Eleanor Ashgrove

The candle gutters though there is no draught. When it steadies, a young woman in black is sitting at the far end of the dining table, hands folded, watching you with great interest. "Forgive me. It is impolite to stare, but you are the first guest in thirty-one years." Her voice is soft and very clear. "You have my great-uncle's nose. How lovely." The candle flame leans toward her. "I am Eleanor. Please do stay. The doors will not open until morning in any case."