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.Apparently he had not even the courtesy to come to her in the night, to conceal what they did from the eyes of her neighbours.And Barbara accepted it from him.She allowed him to treat her so after all the things he had done to hurt her, soaking up his cruelty like a sponge.The other him looked down at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as though he had no reason to take her kindness for what it was.‘I give you no reason to care.But thank you.’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew a jewel case.‘For you.A tiara to complete your parure.’‘Thank you,’ she said, with a misery that the older Joseph Stratford did not seem to notice.She did not bother to open the box, merely set it on a table at the side of the bed.‘You idiot,’ he said to his other self.‘I have no taste to speak of.But even I know that she would have no use for a crown.How could you? You are treating her…’Like a whore.‘You’re welcome,’ said the other Stratford, and his response was as false as her thanks.‘And good day.’ He turned to go.Barbara’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but she did not rise to see him out.Joseph stepped forwards, unable to stand it any longer.He tried to catch the arm of the man at the door and his fingers passed through it.He swung again, in frustration, with enough force to bruise, and yet felt nothing but the passing of the air.‘Stay with her,’ he demanded.‘Hear me, you bastard.I know you can.I am the sound of your own voice in your head.Listen to me.’There was the slightest flinch in the shoulders of the man, as though he had felt a slap.‘Stay with her, damn you.Or at least take back that jewellery.You cheapen her with such a gift.’The man he would become twitched again, as though he were throwing off a lead, and strode through the door and out of the cottage, letting the door slam behind him.Slowly Barbara leaned back into the bed, as though it were an effort to stay upright and maintain the pretence of happiness when he was not there to see it.Without a word, or so much as a whimper, her tears began to fall.He knew the meaning of tears like that, shed in such utter silence.He had cried like that as a boy, when he had been convinced that there was no future for him.He could bear it no longer, and reached out to touch her.But when his hand touched her face it seemed to glide through, leaving only a momentary warmth on his fingertips.There would be no comfort in this for either of them.He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, so close that he should have been able to feel the warmth of her body against his leg.Apparently she felt the cold in him, for she shivered.‘It will be all right,’ he said softly, hearing the trembling in his own voice.‘I will make it better.It will never come to this.I swear to you.You will not cry, damn me for each tear.You will not cry.’He leaned closer, letting the shadow of himself fall onto the shadow of her until they were as one body.He felt the fear and pain and confusion that was in her as though it were his own.Worst of all, he felt her despair.She knew with certainty that it would never be better than it was at this moment, and would most likely be worse.He was slipping away a little more with each visit.She could sell the jewellery.She did not need it.She would never know want.But she would never know love.How had it come to this? He had sworn to take care of her.He felt her own guilt at her weakness, and her shame at betraying her parents’ memories each time she touched him.But she had loved him from the first.She still loved him.It had never meant more than money to him, but she had wanted to believe otherwise.And Joseph realised with a shock that there was no blame here for anyone but him.He had done this to her—had changed every element of her life, had taken her family from her.And what he had put in the empty place was nothing more than cold comfort.He could feel the increasing impatience of the silent spirit at his back, tugging him free.He fought, trying to stay with her, wishing she could feel some bit of him and take comfort in it, or that he could take away with him some small part of the burden she carried.But he was gone with a wrench, being dragged back down the street towards the manor.He looked back at the haze of the spirit, feeling tears wet his own cheeks, and he said, ‘I can change.Let me change.’ He reached out to grab at the hood of the spirit, forcing it to face him as he had been afraid to before.It turned to him then, reaching a thin, pale hand to uncover its face and stare at him.It was his own face staring back.Not the one he saw in the mirror each morning, nor even the hardened man that was stalking through this unhappy future.This was him as he would be fifty years hence—still breathing, but near the end.He would be strong and healthy, but nearer to a century than to fifty.And his eyes.At first he thought them soulless.But there was a flickering of pain, like a tormented thing racing about in his head, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that he could not seem to control.Joseph stared at him, into those familiar gray eyes, into the darkest part of his own soul.‘I have seen enough.Take me back.It will be different.As it should be.I promise.’The ghost’s shoulders slumped, as though relieved of a weight.The tension in his mouth relaxed.His eyes closed.And an empty cloak dropped to the floor.It was a blanket.Nothing more than that.It had slipped from his own bed, in his own room.He had chased it to the rug and was sitting upon the floor and staring at it in the light of Christmas dawn as though he had never seen the thing before.Joseph gave a nervous laugh and shook it, as though he expected to see some remnant of his vision.‘All over.Merry Christmas.’ He said it almost as an oath more than a greeting.‘It is over, and I live to tell the tale.’ Not that he could, lest he be thought mad.But he was indeed alive.To the open and empty air, he said, ‘And I will remember it all, whether it be dream or no.’He reached for the bell-pull and rang for butler as well as valet, thinking it would be easier to rouse the housekeeper through an intermediary rather than directly.It would take more than one hand to set his plan in motion.The whole house might be needed, even though it was just past dawn on Christmas Day.Chapter SeventeenJoseph stumbled down the stairs one step ahead of his valet, who was still holding his coat.The shave Hobson had given him had been haphazard at best.But there was much to do, and he could not wait any longer for the butler to deliver his message.‘Mrs Davy!’ He stood in the centre of the main hall and shouted for the housekeeper.It felt as though he were taking his first deep breath in an age, after being deep underwater.The poor woman hustled into the room, hurriedly tying her apron, a look of alarm on her rosy face.He gasped again and grinned at her, amazed at the elation that seemed to rush in along with the plan.It made him feel as he had on the day he had first thought of the new loom—full of bright promise.Only this was better.‘Mrs Davy,’ he said again.‘My dear Mrs Davy!’ And then he laughed at the look on her face.She took a step back.‘Sir?’He had worried her now
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