“Yes, he spotted a ghost I came across,” Trey interjected, with a warning glance at Jem. The boy noted it and held his tongue about Arabella.
So did Halford. He didn’t say anything, but the way he quirked his eyebrow showed that he wouldn’t forget to ask Trey.
“Does Winter know you’re here?” Trey asked, half-turning towards the supervisor’s shut door. During Halford’s reign, that door was hardly ever closed.
“Wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t agreed to it,” said Halford. “It’s his turf now, boy.” His gaze held Trey’s. The sooner you come to terms with it, the better, it seemed to say.
Trey’s lips thinned. He gave a clipped nod. Right. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Look like you’ve been through a wine press. All of you do.” Halford looked around. “When did you have luncheon?”
“Half an hour ago,” said Morgan. Sutton lifted up the newspaper wrappings of his own lunch.
“I got breakfast,” muttered Trey. “And coffee.”
Halford grasped his walking stick and heaved himself up to his feet. Trey noted the slight tremor in his hand, the momentary blanching of his weather-beaten complexion as Halford put pressure on his injured leg. “Then you can accompany me to the Lion for a bite.” It was a command, albeit not one that Trey would’ve resisted.
Some time alone, and he could ask Halford for advice about his ghost problem.
Chapter Seven
Arabella drifted through the first story of Trey’s house with far more interest than was seemly.
She resigned herself to the idea that she was, after all, a rather inquisitive young woman.
When else in her life would she have the opportunity to examine a bachelor’s living arrangements so thoroughly?
Trey had refrained from putting her into the pentagram after extracting a promise of good behavior. She had solemnly vowed to stay inside and not test or play with his wards. In his hurry, he had forgotten to give her any rules for her behavior inside his abode. Arabella had not reminded him.
She’d started with the cellar workshop, her ghostly hands behind her back as she studied the array of weapons, piles of books, and rows of instruments she had no name for. She knew better than to touch, even with insubstantial limbs, any of a magician’s accoutrements.
Once she’d satisfied herself that he was no practitioner of black magic, Arabella glided up to the dingy hallway. Out of habit, she glanced at her reflection in the spotted mirror that hung by the coat rack.
Only an empty hallway looked back at her.
A feeling of unreality nearly overcame her. She had no insides, but they still insisted on tightening anyway. Arabella looked down at her translucent form, doing her best to ignore the floorboards she could see through her lower half.
She closed her eyes and pictured herself in her favorite morning dress. When she opened them again—how had she not been able to see through her transparent lids?—she wore a spotted muslin gown with lace at the neck and cuffs. This was the first pretty dress she’d ever owned and it gave her courage like no other.
A thought struck her. Inspired, Arabella called up a mental image of Priscilla Price’s golden curls. She squinted down at her own hair, its tendrils lying on her shoulders.
Still dark. Oh, well. It seemed that there were limits to what changes to her physical appearance her spirit would accept.
Arabella chose a closed door at random and dove through it. A shivery feeling of oak and smoke ran through her. She was in a silent, surprisingly clean kitchen. Rows of polished copper pots and pans hung from hooks. An iron sink gleamed. A blackened oven squatted in one corner. Arabella poked her head into the larder to her right. All she saw were a stale loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, and some old potatoes and onions.
Arabella tried to picture Trey bustling around in the kitchen and failed. This must be the missing Nat’s domain. She had no idea what to expect from the Shade Hunter’s manservant.
A door from the kitchen opened into a tiny dining room at the front of the house. Mindful of Trey’s instructions, Arabella retreated from the room and its street-facing windows.
The only other sizeable room downstairs turned out to be a sitting room, with gloomy wallpaper and uncomfortable, prim-looking furniture haughtily avoiding each other and demanding to not be sat upon or used in anyway.
Arabella didn’t expect much sitting happened in that room. The dust on the mantelpiece confirmed that neither master nor manservant cared overmuch about this chamber. No, if Trey had company, he entertained elsewhere. Arabella speculated that he used this room for meeting with people he wanted to get rid of quickly. It certainly didn’t invite cozy chats.
Having begun exploring, Arabella was not to be deterred by the stairway leading up to more private areas of the house. Her toes trailing through the age-worn steps, she floated upstairs.
Three doors opened off the landing. One stood ajar, and through the gap Arabella caught a glimpse of a four-poster bed, a chair piled high with clothes, and a beige wall beyond.
Do the same rules of propriety that govern the conduct of young women apply to their spirits as well? she wondered. Even after reminding herself that Trey had unceremoniously burst into her own bedchamber twice, Arabella couldn’t bring herself to enter his. Not all the curiosity in the world could embolden her that much.
Arabella turned away and pushed through another closed door. This turned out to be a closet, and Arabella found herself neatly trisected by shelves and piles of linen. Her throat tasted of lye, and a starched feeling spread over her. She stumbled backwards, shuddering.
That left only one chamber, the one above the sitting room. Arabella cautiously poked her head through the paneled door and was relieved to find that it was only a library. She edged the rest of the way
