One

After supper, the twins went up to bed.

Their parents were surprised at how docile they had become. At home, in Leipzig, the children had been becoming more and more of a handful, either fighting each other, or working on some mischief together.

Herr Graf was unwell; he had barely been able to complete his third symphony in time for its first performance at the Gewandhaus, and it would not have done to keep the Gewandhausorchester waiting; he may have shot to stardom as a young composer, but he was fully aware how easily his success, his fame, and his money could be taken from him again.

His doctor advised a health cure, and recommended an almost unheard of island called Blest, in the far north. His doctor had met an Englishman who had been entirely cured of his tuberculosis after a spell there.

Herr Graf had a desire to travel alone, but Frau Graf was a strong-willed woman, and insisted that she and their son and daughter would not be separated. Now, he was glad that she had, because something was working a miracle not only on his own fragile health, but on the good humor of his children, too.

“Good night, Pappa,” they said in unison. “Good night, Mamma.”

And then they trotted up to the bedroom that lay at the far end of the single corridor in the upper floor of the house they were renting.

Yes, the children were enjoying their holiday, especially as it had meant dispensing with their tutor, when they would usually have been at school.

This was true, but there was another reason. They really liked the lady who their parents had arranged to look after them, a calm and kind lady named Laura.

Every night after they had said their prayers Laura would sit on the end of the bed and tell them a story.

Both children, brother and sister, thought that she was very beautiful, and listened, mesmerized, as she told her stories. The stories Laura told them were not like the dull ones they heard from their tutor, with boring children doing boring things.

No, the stories she told them were exciting. Stories full of wild adventures, of trips to mysterious lands, of brave heroes and wicked villains, and they loved them.

*   *   *

That night, Laura stood by the window, combing her hair. She was looking out at the night sky. She seemed more thoughtful than usual.

“Have you noticed, children? The nights are getting longer now,” she said, turning toward them, smiling. “It is a hunter’s moon tonight. And with a moon like this, I think there is only one kind of story to tell. A ghost story!”

The children giggled with delight.

“Would you like that?”

The children nodded.

“Very well, a ghost story it is.” She grinned.

“I shall leave the curtains open. Blow out your candle, and I will tell you the story by the light of the moon.”

The children giggled again, and blew out the light.

Laura sat down on the end of the bed, combing her hair with long, measured strokes.