one of the reasons they looked farther afield for workers here.”

Tibald shrugged, chewed his Big Red. "Could be the reason they never finished up those big, fine ideas.”

"Do you know what happened on the third floor?”

"Nope. Don't know of anyone who does. Just know a few who wouldn't go up there, no matter what you paid them. Any plasterwork needs doing on the third floor, you give my sister Lucy a call first.”

They both turned at the sound of a car coming down the drive. "That's Miss Lena's car, and Miss Odette with her." Tibald's grin spread as the ancient MG stopped beside his truck.

"Afternoon, ladies." Tibald walked to the passenger's side to open the door for Odette. "Where y'at?”

"Oh, fine and well, Tibald. How's that family of yours?”

"Nothing to complain about.”

Lena climbed out as Declan opened the door. Her jeans were intriguingly snug, worn with a shirt the color of polished turquoise. "My grandmama thought it was time to pay a call." She scanned the drive, noted the number of pickups. "What did you do, cher? Hire yourself an army?”

"Just a battalion." She smelled of jasmine, he thought. She smelled of night. He had to concentrate on basic manners or swallow his gum. "Can I give you a tour?”

"Mmm. We'll get to it. Tibald, you say hey to Mazie for me, won't you?”

"I will. Gotta be on my way. I'll get that bid to you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

"Declan. I'll be looking for it. Miss Odette." Declan took her hand as Tibald climbed into his truck. She wore a cotton dress the color of ripe squash, and a dark green sweater against the mid-winter chill. Today's socks matched it.

She smelled of lavender and jingled with her chains and bracelets. Everything about her relaxed him. "Welcome to Manet Hall. Such as it is.”

Odette winked at Lena when Declan kissed her hand. "We'll take a look at it when we've finished out here. Heard you hired Big Frank and Little Frankie," she said, nodding toward their pickup. "How're they working out for you?”

"They seem to be doing the job. I don't know how." He studied the patchy front gardens with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "I can't catch them actually doing anything, but I blink and a couple truckloads of underbrush is gone. Would you like to walk around the grounds?”

"I would. Lena honey, get those spirit bottles out of the trunk. We'll hang them on these live oaks to start.”

"Spirit bottles?”

"To keep the evil spirits away." Lena began lifting bottles half filled with water from her trunk.

"Should I be worried about evil spirits?" Declan asked.

"An ounce of prevention." And taking two, Odette moved off toward the trees.

"Spirit bottles," Declan reported, lifting one. He'd seen them hanging outside the shotgun house. "Just how do they work?”

"It's an old voodoo trick," Lena told him. "The clanking sound they make scares the evil spirits away.”