She knew how to free James Stillman and keep pain away from a burning hand. But the moment I heard my name called and looked up, I was Miranda Romanac again and she was only mortal.

Out in the hall, McCabe slammed the door shut behind us and looked worriedly around. “Should we try to put it out or just get the hell out of here?”

“We can’t get out, Frannie. The house won’t let us. It’s haunted. By my ghosts now. I brought them in when I came.”

He remained silent. The fire crackled two feet away.

“It’s the same thing that happened to Frances when I was a kid.”

“The same thing?”

“No, but it’s the same, believe me. You’re right, we can’t get out of here now. You gotta figure a way to do it.”

“What did Frances do?”

“She went to the attic. Did something up there. I never knew what.”

I looked toward the ceiling. “There is no attic.”

McCabe looked up. “Sure there is, I been there a hundred times.”

“It’s gone. There’s no more attic, Frannie. The house changes.”

He opened his mouth to answer but a muffled thumping explosion behind the bedroom door stopped him. “What the fuck are we gonna do, Miranda? We gotta go somewhere!”

“The basement. It’s in the basement.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know, Frannie, I’d tell you if I did. But it’s in the basement.” I saw my arm. The one on fire moments before. There wasn’t a mark on it.

“Wait a minute. Just wait a second.” McCabe sprinted down the hall and around a corner. Everything stunk of smoke. It poured from beneath the door into the hall, oozing along the floor.

I had been in the basement only a few times. There were two large rooms. Hugh said when we had some money we would do something interesting with the space. Hugh. Hugh. Hugh… There was a light in each room down there and one at the top of the stairs. I tried to picture it all and what could possibly be down there that was so important.

Frannie jogged back down the hall looking baffled. “You’re right, there’s nothing there anymore. Used to be a door in the ceiling with a latch you’d pull and a folding ladder would come down. But it’s all gone. There is no fuckin’ attic!”

“Forget it. Let’s go.”

“The house is going to burn down and we’re gonna be in the goddamned basement!”

I led the way. Down the front stairs, a left turn, and just before the kitchen, the white basement door. McCabe reached for the knob. I stopped him. “Let me go first.”

The dank odor of damp earth and stone. A place where the air never changed, a breeze never blew through. Clicking on the light at the top of the stairs did little good. No more than a sixty-watt bulb, it illuminated only a few steps down and then the rest fell away into a brown darkness. I took firm hold of the rickety banister and started down.

“I hope to God someone’s called the fire department by now. They’re having a busy day.”

“Be quiet, Frannie.” The only sound then was the muted clunk of our feet going down wooden stairs. At the bottom, the basement floor was bumpy and felt like hard-packed earth. It was about ten feet from the stairs to the first room. The door was half-closed but the light from inside sent a weak ray out across a patch of floor. I walked over and pushed the door open.

Days before, I had helped Hugh carry things into this room. It had been almost empty but for a couple of broken lawn chairs and an archery target with only one leg. We stacked our empty boxes and suitcases against moldy walls and discussed whether we should even try to clean the room a little. Years of neglect had left it looking like a typical moldy basement room where you store unimportant things and promptly forget them forever.

But the room I entered now was luminous, transformed. Painted a happy pink-orange, the once-shabby walls were covered with pictures of Disney creatures, giant George Booth bullterriers, Tin Tin and Milou, characters from The Wizard of Oz. On the spotless parquet floor sat a pile of stuffed animals and other cartoon characters: Olive Oyl, Minnie Mouse, Daisy Duck.

In the center of the room was the most extraordinary cradle I had ever seen. Made out of dark mahogany, it must have been hundreds of years old; it looked medieval. Particularly because of the intricate carving that covered every square inch of its surface. Angels and animals, clouds and suns, planets, stars, the Milky Way, simple German words carved with the most devoted precision: Liebe, Kind, Gott, Himmel, unsterblich.… Love, child, God, immortal. How long had it taken the artist to create it? The work of a lifetime, it said everything about love any hand could express. It was love, carved out of wood.

Overwhelmed, I crossed the floor thinking about nothing else but this exceptional object.

“Miranda, be careful!”

His voice and the sight of what was in the cradle arrived simultaneously.

“Oh my God!” The child living in my body, Hugh’s child, lay in that cradle. I recognized her the moment I saw her. I touched my belly and began to tremble uncontrollably. None of this was possible, but I knew without question that this was our baby, our daughter. Even my jaw was shaking when I managed to say quietly, “Hi, sweetheart.”

She lay on her back in a pajama the same happy color as the room. She played with her fingers and smiled, frowned, smiled, all concentration. She looked like Hugh. She looked like me. She was the most beautiful baby in the world. She was ours.

But she would not look at me even when I moved to the cradle to stare. Having controlled my shaking, I reached down to touch her. As my hand moved toward her, she began to fade. No other way to explain it. The closer I got, the paler she grew, then white, transparent.

When it first happened, I snatched my hand back. She returned. Everything about her became visible again. The cradle, her bedding, the room—all remained as it was, but not our baby. I could not touch her. It was not permitted.

Out loud but only to myself I said, “But I have to touch her. I need to touch my baby!”

“You can’t.” I looked at McCabe. His face was twisted in fury. “Don’t you understand? It’s a setup, Miranda! Just figure out what you’re supposed to do. We’re standing below a burning house. That’s the only real thing here.”

I could not accept that. I reached for my baby again, but the same thing happened. She faded. She never looked at me. My hand stopped. “She doesn’t see me. Why doesn’t she see me?”

“Because she’s not here, goddammit! The room’s a trick. The baby’s a trick. It’s all illusion. Let’s get out of here! Let’s look in the other room and then get the hell out.”

“I can’t. I have to stay here.”

“Not possible.” He stepped around me and picking up the cradle threw it against the far wall. It bounced off, hit the floor, and rolled over face down. One piece broke off and skidded back almost to my foot.

Horrified, I rushed to the cradle and turned it over. It was empty. Aghast, I put my hands in, but there was no child, no blanket or bedding, nothing but the empty smoothness of the wood. I was so confused I didn’t even think about McCabe or what he had just done. The baby was gone. Where was my baby?

“Can we go now? They’re waiting.” The voice behind me was different. I turned and saw… Shumda. The Enormous Shumda, Ventriloquist Extraordinaire, Frances Hatch’s lover, the man who killed the little girl who was once me. McCabe was nowhere to be seen and I knew why.

“It was you all along, wasn’t it? Upstairs, with the fire and the talking dolls? The whole thing was a trick; McCabe never came back to the house after he dropped me off.”

He bowed. “Correct. I’m good at voices. But we really do have to get going.”

“Where? Where’s my baby? Where did she go?”

“That’s for you to decide. Let’s go!”

“I’m not going with you.”