Cordelia hovered in the attic twilight, her soft and elegant outline turning like a ballerina on a music box. Her husband had been with Lord Clive in old India. One day, as she was bathing a scab behind her elephant's ear, the grateful beast had patted her on the head and finished her off on the spot.

They shot the offending elephant, which Cordelia did not like one bit, but of course she was only a ghost by that time and couldn't do a thing about it. They turned Rajah's tusks in to chess pieces and his feet into umbrella stands. Ghosts, people sometimes fail to realize, tend to haunt things rather than places -- they usually attach themselves to something connected with what made them ghosts in the first place, and Cordelia, for her part, took refuge in one of Rajah's feet.