He wondered for a moment whether he should toss it into the fire, then decided otherwise, and in a moment of madness folded it and tucked it into his pocket. The remaining papers he’d found in the room he flattened and placed on the table, after he’d perused each sheet. They were full of werewolves, vampires, and other creatures. And the eternal full moon.
He frowned disapprovingly. It appeared they were right when they said that an excess of emotion, of romantic sentiment, caused the brain to rot. That was what one got when one read too much romance. This was proof of it. It must be.
Finding himself unable to take a nap, he stepped outside into the corridor, smack into Viola, who was interrogating the butler.
She stood, barefoot and in her nightgown, her hair streaming down her shoulders to her waist, her pencil in one hand, thenotebook in the other, and scribbled eagerly, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.
“Repeat that, if you please, Rawlinson. You said that according to the legend, the white lady appears exactly when?”
“On the twelfth after every full moon. Every time she appears, it is a portent of something bad happening. An evil omen of some sort. Meaning, death is bound to happen.”
Sebastian gaped at the butler. The normally so reasonable, level-headed Rawlinson surely did not believe in such nonsense?
“…omen of some sort,” Viola repeated, scribbling. “This is fantastic. Just the thing I need. The White Lady. Do you know more ghost stories like that?”
“Indeed, Miss. They say Hampton Court is littered with ghosts.”
She nodded. “That’s only understandable. What with all the ghosts of the beheaded wives.”
“Then there’s the Tower, too, Miss. It’s full of eerie ghostly apparitions.”
She sighed. “Ah yes. One really ought to be going to London to investigate it all.”
Her eyes fell on him. She pointed her pencil at him. “George said you studied in Oxford.”
He stiffened. “I did indeed.”
“George says Oxford is the most haunted city in all of Britain.”
“Tosh and nons?—”
She stepped up to him. The scent of lavender filled his nose. He backed away.
“Tell me a ghost story. A good one.”
He took another step back. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
She followed him doggedly. “That’s not what I asked. I asked that you recount one of the many ghost stories you undoubtedly must have heard when staying there.” She tapped her pencilagainst his chest. He took another step back. She followed. “Well?”
He was trapped. Behind him was a side table with a Ming vase; next to him was Rawlinson, who nodded. “Yes, I have heard that too; ghosts abound in Oxford, indeed. It is well known.”
And in front of him was her.
Why had he ever thought her eyes were dark? They were deep chocolate brown with mischievous golden glints in them. Her lashes thick and creamy. And her mouth?—
Her mouth was moving again.
He broke out in a sweat.
“…surely you must have heard something; it’s hardly a secret, and it matters not at all that you don’t believe in it. In fact, it is an advantage if you don’t because then the story is more unbiased, uncoloured by your own emotions.”
Her lips were light pink, a shade lighter than her tongue, which peeked out of her mouth again…
“Well?” Her unshod foot tapped against the floor.
“Oh, very well,” he burst out. “They say there is the ghost of Charles I haunting the Bodleian Library. Is that enough? Yes? Then kindly step back and stop invading my personal space.”
“Charles I. Bodleian,” she muttered as she wrote. “Anything else?”
