Caleb eyed her hair musingly, then must have decided it was in good condition despite the feathers and the soup, for he began removing his jacket. “You have a fix for everything, don’t you?” he said, smiling at her in a friendly manner that made their hot, sensual moment in the dining room seem likenothing more than a magic-ignited fever dream. Which of course it had been. Not real at all.
“Yes, I do,” she said briskly. Taking the jacket, she draped it over her arm. “I’ll get onto this right away, and then I’ll write up a record of the evening and a detailed description of the saltcellar for the museum curation team. And then I’ll—”
“You’ll rest,” Caleb interrupted.
“But—”
“We’ve had an abhorrently long day, Meely. You’re allowed to rest now.”
“Hm,” Amelia said, unconvinced. A Tarrant never rested if they could help it. Deep inside her heart she harbored a small, ridiculous fear that, if she ever truly relaxed, she’d be carted back to boarding school. But there was no point in arguing with Caleb…mainly because she intended to discard his advice the moment she was alone in her room.
“Don’t forget to put the teaspoon in a safe bag,” she admonished him.
“I won’t,” he said.
“And don’t forget to scrub your fingernails thoroughly. If enchanted salt got under—”
“I know, Meely. Do you want to bathe me yourself, to ensure I get washed behind my ears?”
“Ahem,”coughed the footman a few steps ahead, belatedly reminding them of his presence. Amelia gave Caleb a vehement but silent lecture about the Conventions of Decent Conversation in Public, and in response to the rapid movement of her lips, he just grinned.
Reaching the top of the stairs, they proceeded wearily along the corridor, Caleb trailing his hand absentmindedly over thecluttered sideboards at its edges, and Amelia, coming behind him, straightening the vases, framed miniatures, and statuettes he knocked askew. Upon arriving at their bedrooms, the footman opened Amelia’s door and hung one of the lanterns on a wall hook just inside the room. He then paused expectantly, and Caleb rummaged in the jacket hanging over Amelia’s arm until he found a coin to tip the man.
“I don’t suppose this is an all-expenses-paid trip?” he murmured to Amelia, who huffed a laugh. “Yes, that’s rather what I thought.” He looked into her room. “No ghosts or monsters. But— Eurgh!” His nose scrunched as he surveyed the red-and-pink floral wallpaper and matching bedclothes. “Are those supposed to be roses or cow’s hearts? Actually, never mind, I don’t want to know. Rest,” he commanded, waggling a finger at Amelia. “Eat. Sleep. Dream of me.”
“That wouldn’t be very restful,” Amelia quipped in reply—then flushed the same colors as the walls, realizing how her joke might be construed. But Caleb was already leaving, inspecting his tie for stains as he went. The footman, professionally blank-faced, closed the door, and at last Amelia was left in peace.
For approximately ten seconds.
“Merde!”
A man’s furious shout whipped the quiet, shadowy air behind her. Amelia whirled, raising the saltcellar in its napkin like a weapon—
Then stopped abruptly, her fright falling away into annoyance. “What areyoudoing here?” she asked wearily.
“Comment oses-tu me parler ainsi!”yelled Bad King John of England, his eyes blazing with ire beneath the faded, glimmering memory of his medieval crown.
Chapter Ten
The sands of time are constantly getting
into people’s underwear.
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
At first, Ameliatried to ignore the ghost. This was a rather strange tactic considering, as a historian, she knew perfectly well ignoring King John of England while he was alive had done no one any good, and was unlikely to do so now that he was inexplicably haunting her bedroom. And indeed, with every move she made—packing away the enchanted saltcellar, taking off her shoes and stockings, plucking swan feathers from her hair—he shouted“Merde!”and waved his sword with a dangerous majesty.
Whether the king was swearing at someone in his memory or reexperiencing his death from dysentery, consideringmerde’s scatological translation, Amelia knew not and cared less. She was in the process of hunting down whatever antique was responsible for his apparition when servants appeared with hot water to fill the copper tub in one corner of the bedroom.
“Thank you,” Amelia said, watching them walk through the Plantagenet king’s specter without blinking. “I say, do youfeel a chill or anything unusual?” she asked the young housemaid who laid a tray of food on the bedside table.
“No, miss,” the girl replied with the extreme politeness of someone whose workday had started fifteen hours ago and who suspected Amelia was now going to have her haul up firewood and set a fire in the hearth.
“Hm, interesting,” Amelia murmured. No doubt her own awareness of the supernatural activity was due to a superior—
“Unless you mean the ghost,” the girl added before Amelia’s ego embarrassed itself further. “The house is jam-packed with ’em. They even wander the hills, begging to be let inside. You get used to it after a while.”
There really must be a fey line here if the ghosts are outdoors too,Amelia mused. She smiled absentmindedly at the maid, who responded with a direct look, such as the footman had employed earlier. Amelia felt herself thus convinced to tip the girl a penny. Then the two servants who’d brought the water also required the same, and after they all departed she could only be glad she’d not asked for someone to make up the hearth fire, considering what it might have cost.
