The Twisted Tragedy of Miss Natalie Stewart
“Paul’s Summit Avenue, where a tree-lined mall divides a cobbled street. It was here that the carriage Jonathon hired at the train station pulled in, under a pillared portico against a Georgian edifice with candles in the window. Ivy was kept carefully at bay upon the brick, though it was straining at the seams, as if ready at any moment to engulf the whole building in leaves.
I wish I could have sketched the face Dr. Neumann made upon seeing us at the door.
“I’m not a ghost,” Jonathon assured his friend, holding out a hand. For the first time in public since the incident on the train, he retained his British accent. Samuel dodged his hand, throwing his arms around Jonathon with a joyful laugh.
“Nat wrote me that you were dead, suicide, some rushed burial—”
“Samuel, you know you can’t believe everything you read in the papers—”
“Denbury, my friend, is this some miracle?”
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