“The attics?”
With a sideways glance, she leisurely raised one eyebrow.
What was wrong with the attics?
“Haunted also.”
Ah.“Only after midnight.”
“Hmm. And isn’t Mrs Pugh the only one with a key?”
Grabbing his cane, he winked. “Come with me.”
Gwen took his proffered hand and they departed for the hall to wend their way up the staircase.
“I also… I wanted to speak with you alone, Gwen.”
“D-did you?”
“To thank you. I… Mari told me that you talked to her.” He paused. “I’d assumed she’d lost her youthful verve in my absence, when in truth she was just trying to keep me from harm. And with Rhys, you made me see things in a different light. You…” He reached for her hand – it was delicate, yet he now knew such determination and strength lay beneath. “You brought us all together.”
“I’m glad to be able to help, Tristan, you… You all mean so much to me.”
He smiled as they traversed to the landing of the third floor where Morgan the butler, in all efficiency, had left lit candlesticks for anyone who might need one. Tristan shoved his cane to the crook of his elbow to take up a candlestick, and they turned to walk the shadowed corridor till arriving at a stout door.
He lifted a hand to feel along the top ledge of the frame. A key met his fingertips. “Ah, all this time later and it’s still here.”
Gwen grinned. “Mrs Pugh has warned me often enough that the attics are haunted but never told me by whom.”
The key slotted, turned and clicked, and he shoved open the door to reveal further night-blackened stairs that led upwards.
The candlestick flame flickered and spat in some unknown breeze and he observed Gwen shudder.
Though he would’ve liked to act the gentleman, Gwen had to ascend first as she was the only one who could hold the candlestick and climb stairs at the same time. She lifted the latch on a door at the top and pushed it wide, taking a step inside, but they both just stood there for a moment, eyes darting and adjusting to the dark.
As far as he could remember, the attics were divided into four or five rooms, all with their own small, shuttered window that overlooked the rear gardens. In days long gone, the servants’ quarters had been here but it was now where the household’s unused paraphernalia was stored. Trunks were stacked against walls, an old rocking chair from the schoolroom listed to the side, and white dustsheets floated over various items of furniture like a family of silent ghosts.
The meek light from their candle left the shadowed corners to one’s own imagination. Not a whisper or draught came from within. All was hushed and still.
It was also freezing cold.
“Er… Perhaps the library?” murmured Gwen as Tristan doffed his tailcoat and draped it across her shoulders as her arms were bare. “We could share a cupboard with Hugh.”
Not bloody likely.
“Never tell me,” he rasped instead, “that the adventurous Gwen, who will be voyaging across the continent, is afraid of ghosts?”
She glared. “Then let’s find a place to hide before Mari stampedes up the stairs.”
Gwen’s slippers were noiseless on the boarded floor, dust motes drifting in her flickering candle flame, and his senses sharpened. The sweep of her dress as she trod the room, the quickness of her breath.
His gaze followed her, that jet-black hair which melded with the dark to leave vast eyes and pale lips.
He wondered what it would be like to kiss those pale lips, to sink into them with his. To bring her tight against his bod–
What the hell was the matter with him? Gwen was his friend.
She glanced up as though hearing his aberrant desires. “It doesn’t seem haunted to me. Are you sure?”
