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“We’ll leave that blank, I’m guessing. Don’t be alarmed, my dear—it’s not at all unusual.”
    â€œWill that make it harder to … to Liberate me?”
    â€œWell, it certainly does add a level of challenge. But luckily, to me, challenge is nothing more than a great bundle of fun in disguise.” Her eyes twinkled. “Never you fear, my good little gadfly. We’ll crack this house open in no time and dig out its mysteries like walnut meat.”
    In spite of her uncertainty, Dahlia grinned. She had never thought of Silverton Manor as a walnut, nor as being very mysterious. But now that she thought about it, being stuckhere all alone, not being able to leave for years and years, just wasn’t normal. And now she knew something else too: Mrs. Silverton—no,
her mother
—was looking for her.
    For as long as she could remember, Dahlia had tried to shut herself off from any emotion relating to her mother. It was easier that way, living as they did in their separate dimensions, unable to interact between the ghost and the living worlds. And she’d never had any sense that she was on her mother’s mind, or that her mother missed her at all.
    But now, this! Her mother had crossed over to the other side—had
died
, that was what it came down to—and one of the very first things she’d done was ask after
Dahlia
! All those years in silence, had her mother been missing Dahlia just as much as Dahlia had missed her?
    A lump rose in Dahlia’s throat, even as her emotions crystallized into a hard core of determination. Whatever it took, she
would
delve into her past, figure out what there was to know, and then find a way to leave Silverton Manor.
    And then she would find a way to cross over once and for all.

Chapter 4
    The old iron gate looked like it had come straight out of one of Oliver’s creepy gothic novels. The bars were topped with ancient rusted curlicues, and the two heavily padlocked sides came together in an elaborate letter S. It was exactly the kind of place that would be expected to have its own curse. By the time Jock Rutabartle got the gate open and they all drove through, Oliver was hopping up and down in his seat with excitement.
    Up close, the cranberry paint was obviously peeling, and the turrets and spires didn’t gleam so much as glower. But to Oliver it was a dream house: at least three stories high, maybe four if those were attic windows peeking out of the very tip-top. This was a house that could outlast a hundred games of hide-and-seek and still feel brand new; a house that had its own face and its own brain, and probably talked to you in your sleep; a house of spooky mystery and mayhem and charm.
    The cars ground down the gravel driveway and skirted the edges of the forest on their left, passing wide neglected fields—like the ghosts of ancient lawns and flowerbeds—on the right.
    Oliver had a strange feeling in his middle—a feeling like hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, like the first big pool splash of summer … a feeling like coming home. He turned toward his parents in the front seat. Did they feel it too?
    Dad was peering out the front window from under the brim of his lucky hat, his mouth curved sharply downward. His face looked like an hourglass with the sand slowly draining out. “I …,” Dad mumbled, swallowing. “Perhaps I should have come to see it before signing all the paperwork.” He glanced at Mom, then shifted as he took in the look on her face.
    Mom was starry-eyed and a little unfocused. Her hands were moving in her lap, twitching to one side and the other like they were warming up for a marathon stint of chores. “Landscapers,” she said absently. “Painters and ironwork restorers. First impressions are the most important, you know. That broken window needs immediate tending.” And she trailed off, lost in her own world of house restoration.
    The