I pour coffee into three bone china cups. The porcelain is so fine that the cups are nearly translucent. Wedding china. My grandmother’s. At least, I think it is. I never asked. Now, regret tugs at me that I didn’t.
I swallow back the sigh. I’m too full of caffeine to stay sad for long. I’m in Mr. Carlotta’s room, the last stop on my pilgrimage to thank all the ghosts of Springside Township. They all helped, but it’s this fierce warrior of a ghost who rallied them and led the charge. That deserves something special.
“Ah, Katy-Girl,” Mr. Carlotta says. “I think your coffee may even outshine your grandmother’s.”
“I don’t see how it could. She taught me everything I know about brewing coffee.”
He sips again. “It tastes different today.”
Perhaps it does. Or perhaps it’s because today, his
