Ghosts of Winter by Rebecca S. Buck Page A

diverted from me as one piece of furniture caught her eye. “Oh, look at this bureau! Now this is classic Regency design. It’s mahogany, and you see this Greek-style pattern here? So simple and linear. It was such an elegant time.” She actually sighed with pleasure. I understood in that moment, complex as Anna appeared, her pleasures were really rather simple and not hidden as well as some of her emotions seemed to be.
    “It’s that old?” I asked, running my hand over the dusty writing surface of the bureau.
    “I’d say so. Since Winter’s been here since the early seventeen-fifties, we shouldn’t be surprised really. There’s some damage, which is probably why it was left behind, but there’s a good restorer in Durham I can put you in touch with.” Anna’s fingers briefly caressed the places where the wood was wounded. An instant later I became aware we were both stroking the bureau at the same time. I felt an odd connection with her, which rapidly grew uncomfortable, ravaged as I was by my confused emotions. I removed my hand from the bureau but kept my eyes on the places her fingers touched.
    “I quite like the damage.” I said reflectively. “It’s like battle scars, or the traces of the people who used it before. It reminds you that Winter wasn’t always empty and derelict. There were living, breathing people here, laughing, crying, dreaming— ”
    “Damaging the furniture.” I grinned at the way she killed my romantic ramblings and was delighted when she matched my mirth with another smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “For an academic historian—a teacher—you seem very inclined towards a romantic view of history.” I felt my cheeks colour at her interest in me, and her accurate judgement.
    “I suppose I am,” I replied. “And I don’t apologise for it. I know the truth of it all, of course. But I fell in love with history when I was a child because of that sense of connection, of someone having lived and loved in the same space as I’m living now. Maybe they even felt some of the same things as me.”
    Anna smiled and her eyes were soft now, regarding me with more apparent contemplation than she had before. “You teach your pupils that view of history?”
    I laughed lightly. “No way. I taught them to remember dates and about cause and consequence. I grabbed their interest with the grisly facts and smashed all signs of them getting romantic about it to pieces.”
    “It doesn’t sound like teaching history is really what you want it to be.” I was impressed by her insight and flattered she’d paid enough attention to form it.
    “No.” I looked into her eyes and felt safe enough to reveal a little more. “That’s why I got out of it.”
    “You got out of it?”
    “Yeah. Before I even knew Winter Manor existed. I just knew it wasn’t the job for me. I thought I liked it, but then stuff happened—”
    “Stuff?” Anna’s enquiry was more gentle than I would have expected. Could she see the pain the memories stirred in me?
    “It’s a long story.” I wasn’t quite ready to share it yet. “But the conclusion of it was that I took time to think about whether I really wanted to be a teacher. And I don’t. I wasn’t totally sure what I was going to do next. But it wasn’t teaching.”
    Anna nodded. I was astounded at how easily she’d drawn the confidence from me. I’d not intended to tell her anything about my situation quite so soon. But her expression was mild, and I sensed no judgement. Maybe Anna didn’t expect everyone to be as professional and apparently career-minded as she was. I was wrong to assume she would. I appreciated deeply that she had the tact not to press further.
    “And then Winter came along?” she asked, clearly looking for the conclusion of the tale.
    “Yep. Completely out of the blue.”
    “Must have been a shock.”
    “It was. But I’m just starting to understand what a good sort of shock,” I replied, with a smile I hoped