The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall by Mary Downing Hahn

to argue, I said, “I am not going to visit James.” But as I spoke, I found myself taking off my own drab brown dress and slipping into the blue silk. The fabric touched my skin, as delicate as butterfly wings.
    Sophia picked up my brush and comb and began brushing my hair. When it shone as brown and glossy as hers once did, she tied it back with a blue velvet ribbon. “There,” she said. “You’re not nearly as pretty as I am, but I suppose you’ll do.”
    I wanted to tell her she was not pretty now, but instead I stood silently before the mirror and admired my reflection. Instead of a wretched orphan, I saw a well-dressed girl, the sort I’d admired on the streets of London.
    Behind me, I noticed Sophia kept her back to the mirror. “Why don’t you stand beside me and look at yourself? Then you can see who’s prettier—you or me.” It was a terrible thing to say, and I was ashamed of myself for speaking the words out loud.
    Ignoring my question, Sophia seized my hand and led me away from the mirror and out of my room. As we walked down the hall, the blue silk rustled like autumn leaves. My hair was a soft, sweet weight on my shoulders and neck. I walked lightly, gracefully. I forgot to be afraid, forgot to worry. At last I was going to meet my cousin James.
    Sophia stopped in front of James’s door. First she pressed her ear to the wood and listened. Then she bent to peek through the keyhole.
    Straightening, she favored me with her thin-lipped smile. “He’s all alone, sitting in bed, reading. Don’t bother to knock. Just walk in and stand quietly until he notices you. He loves surprises.”
    â€œAren’t you coming with me?” I asked.
    But I was speaking to empty air. Sophia was gone, leaving an echo of her laughter behind.
    For a moment, I hesitated. Perhaps it was unwise to enter without knocking. Suppose I frightened James? What if Sophia was tricking me into doing something I shouldn’t? Could I trust her to be truthful?
    But I simply could not resist visiting my cousin. Quietly I turned the knob and slowly opened the door. The curtains were closed tightly, and the fire burned low. An oil lamp beside the bed gave enough light for me to see James. Propped up on pillows, he was deeply engrossed in a book.
    Like Sophia, he bore little resemblance to the child in the photograph. His round cheeks were gone, leaving his face narrow and solemn. His skin was pale, and the hair tumbling over his eyes was long and curly. Even from this distance, I could see he was thin and frail. Sickly.
    Cautiously I took a few steps forward, unsure whether I should approach him or tiptoe out of his room. What I was doing seemed intrusive, rather as if I’d entered a sanctuary without permission.
    I must have made a sound, for suddenly he turned and saw me. His reaction horrified me.
    â€œNo,” he screamed, “you can’t cross my threshold. It’s forbidden! Get out! Get out!” He was on his knees now, hurling a book at me. Then another and another.
    The heavy volumes hit the wall over my head, and I ducked this way and that to avoid being struck. He was definitely stronger than he looked.
    When he ran out of books to throw, James fell back against his pillow, shrieking and crying. “Don’t come near me!”
    I ran to him and seized his hands. “Don’t be afraid. I’m Florence, your cousin. Hasn’t Uncle told you about me?”
    â€œYou can’t trick me,” James cried. “I know who you are—I know what you want!”
    â€œNo, no, James, please listen. I’m Florence Crutchfield. My father was your father’s brother. I’m an orphan, just as you are. We’re both wards of our uncle, Thomas Crutchfield.”
    Gradually, James’s struggles lessened, and I released his hands. Although he still trembled, he breathed more naturally and his body began to relax.
    He studied my