Oh, how inconvenient, when one’s own brain starts issuing instructions.

“Who can I tell? Who can I tell? I am only a hen in a chicken coop.”

“Tell someone who can do something. Tell the soulless girl.”

“Her? But I don’t even like her.”

“That’s no excuse. You don’t like anyone.”

The ghost hated it when she was sensible with herself.

CHAPTER THREE

Matters Ghostly

Oh, really, must you?” was Lord Maccon’s considered opinion, expressed to his wife upon seeing her sister in residence, as if Felicity were some sort of unfortunate digestive complaint Alexia had recently developed.

Lady Maccon ignored her sister, who sat waiting patiently in the parlor, and instead took in her new surroundings. The drones and the werewolves had done Woolsey Pack proud. Their new town house was quite filled to bursting with tasteful furniture, pleasingly arranged and minimally decorated. As the abode was intended to serve as a way station for those of the pack who had business in town, most personal items and vital survival necessities such as dungeons and clavigers were left back at Woolsey Castle. The result was that the new house had the look of a gentleman’s club, rather than a private residence (but a nicely up-market gentleman’s club). Lord Maccon muttered that it reminded him of one of the sitting rooms in the House of Lords. But he was muttering for the sake of it, and everyone knew it. Thick curtains kept harmful sunlight out, and thick, plush rugs kept heavy footfalls and claw scrapes to a minimum.

For the time being, Floote was to resume the post of butler to the secondary residence. He had not even batted an eye at this temporary demotion back to domestic staff. Alexia suspected that he had missed his former authority over the household and accompanying ability to monitor all business occurring within it. Personal secretary might be a higher position, but it did not carry with it quite the range of a butler’s command over gossip.

The front parlor, where Felicity sat, was decked out in rich chocolate brown leather and cream twill, with only a small touch of brass here and there for accent—the filigree of a gas lamp, the fringe on a tablecloth, a large Oriental floor vase to hold Alexia’s parasols, and a periscopic shoe-drying stand in front of the fireplace.

It was exactly the opposite of Lord Akeldama’s brocade-and-gilt splendor.

Lady Maccon was impressed. “Floote, where did you find such lovely furnishings at such short notice?”

Floote looked at Alexia as though she had asked him the secrets of his daily ablutions.

“Now, now, wife. If Floote prefers to be thought a conjurer, who are we to inquire as to his sleight of hand? We must preserve a sense of wonder and faith, eh, Floote?” Lord Maccon slapped the dignified gentleman amiably on the back.

Floote sniffed. “If you say so, sir.”

Lord Maccon turned to his wife’s sister, sitting in demure silence and drab gray, both so utterly out of character as to garner even Lord Maccon’s notice.