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was dim and dusty. The dressmaker's dummy stood sentry in the far corner under the eaves, draped in cobwebs. The low bookcases were filled with the child's toys, but now they were grimy and mildewed. Miranda recognized the ball and bat on the top shelf. Outside the tiny attic windows, it was raining. Miranda listened to the pattering drops for a moment, then cautiously peeked around the side of the house. The day outside
her
newly scrubbed attic windows gleamed fresh and bright in the summer sun. She focused back through the dollhouse.
    Through its little windows she could see the larger windows of a different attic—another one? She could see rain pelting the glass, droplets running in rivulets down the panes. Where was the little girl? How many attics could there be?
    Someone was climbing up the attic stairs. Miranda heard the footsteps and watched as the knob on the stairway door turned. Left. Right. Then she heard a piping voice. "Mommy, it's locked."
    She didn't need to glance over the top of the dollhouse to know that the attic door in
her
attic stood open. And the latch was broken. The doorknob rattled. Someone on the other side coughed. "There's no key," said a woman's voice, not Miranda's mother's. "Run down and tell Daddy to bring up a crowbar."
    "Will we have to break down the door? Will we, Mommy?" asked a child's excited voice.
    "No, Timmy. Just the lock."
    More footsteps on the stairs, and a man's low voice. Then banging, and the scrape of metal. Miranda pressed her hands down on the dollhouse attic floor. They were going to break in! Whoever they were, they would be in the attic in another minute.
    The door flew open and two little boys about four and five years old tumbled into the room, followed by a slender, gentle-looking woman with soft brown hair waved around her face and a tall, thin man with black hair. Miranda stared in astonishment, but these ghosts—if that's what they were—induced no terror at all.
    "Look, Mommy!" called the younger boy as he raced around the room. "What a mess!"
    "I'll bet there are loads of spiders and stuff," called the other boy, beaming a large flashlight into the corners.
    "Ugh, what filth!" said the woman. "Don't touch anything, boys." She looked around with distaste, then turned to the man. "This looks like it was a playroom once. I can't imagine why it was left locked up. Can you?"
    He shook his head. "No, but I'm beginning to think old Uncle Sigmund was pretty eccentric. His lawyer said he locked the place up and just left everything to rot, and he wouldn't even hear of selling anything or letting anyone else move in."
    "It's sad," she murmured. "He must have really become disturbed after his wife and child died."
    "Apparently he never got over it. Just became a recluse—lived all alone in a rooming house in Boston. Even my own mother didn't see him for years, and she had always been his favorite sister. I can't imagine why he decided to leave the house to me in his will."
    "Probably because you're his favorite sister's son!" she said, crossing to the windows. "It's so lucky for us! Look at the garden—all that space! Such a perfect place for the boys."
    He looked out over her shoulder. "Lots of room for that vegetable garden you've always wanted."
    "True—but we've got to make the house habitable first," She turned back to survey the room. "Imagine letting everything just decay!"
    "Can this be our playroom, Mommy? There are lots of funny toys!" The older boy held up a tin figure. "What does this do?"
    The man crossed the room to him. "It's an old penny bank!" he exclaimed. "An organ grinder with a monkey. They were popular when I was a boy."
    The smaller boy was still rummaging through the shelves. "Look at this!" he crowed, holding up the dusty bat and the red-and-blue ball. "Can we play with this stuff?"
    "Yes, Timmy," said his mother. "But we have to take it down and wash it first." She looked at the man. "What about these windows? Do you think