His ghost comes to her that night. "I'm home," he says, and smiles with embarrassment.

She can't breathe, air tight in your chest. "You're dead," she says, and steps towards him, one hand reaching, fingers splayed. "We laid you in the grave just this evening."

"I know," he says, and catches her hand. His fingers are warm against hers and she shivers, fighting tears. "But the little one is right, I've work left to do. Can this be a secret, my love?"

She nods, sobs, presses herself against him, and his arms come around her.

They go to the bedroom and if he is different in bed, more aggressive, his fingers encircling her wrists and pinning them to the bed, that's to be expected; he's different now, he's dead now, it's to be expected.

After, she curls against him, but he doesn't seem tired. "Where's the little darlin'?" he asks, and if it's not his usual nickname for her, things are different now.

"She cried herself to sleep," she says, and he rises.

"Just going to go look in on her."

She watches him go and curls into the warmth he left.

He walks down the hall, alone now, his footsteps echoing, and looks in the room at a little girl sleeping. "Your papa has work left to do," he murmurs, mockingly, lips turning up. "Lucky girl, he came back."

The little girl sleeps.

"Idiot," he mutters to himself, amused and mocking, as he heads for the study. "He never bothered to tell you two anything, did he? Do they even know how you died?"

And he goes in to study Maes Hughes' notes for the first time, smiling to himself.