Fiona rises from her chair, gets two mugs from a cabinet, and pours hot water into both. The tea bags go in next, then she sets one of the mugs in front of me and sits back down across from me.
As if she hasn’t just given me an aneurysm, she says, “It would be proper with a drop of milk, but I’ve gone lactose intolerant in my old age. Would you like some?” I barely manage a shake of my head.
“Now, now, dear, please don’t be frightened. I know being haunted is a bit much for our twentyfirst century minds to deal with, but we’ll get through it together.”
Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe all that wine I had yesterday went to my head and killed more than the usual amount of brain cells.
Ever the practical one, Fiona turns businesslike. “What we need is a séance
