It was Uncle Douglas’s gospel that she never visited a Sherbrooke male, only suggestible, weak-minded ladies. She didn’t speak-she was dead, after all-but she thought her words. She floated, simply floated, shimmering like nearly colorless veils. Her long pale hair hung loose down her back-beautiful hair, thick, like spun summer clouds. Her young face was as pale as alabaster, smooth and soft looking, just as beautiful and unchanging as it had been when he’d been a boy visiting his cousins so many years before. As always, she made no sound, simply appeared, hovering at the end of his bed. He spun story ideas, wondering what new demon or spirit his manly hero Thomas Straithmore would overcome in his next adventure.īetween one breath and the next, there she was, the resident Northcliffe ghost, the Virgin Bride. Still, he wasn’t about to let himself go to sleep, not yet. Ramsey didn’t find the water cold, which was astounding, and the children did indeed try to drown the both of them, as Uncle Douglas had said. Grayson was blessedly tired after a full day herding three excited children on the beach below the white cliffs.
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