Page 8 of The Haunted Hotel

“That’s nice,” he smiles sweetly. “Is he local?”

“My grandfather, Cedric Ashton-Drake,” I prompt.

“Mr Ashton-Drake is your grandfather!” Ellis exclaims, finally connecting the dots. “That’s wonderful. How lovely! He’s going to be so happy to see you!”

We stand in silence for several long seconds with him smiling at me, and I find myself inadvertently losing my trail of thought again.

“So can I, then?” I finally ask.

“Can you what?”

“See him,” I clarify.

“Oh no.” Ellis shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Why?” I exhale sharply, getting more frustrated by the moment. He may be pretty as hell but right now I don’t have the patience for this.

“He’s taking a nap.”

I glance down at my watch. “At ten thirty in the morning?”

“Mr Ashton-Drake keeps…” Ellis twists those tempting plump lips, searching for the right word. “Unconventional hours,” he finishes.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Can you just give me a room, then? It’s been a long flight and I’d like to wash up.”

“Wash up what?” Ellis asks.

I sigh. “Myself.”

“Of course,” he replies. “I’ll give you our nicest room. It’s got a beautiful view of the moors and with all the snow, it’s so picturesque right now.”

“Great,” I say with little enthusiasm. “Is there someone who can take my bags up?”

“Oh, that’ll be me.” Ellis darts out from behind the desk and hooks the garment bag over his shoulder, then reaches for my suitcase and starts dragging it towards the staircase.

“I thought you were on the front desk?”

“I am,” he says. I shake my head, too weary to question it.

“Oh, mind Brad. He has a tendency to fall over at random moments,” Ellis says as he struggles with my case, hauling it up the first few steps like it’s filled with bricks.

“Who’s Brad?”

“That’s Brad.” He nods towards the suit of armour on the plinth.

“Uh-huh,” I murmur.

“Well, his name’s not actually Brad. His name’s Sir Devron Penhalen. He gets really grumpy when we call him Brad, but it’s a habit. I’ve worked here over ten years, and it’s what we’ve always called him. We only recently found out his actual name, but some habits are hard to break.”

“It’s a suit of armour,” I say slowly.

“Yes.”

“Not an actual person,” I point out. “It once belonged to a person. Giving it a name would be like naming your pants and vest.”

He chuckles and heaves the suitcase up another step.

“Here, let me.” I trot up the first few steps and take the case off him. “Don’t you have an elevator here?”