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The cake turned out to be Apple Charlotte, fresh from the oven, with a jug of warm nutmeg custard. Conversation over dinner was light: children, education, music, books, Florentine’s afternoon visit to the home of the Young sisters, and the mild weather—on the coast, at least. But now, with steaming bowls of Apple Charlotte before them, each of the diners seemed to sense a shift. Time to discuss unexpected arrivals and their meaning, and a certain sense of feyness that each could feel crowding in on the room, collecting in the shadows where gaslight and candles could not reach, congregating among the embers and low flames in the fireplace; an impression that if one could turn their head fast enough they would see, in full, the phantoms haunting their peripheral vision. The crispness of a