exploits most amusing.”
“How did you manage to become an Aesthetic, if you don’t mind my asking?” the Journeyman queried as Chisul turned to leave.
“You’d be amazed what you can get away with when you have all the time in the world,” he said.
“That’s not an answer,” the Journeyman said.
“No,” the ghost said, “it’s not.” He nodded toward the tall writing desk. “I like your souvenir,” he said. “It’s very … appropriate.”
With that he drifted right through the door and disappeared, his words still ringing against the room’s stone walls.
The Journeyman sat for a long time, considering the door, absently sipping his brandy. At length, he set the glass aside and added another shovelful of coal to the fire. As the stove began to heat up again, he picked up the next book on the pile and leafed through to the page where his ornate bookmark lay.
Before he began reading, however, he cast a glance up to the top of his desk where a little rag doll sat, lovingly cleaned and repaired.
