Only after taking the ghost’s hand to lead him through the gate did Petunia remember the laundry.
As it happened, things were hung up on all the trees to dry, including several pairs of underwear.
And she had a guest.
Not just any guest, but a very handsome man!
Even if he was a little bit dead.
For a moment, she even felt like she’d ended up in an American sitcom.
The kind where the actors on screen act out stupid scenes and the audience laughs in the background.
Petunia patted her cheeks, hot with embarrassment, and said: “I just did laundry today…
don’t mind my things, okay?” As luck would have it, she couldn’t remember whether her underwear was hanging in plain sight.
She really did need a proper dryer.
Leading the ghost through the grove, Petunia was surprised.
“Amazing!
You’re completely solid now.” The hand she was holding in hers was large and firm, very tangible.
And blades of grass bent under his weight as he followed, making a slight rustling sound.
Petunia had the feeling he was making noise just for her, and otherwise could have walked completely silently.
Like a ghost.
Very original, Petunia.
Still, she couldn’t help remembering their first meeting — the fear she’d felt was still alive in her memory.
She must have been completely out of her mind back then, daring to offer a drink with her own hands to a ghost that had appeared out of nowhere.
The little house greeted them with the cheerful flapping of laundry.
Petunia quickly spotted her underwear and sighed in resignation.
Why had she hung them so close?
To avoid fixating on such an awkward situation, she announced in a loud voice: “I caught a fish yesterday.
This big,” and she indicated the size with her free hand, stretching the truth quite a bit.
Oh well.
“I sold most of it, but there was enough for soup.
And we can boil the eggs.
I’ve got nowhere to store them anyway.
Want some?” The ghost nodded and settled into his usual spot on the porch.
He pulled back his hood, turned his pale face to the sun, and closed his eyes.
Household chores had always been a wonderful way for Petunia to take her mind off problems.
Cooking dinner for the family or doing a deep clean — anything would do, as long as her head and hands were busy.
Petunia immediately put the pot of soup on the fire and set about sorting today’s haul.
First, she washed and laid out the sorrel, nettles, and leeks to dry, then turned to the dandelions.
She washed those too, carefully rinsing all the dirt off the roots, and immediately divided them into parts — roots separately, flowers separately, stems and leaves together.
Looking at her collection, she couldn’t help sighing.
What good was it that she now knew several dandelion salad recipes if she had neither the other ingredients nor any kind of dressing?
She picked one of the leaves to try, popped it into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.
It was a little bitter, but tolerable.
Actually, it was even a bit like arugula.
Petunia would have added some little cucumbers and cherry tomatoes, maybe a couple of spoonfuls of canned corn and a bunch of green onions, and dressed it with olive oil — her mouth even watered at the thought of that salad.
Petunia really liked the great Coco Chanel’s words about what a real woman should be, and she tried to live up to them.
The scandals and salads turned out wonderfully; the hats, not so much yet.
Nothing to be done about it.
Cucumbers and tomatoes, let alone corn, didn’t grow on her farm yet.
Petunia picked the prettiest leaves, arranged them on a plate, added some green onion stalks and slices of leek, and salted it.
At least it was some variety.
The soup in the pot came to a boil.
Petunia quickly cracked all the eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a fork, and, her tongue sticking out with concentration, began pouring them into the boiling soup in a thin stream while stirring constantly with a spoon.
Thanks to the vigorous stirring, the egg instantly cooked into little swirls that spread evenly across the surface of the soup.
Mom used to call soups like that “curly.” “I only have one set of dishes,” she said in an apologetic tone, handing the ghost the pot and a spoon.
She set the plate of greens right on the porch and settled down beside it.
It was nice to sit on the porch and slowly eat soup, watching how beautifully the socks and underwear gleamed white against the trees lit by the crimson sunset.
Ugh.
Petunia mentally spat and focused on the taste of the broth.
The eggs added nourishment and flavor to the fish stock and significantly increased its volume.
Petunia sipped the soup in small spoonfuls, glancing sideways at her guest.
The ghost — could she still call him that?
— was working his spoon carefully, slurping soup from the pot, and every movement was filled with innate grace.
Petunia even thought that members of the royal family couldn’t have eaten more elegantly.
When the food was finished, and even the plate of greens was empty, Petunia put the dirty dishes away in the house and offered the guest some rosehip tea in the only mug.
She poured some for herself into the thermos cup.
“I need to get a chicken somehow,” she thought aloud, taking a thoughtful sip of her drink.
“Looking for eggs in the forest every day would be a bit much.” But where was she supposed to get a chicken?
It wasn’t like she could catch pheasants in the woods.
A light touch on her arm made her snap out of her thoughts.
