Free Ruined 2 - Dark Souls by Paula Morris Page B

to disappear — all her self-consciousness, sadness, confusion. Nick had said that ghosts couldn’t hurt her, and Miranda was beginning to believe him. This ghost wouldn’t hurt anyone. Miranda could gaze into his eyes and let the chill sear through her body without feeling afraid. She didn’t want to look away. She wanted more.

CHAPTER SIX
    M iranda, listen to me. I never ask you for anything.” Rob was pouting, squeezing the cushion on his lap as though he were trying to subdue it.
    “Whatever. You ask me for things all the time,” Miranda retorted.
    It was Monday afternoon. Their father and Lord Poole had gone out somewhere. Their mother was meeting up with the orchestra at a rehearsal room. Miranda and Rob were sitting around in the flat: The TV was on with the sound turned down, and newspapers lay strewn across every flat surface. Outside, there was a strange greenish tinge to the dense gray sky, something Miranda always associated with snow moving in.
    “The other day you ordered me to make you another English muffin.”
    “I did not!”
    “You gestured at me and, like, pointed to the toaster.”
    “Did I say anything with my mouth?”
    “What?”
    “Answer the question. DID I SAY ANYTHING WITH MY MOUTH?”
    Miranda sighed.
    “Are you just going to sit around here bugging me
all
day?” she asked him.
    “No.” Rob sprang to his feet, the cushion tumbling to the floor. He clapped his hands together like a camp counselor. So obnoxious. “We should do something. How about I take you to afternoon tea at Little Bettys?”
    “You’re so original,” she drawled. Really, he couldn’t stay away from Sally for two minutes.
    “You can have hot chocolate with real cream and chocolate flakes. Hmmm?”
    “I’m not six years old, you know.”
    “And there are these little pancake things called peeklets….”
    “
Pike
lets,” Miranda corrected him. “I haven’t even eaten at Bettys and I know that. Maybe if you read books, you wouldn’t be so ignorant about the foodstuffs of other cultures. Why don’t you just go by yourself?”
    “Guys just don’t go to tea shops by themselves. It’s not manly.”
    “You’re not manly,” muttered Miranda, heaving herself out of the armchair. She was starting to get nervous about meeting up with Nick later on. Maybe he’dforgotten all about it. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea. She didn’t know anything about Nick. He could be a lunatic. Her English teacher that fall had said that Lord Byron was once described as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” Was that a description of Nick as well?
    “Come on.” Rob zipped up his hoodie, ready for action.
    “But, you know, I can’t stay long,” she said quickly.
    “What — you got somewhere else to go?” he scoffed. Miranda looked away, pretending to search for her woolen hat. Part of her really wanted to tell Rob about Nick. There were times, especially lately, when she did feel close to her brother; the accident was an unspoken bond between them, something that nobody else could understand. But talking about Nick would mean talking about ghosts. Maybe at Little Bettys — somewhere neutral, where he couldn’t shout at her or walk away — Miranda would find the courage.
    Upstairs at Little Bettys, they skirted a cart laden with cakes and tarts, and were led through a rabbit warren of little rooms to the very back of the building. Miranda wriggled into a woven chair jammed in the corner. This was more a nook than a room. It was very cozy, she thought, with its exposed brick and dark beams, a shelf of teapots mounted above the black fireplace. She and Rob could barely squeeze around their table. He sat sideways, his legs sticking out like a scarecrow’s.
    “You can’t have anything that costs over five pounds,” he muttered.
    “But I really wanted to try the Yorkshire cream tea….”
    “God, Miranda — everything’s not always about you! Can you see Sally?”
    “She’s walking toward us,” said Miranda