Chapter 11
What wakes me, I’m not certain. The air is rich with spice. I’m buried beneath my grandmother’s down comforter. The sheets feel luxurious, as if I’ve just slipped between them after a long day—or night—of ghost catching. But I sense that I’ve been here for hours. Through the windows, light is streaming into the room, and its glow is gold with the sunrise.
I open my eyes and find Malcolm sleeping in an easy chair next to the bed, his feet propped on a worn footstool. His mouth is soft, but a furrow mars his brow, as if even in his dreams, he’s worried.
I push to sit up—or try to. I have all the strength of a baby bird, and my biggest accomplishment is rustling the covers.
This is enough to wake Malcolm. His eyes flutter open. When his gaze finds mine, some of the worry melts