Petunia started.
The ghost was holding out the empty mug to her and nodded seriously when she asked if it was good.
Actually, now he was supposed to leave, like he did before, after receiving water or food.
But the ghost kept sitting on the porch, and didn’t even react when Petunia patted him on the shoulder.
She shrugged.
What did she even know about ghost behavior?
None of Lily’s books had ever said ghosts could eat and drink.
After fetching some water, she washed the dishes and started scrubbing the pot with sand and a bunch of grass.
The books said this combination was excellent for cutting grease if you had no soap or baking soda, and she was now going to test the usefulness of this method in practice.
Midway through, she felt eyes on her.
The ghost, having emerged from his thoughts, was watching her attentively, as if nothing were more interesting than washing dishes.
Petunia shrugged again and resumed her task with redoubled effort.
“Well, it really is clean!” Petunia was quite pleased when she shook out the sand and rinsed the cauldron with water.
The inside surface of the vessel was perfectly clean, not a single spot!
At that moment, the ghost reached out his hand to her, drawing her attention, and then beckoned her closer with his palm.
Petunia moved closer, not letting go of the cauldron.
He looked strangely agitated, and because of that, almost alive.
“You want me to help with something else?” she asked.
He nodded, so vigorously that he reminded her of a bobblehead doll.
She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.
He stretched out his hands to her, palms up, and shook them demandingly, urging Petunia to place hers on top.
When her hands made contact, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers.
Petunia closed her eyes and saw someone else’s mental image.
Several girls in simple white clothes, all barefoot and with loose hair, were washing someone’s body, and a little later, holding lamps in their hands, they kept a mournful vigil by an altar.
The ghost pulled back, and the mysterious images vanished.
Petunia opened her eyes and rubbed her forehead, not knowing what to think.
Was that that thing Lily’s textbooks called Legilimency?
Those certainly weren’t her thoughts, her memories.
She looked at the one who had shared this picture with her.
The ghost was looking at her with a strange, tense expectation, as if his fate, nothing less, was being decided at that moment.
And it was she, Petunia, who was deciding it.
Mr.
Cory, in his letter, had asked her to help anyone who came to the farm.
At first, she thought it would require her to grow a vegetable or fruit, treat someone to a meal, but not participate in dubious rituals.
And that what she’d been shown was a ritual, that was certain.
But what it meant…
there was something vaguely familiar about the actions of those girls, as if Petunia had already read about it, she just couldn’t remember.
She rubbed her forehead again.
The cold in the spot where the ghost had touched her just wouldn’t go away.
“Let me clarify,” she said.
“Did I understand correctly that I need to…
ahem…
help you wash, and then keep watch over your sleep?” The ghost nodded.
Petunia felt her face flushing, her ears starting to burn, and her chest becoming stuffy and hot.
She groaned and hid her burning face in her hands.
She had only ever seen naked men at the London Museum in the Greco-Roman sculpture section!
Well, and in that terribly vulgar magazine she had completely accidentally found on the very top shelf of her parents’ wardrobe, under some of her father’s old sweaters.
Greek statues had seemed more beautiful to her.
In every way.
And this ghost…
Petunia looked at him through the crack between her fingers and gasped again from the internal heat.
Lord, why did you even create such a handsome man?
Finally, regaining a bit of composure, she only asked: “Heat the water?” and the way his face brightened and with what relief he smiled drove all extraneous thoughts from her head.
She would be embarrassed later — for the next couple of years, for sure — but that would be later.
She wheeled a tub out of the pantry and, over several trips, hauled water from the pond.
The two stones she used for heating became so hot they were almost glowing, and a powerful column of steam rose from the water when Petunia placed them in the tub.
The fire crackled something encouraging, and she turned to smile gratefully at it.
“It’s ready,” she said, gesturing invitingly toward the steaming tub.
The ghost ducked to get through the doorway, barely missing his head on the lintel.
His hands appeared from under the cloak, and Petunia averted her gaze when he tugged at the ties of his tattered cloak.
While he was undressing, throwing his clothes right on the floor — which she determined by the rustle of fabric — Petunia got out soap and shampoo, a washcloth and comb, a clean towel and a spare sheet.
The quiet splash of water told her everything was ready.
The ghost sat in her improvised bathtub, his knees drawn up to his chin, and the water splashed almost to the very edges, threatening to spill over.
Still, this tub was a bit too small for him.
Petunia glanced over his broad, snow-white shoulders, strong arms, the mane of dark hair with rare silver strands, so long it lay right on the floor, and said in a very serious voice: “First, we’ll wash your hair.
Close your eyes, it might sting,” and she uncorked the bottle of shampoo.