And Arthur himself? He was in this all the way. For Skye. And for Ocean. And for Clare.
He handed her a mug, the steam curling in the air between them.
“How’d you manage to leave your urchin behind?”
“That house is like a treasure cave for her,” Skye replied with a half-smile. “Clare’s stuff is everywhere. I told Ocean I’m bringing in some dealers next week to help clear out the house. I asked her to put aside anything she wants to keep.”
“I’m sure that went over beautifully,” Arthur said with a smirk. “She’s a packrat like her grandmother. I can tell.”
Skye smiled as she closed her eyes and breathed in the mocha. “Oh my god, how I’ve missed this.”
Out of nowhere...literally...Henry’s voice cut in, surly and impatient. “Well? Are you going to discuss what’s in that box or what?”
Arthur didn’t look up. He just waved a hand through the air, like batting away a fly.
“He’s here, isn’t he,” Skye said, glancing around the room. “Hello, Henry.”
Arthur sighed dramatically. “Of course he is. As nosy as ever.”
Henry Stewart, the bookstore’s resident ghost, had never met a mystery he didn’t consider his personal assignment. As a lifelong Sherlock Holmes devotee—even in death—he considered the process of ‘deduction’ a sacred act.
And solving the mystery of Clare’s death was something that he was determined to be involved in.
“Why won’t you show yourself to me?” Skye asked the empty air. “Jo does.”
“I didn’t decide who could see me and who couldn’t,” Henry snapped. “Not to be blasphemous, but it was the same Meddler who trapped me with this pill of a flibbertigibbet.”
Arthur scoffed. Henry could be downright rude when he wanted to be.
“What did he say?” Skye asked as the ghost materialized.
Henry was scowling fiercely at him, but Arthur had long ago lost any concern regarding the changeable moods and flashes of temper.
“My resident malingerer was just expressing his gratitude for being blessed with someone as charming as myself.”
“Charming, hah!” Henry huffed. “Come on, Booker. Let’s get on with the business at hand.”
The spirit strode to the table, as solid as the mug in Arthur’s hand. Henry stopped and shifted his weight slightly to one side, leaning on his cane. The ivory-colored handle, carved from whalebone, gleamed from a century of constant use.
His vest was wool, and a deep burgundy color. It was tailored nicely to his slender frame, and the shine on the brass buttons had dulled enough to avoid being showy. Beneath the vest, a cream-colored shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms with practiced precision. A chain hung in a graceful arc to a vest pocket where Henry kept a gold watch engraved with his initials.
His trousers were dark and high-waisted, pleated but unpretentious. His well-made shoes were broken in, as if he walked more than one would expect of a ghost trapped in one house.
The clothes, taken as a whole, were informal and yet dignified. Henry had style, though Arthur would never admit it in the ghost’s presence.
Henry’s face was strong, with a square jaw and the faintest shadow of stubble that never looked unkempt. One eyebrow bore a thin scar, a single pale line through otherwise expressive brows. And his nose, slightly crooked, suggested a brawl that hadn’t gone entirely his way. But instead of ruining his looks, the flaw made him interesting. Roguish, even.
His gray eyes were sharp, intelligent, flinty, and intense. He had a gaze that seemed to see straight through skin and bone. And then there was his hair. Thick and chestnut brown, a little tousled, as if he’d just run a hand through it mid-thought. Not slicked back like some overly polished film star. No, Henry possessed the kind of effortless, understated good looks that would be hard for anyone to ignore. If they could see him, that is.
Arthur took a sip of his hot mocha and muttered under his breath, “Ridiculous, really. Even in death, the man has cheekbones.”
Skye was on the same wavelength as Henry, though she didn’t know it. She tapped the box on the table with her free hand.
“Tell me about this stuff,” she said to Arthur. “Who is Madeline Hart?”
“Yes. Who is she?” Henry repeated.
Madeline Hart. Arthur tried to keep his distaste for the woman out of his voice.
