Page 62 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
The phantom lifts her head a bit but still does not turn in our direction. “A journey? What could two ghosts possibly be traveling for? Don’t you have a manor to haunt?”
I press my lips into a thin line, trying my best not to laugh. This woman must be long dead to think in such archaic ways. Must phantoms haunt places?
“A bucket list,” I intervene, “of things we could not do while we were alive.”
The woman pauses. Considering us. Then she turns her head only enough for us to see the side of her face. I tremble and resist the urge to recoil. The nerves in my body shoot fleeing sensations through me.
Where are her eyes?
The woman has only a mouth left; her long white hair seems to weep beside her sorrow. Ophelia tenses at my side as well, taken by the revelation of her missing features.
“You’ve never seen one like me, have you?” the phantom says gently. I’m sure it’s not hard to place the reason for our sudden silence.
We both shake our heads, almost like children. We don’t wish to be rude, but we’re also shocked.
“Be glad for it and pass on to the afterlife. Lest you become like me.”
Ophelia hesitantly steps a bit closer. I want to pull her back, but I keep my hands firmly placed at my sides.
“How do phantoms regress to your state?” she asks boldly.
The phantom holds up her hand, the light from the window spilling through her bones. She says placidly, “I’ve been here farlonger than any ghost in Dublin. I suppose I began to notice the change after the first few centuries.”
Centuries? How terrible.My brows pull closer with pity for the ghost. To be stuck here in the in-between for this long is a cruel fate.
“Can we help you in any way?” I ask. If we helped Charlie, then we might be able to help her too. However, I don’t know anything about the city and I’m sure neither does Ophelia.
The woman turns back to face the window and, with a deep breath, her shoulders sag. “There is one thing.”
Ophelia lights up and shoots me a quick, eager look over her shoulder.
“I haven’t left this cathedral in over three hundred years. You see, there was a man I once loved. He would bring me roses and sing to me. After I died, well, I don’t know what happened to him. If you could find out for me, I think that might bring me a great deal of relief. Peace.” She lifts her head once more. I think she’s looking at me, but it’s hard to tell with only impressions on her face where her eyesshould be.“My name is Elanor. Please, find my Gregory Briggs.”
It’s a task I wasn’t expecting her to say. I glance at Ophelia and she has her chin held high, tears brimming but not yet falling. Ah yes, my rose is a hopeless romantic as well. Her heart must be breaking for this old, forgotten ghost who dances in the dark, alone and away from the world. Even her face is forgotten.
“I will find what became of him,” Ophelia says, not as a statement but as a promise. Elanor seems pleased by it and resumes her forlorn slow dance.
We see ourselves out of the cathedral and don’t speak until we’re a few blocks away, slipping inside a warm bakery for an afternoon cup of tea and croissants. We help ourselves to the food without a blink from the staff or customers.
The water has long since dried off my clothes, but Ophelia’s hair is still wet. I wonder why she takes so long to dry sometimes. A drop trickles down her face and drips from her nose. I frown and reach over the table with a borrowed scarf from the gal behind us.
Ophelia’s cheeks are red, and she smiles at me innocently as I dry her face and hair.
“Thanks,” she murmurs thoughtfully before sipping on her tea.
I lean back in the wooden chair and take her in. Trying to get a read on this woman is like trying to solve the world’s hardest math problem. And I’ll be the first to admit that I was never any good at math.
She solves it for me.
“How are we going to find Gregory Briggs? We didn’t even get a time period to search for.” Ophelia sullens and takes another long sip.
I laugh and take a bite from my croissant. “Ophelia, we can’t possibly find him. The poor phantom will need to find her peace some other way.”
That earns me a scowl.
“We’ll find a way.”
I swallow thickly, feeling the heat in my veins. I hate confrontation, even as mild as this is. “Ophelia, where would we even start? You said it yourself: you cannot stay in one place for too long. Those Who Whisper might catch up to us again and we’ve already been here for the full day.” I try to say it kindly and with reason, but she looks troubled.
