‘Do I, now?’ Joseph could not help it and stole a glance up at the spirit—if that was what it was. And he wondered when he had ever had a dream this real. He could smell and feel, as well as hear and see. He had to struggle to keep himself from reaching out to touch the shroud that the man in front of him carried like a mantle draped over his bony arm. He stared at the ghost, willing it to disappear. ‘I ignored you in life as best I could. Because of it I gave you enough money to die in comfort, instead of bent over a loom. But that was years ago. Go back to where you have been and leave me in peace.’
‘You do not have peace, if you would be honest and see the truth. Just as it always was when you were a boy, you are careless. You have not attended to both the warp and the weft. The tension is uneven. You have done much, and done it quickly with your fancy machines. But your work is without shape.’
Joseph glared into the hollow eyes before him, too angry at the slight to stay silent. ‘I bore enough of that needless criticism from you when you lived—trying to teach me to weave when it was clear I had no skill for it. The last piece of work you will ever see me make on an old-fashioned loom was the shroud I buried you in. I wove it on your old machine with my own hands. I made it out of wool in respect for custom and your trade. If you have come to me to complain of the quality, then go back to your grave without it. As for my current life—there is no basis for this criticism. I can measure my success by my surroundings. This Christmas I will have a house full to the brim with guests and a table creaking with bounty. I have a new mill. When it opens I will be able to afford to fill the warehouse with goods, ready to ship when the sanctions are lifted.’
The ghost shook his head, as though all the achievement was nothing, and waved the shroud before him. ‘Shapeless. Tear it out. Tear it out before it is too late. Your grain is off, boy.’
Joseph finished with his undressing and pulled a nightshirt over his head. Then he lay down on the bed with his arms stiff at his sides, fighting to keep from stuffing his fingers in his ears. He could hear the old man’s death rattle of a breath, along with the same repeated criticisms that had tortured him all through his failed apprenticeship.
Then he thought of the girl who had been clinging to Bernard Lampett’s arm in front of the mill. Her difficulties with her father had raised these memories in him. He felt a sympathy with her. And, for all his convictions that there could be no mercy shown, he would not rest easy until he had found a peaceful solution.
He looked at the shade of his father again, half hoping that it had evaporated now that he’d found the probable cause. But it was still there, as stern and disapproving as ever he had been. ‘If you are my own guilty conscience, the least you could have done,’ Joseph said, ‘was come to me in the form of Barbara Lampett. And I’d be much more likely to listen if you told me plainly what you wanted.’
The ghost looked at him as though he was both stupid and a disappointment. It was a familiar look. ‘It will not go well for you if you persist in talking nonsense. I came here hoping to spare you what is soon to come. My time is wasted, for you are as stubborn as you were right up ‘til the day I died.’
‘You? Spare me?’ Joseph laughed. ‘When did you ever wish to spare me anything? It was I who saved myself, and none other. I used my own brain and my own hands to make sure that I did not live as you did. And I succeeded at it.’
The ghost looked troubled, but only briefly. ‘My goal is not to make you into myself. I was a hard man in life. A good craftsman, but a poor father.’
‘Thank you for admitting the fact now that it is years too late,’ Joseph snapped, annoyed that his mind would choose his precious free hours to remind him of things he preferred to forget.
‘I bear the punishment of my errors even now. But my goal was to make you something more.’ The ghost pointed with a pale, long-fingered hand that in life had been nimble with a shuttle. ‘Here you are—proof that my job was not done. You are less than you should be. You are certainly less than you must be. That is why you must tear out what you have done. Tear out the work and start again, while you are able. It is not too late to go back. Find the mistake and fix it. Start again, before tomorrow night, or face another visitor.’
‘I have no intention of destroying the work of a lifetime to please some niggling voice in my own mind that will be gone in the morning.’ He pulled up the coverlet and waved a hand. ‘Now, go, sir. Come again as some more interesting dream. You do not frighten me, though I will be glad to see you gone. Bring the girl instead.’
He smiled at the thought. If he could choose a bedtime fantasy, she was better than most. Then he pulled the sheet over his head and rolled away from the figure, trying to ignore the strange green glow that seemed to seep through his closed eyelids. What sort of dream remained even after one ceased to look at it?
One that could still speak, apparently. His father’s voice came from just above him, unbothered by his ignoring of it. It was louder now, and Joseph had his first moment’s fright, thinking if he pulled the blankets away he might find himself inches away from a corpse—close enough to choke on the smell of rotting flesh and see the waxy vacancy of a dead man’s eyes.
‘Very well, then. It is as was feared. You will not listen to me. Be warned, boy. If you have a brain, you will heed before Christmas Eve. From here, I can see what is coming, and I would not wish that—even on you.’
‘Thank you so much, Father, for such a cold comfort.’ Joseph snuggled down into the pillow.
‘There will be three before Christmas. Look for the first when the clock chimes one tomorrow. If you have any sense you will heed them, before it is too late.’
Joseph laughed into the bedclothes. ‘You mean to ruin my sleep between here and Christmas, I suppose? And destroy every last pleasure I take in this holiday. Only you would be trying to visit me with dire predictions on this of all weeks. Come back after Twelfth Night and perhaps I shall care.’
‘Sir?’
Joseph opened his eyes.
The voice was not that of his father but of his valet, who sounded rather worried. ‘Were you speaking to me, Mr Stratford? For I did not quite catch …’
When he pulled back the covers the candles were still lit and there was no sign of the eldritch glow he had been trying to shut out, nor the figure that had cast it. ‘No, Hobson. It was only a dream. I was talking in my sleep, I think.’ It must have been that. He had come back to his room and dozed, spinning a wild fancy without even bothering to blow out the light.
His valet was standing in a litter of clothes, looking around him with disapproval. ‘If you were tired, you had but to ring and I would have come immediately to assist you.’ Hobson picked the jacquard waistcoat from off the floor, smoothing the wrinkles from it and hanging it in the wardrobe.
‘I was not tired,’ Joseph insisted. Although he must have been. Why had he been dreaming? Though he could remember each piece of clothing as he’d dropped it on the floor, he could not seem to manage to remember falling asleep at any point—dressed or otherwise.
‘Then might I bring you a warm drink before bed? A brandy? A posset? In keeping with the season, Cook has mulled some wine.’
‘No, thank you. No spirits before bed, I think.’ At least not like the one he’d had already.
There will be three.
He looked to the valet. ‘Did you say something just now?’
‘I offered wine …’ The man was looking at him as though he was drunk.
‘Because I thought I heard …’ Of course he was sure that he had not heard Hobson speak. It had been his father’s voice for certain, come back to repeat his warning. Although, looking around the room,