Ghosts of Winter by Rebecca S. Buck Page B

included her. I wanted her to know I already thought meeting her was one of the good consequences of my inheritance of Winter.
    When she said nothing further, looking actually a little lost for words, I turned to the white sheet covering some of the other objects closer to the corner of the room. I wanted to know what was under it, and the time for any further personal revelations had apparently passed for now. I took a step towards the sheet. Then I realised I still had Anna’s jacket folded over my left arm.
    “Oh, here you go, I forgot I was holding it.” I offered it back to her with some reluctance. Holding on to it had been a sort of connection between us. I watched her slip it back on.
    “I want to know what’s under that,” she said, gesturing towards the bulging sheet.
    “Come on then, so do I,” I said, enjoying sharing the moment of curious suspense with her. “But if it’s a body, we’ll just put the sheet back and forget about it, agreed?”
    “Absolutely,” she replied.
    We pulled the dusty sheet away from the pieces it concealed and let it drop to the floor. Underneath were a table, once clearly French polished, which was obviously meant to go with the dining chairs; a chest with what looked like rosewood inlays on the fronts of the drawers; a low footstool with a moss-green velvet cushion; and a trunk covered in brown leather. On top of the trunk rested a small chest. I looked at it more closely, somehow more drawn to that than anything else in the collection.
    “It’s a Victorian writing chest,” Anna told me, noticing where my interest was focused. “If you look inside you’ll find places for ink, pens, and paper, possibly a blotter and sealing wax too.”
    I reached for the chest. It was made of dark wood, with a design in brass on the lid. Just below the clasp were two letters, also inset in brass: M . G . “I wonder if they’re the initials of the person who it was made for.”
    “Most likely I’d say,” Anna said. “It looks like a lady’s to me.”
    I opened the lid, trying to imagine what the owner of such an item would have been like. Was she rich? Was she born at Winter, or did she marry a man who lived here? Would we be friends if she was to walk into the attics now and introduce herself? M.G. What was her name? Margaret? Mary?
    Inside the box, lined with dark blue velvet, we found a crystal inkwell, a set of three pens and nibs, and a tablet of sealing wax. There was a space for paper and for the blotter Anna had predicted. I took the inkwell and held it up to the beam of light shining through the dormer window. The cut crystal glittered perfectly, though a slight residue inside suggested it had once been in use.
    “That’s a very fine piece,” Anna said knowledgeably. “You should get it valued.”
    “I wouldn’t sell it though,” I said, balking at the idea. “I’m guessing it’s been here for over a hundred years. It would feel like I was betraying someone if I sold it.”
    “For insurance at least then,” she replied sensibly. I liked the way she looked at me as though she really understood why I wouldn’t sell the writing case.
    “Yes, for the insurance.” I knew she was right.
    “Do you want a hand moving some of these chairs downstairs?” Anna asked then, shattering my reflective mood.
    I tucked the inkwell back into its place in the chest. “Oh no, it’s okay. I’ve got nothing better to do over the next few days, I might as well spend an hour or so moving chairs.” I couldn’t imagine Anna, in her tailored suit, helping me move dusty furniture. She’d already virtually broken down a door for me—there was only so much I could demand of her in one day. “Besides, it’s more important that we talk about your plans for the house. Tell me what you were thinking for the attics.”
    Anna’s expression became instantly professional, but with enough eagerness that it was not a disappointment to see the architect return. “Well, it’s unusual to