Free The Ghost of the Mary Celeste by Valerie Martin

lectured us on the subject of his rock collection.”
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “I do recall Mr. Finley’s rocks.”
    We could have gone on like this. I felt no desire to bring her to the subject of her correspondence with Dr. Chandler, though that name was burning in my brain, along with the clear consciousness that when I spoke it, my relations with my sister would be seriously altered, possibly forever. I reminded myself of the articles, the strange writing, and most of all, of Benjamin’s conviction that the problem of Hannah was best addressed by me.
    And so I addressed it. We were passing the Universalist Church, which Father calls “the Univices,” and we both glanced up at the screech of a hawk circling near the tower. “Dearest,” I said, as we resumed our walk. “I have to ask you about something.”
    “It sounds like something serious,” she said.
    “It is. It’s that. Well. It’s been noticed that you are corresponding with a Dr. Chandler in Boston.”
    “Noticed by whom?” she asked calmly.
    I hesitated. Was I compelled to keep secret the name of the instigator of this conversation? “Mother Briggs,” I said.
    Her lips compressed in a smirk; her eyelids lowered, then flashed open wide. “She’s lying,” she said.
    This possibility hadn’t occurred to me, and for a moment I turned it this way and that in my mind, but unlikelihood remained its distinctive feature. “Why would she do that?” I asked.
    “She dislikes me. She blames me for Natie’s death.”
    “Surely not,” I protested.
    “She made it up to hurt me. Have you told anyone else? Please tell me you haven’t told Father this libel.”
    “No, I haven’t. I came straight to you. But evidently Dr. Allen has seen the letters as well. I don’t think he would lie about the mails.”
    She pressed her upper teeth into her lip, her head bowed, the picture of guilt in search of an escape.
    “Hannah?” I said.
    “Everyone in this town is so small-minded and mean. I’m suffocating here. I can’t breathe.”
    “That’s not true,” I countered. “Your family cares for you very much.”
    “As long as I’m docile, as long as I sit through Father’s sermons without protest.”
    “Why should you protest?”
    She was silent. At the turn toward the house we both stopped, still without speaking. “Let’s walk to the harbor,” I suggested.
    She nodded and we went on. “It seems to me you’ve something burdening your mind,” I said. “You must know that you’ll find no more sympathetic listener than me.”
    Again she nodded. We walked out Harbor Lane, where the workers have wrapped the hotel in scaffolding, adding a third floor. The breeze off the water was fresh and brisk enough to make me wish I’d brought my shawl. Then my sister sent an icy dart to my heart.
    “Mother talks to me,” she said.
    “In dreams,” I suggested hopefully.
    “In spirit,” she said. “I see her.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “And others.”
    “Others?”
    “People who are with her. William and Harvey are there.”
    William and Harvey were our brothers who died before we were born. “Where do you see them?” I asked.
    “In the spirit world. They speak to me too.”
    “Often?”
    “Not so often. I have to concentrate very hard to hear them.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “But Mother is with me often.”
    I looked out at the sun, still high enough to wash a pinkish light over a fishing schooner just setting out, its triangular sails churning up the masts. A charge of pity and fear ran through me and I was unable to speak. What could I say that might restore my sister, whom I loved with my whole heart, to sweet reason? She was of a fanciful nature, but she wasn’t a liar, at least not a good one; her effort to discredit Mother Briggs had folded almost at once. What tack should I take to relieve her of these delusions, which had evidently taken her over almost entirely? Sensing my hesitation, she spoke.
    “I have a gift,” she said. “It’s