Page 33 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

“Do you know their names?”

“His mother was Emily Clayton. I don’t know about his father, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Sam replies. “You said he died at the hotel?”

“Well, it was a private house back then. Although the hotel is named the Ashton-Drake, the property itself has always been Ashton House. Artie is buried here on the grounds, in the family graveyard, I’m told. Do you think you’ll be able to find out what happened to his family?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam says confidently. “I can pull his death certificate, and that should give me the names of both his parents. It’s a place to start. Would you like me to see if I can track down any living family?”

“Do you think there might be?”

“It’s possible.” Sam hums. “Did he have any siblings?”

“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Not as far as I know.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up and I’ll be in touch.”

“Can I give you my number? I’m using my—” I pause. “I’m using someone else’s phone.”

“Sure, text me your details,” he says.

“Thanks, Sam.”

With a finalno problem, he hangs up, and I lean back. The chair creaks alarmingly, so I decide to stand up instead. I send a quick message to Sam with my phone number and email address before slipping Ellis’ phone into my pocket.

A wave of guilt washes over me. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of Ellis, and it’s not as if I’m not committed to seeing how this relationship unfolds between us. But I still hesitated to say I was using my boyfriend’s or partner’s phone.

The words just stuck in my throat and hell if I know why.

8

Imaterialise in a part of the attics that hasn’t seen a living footprint in decades. It’s dark despite the odd window letting in meagre shafts of pale sunlight that filter between stacks of boxes and piles of old furniture. Huge cobwebs drape from shadowed corners and festoon across the beams like bunting. Tiny dust motes hover in the air, glinting every now and then as they stray into the light, but I pay it all no mind.

All my attention is on the tiny figure bundled in the corner and sat atop an old packing crate containing god knows what—could be moth-eaten quilts or books filled with silverfish for all I know. I’d always meant to sort through the attics while I was alive, but there never seemed to be enough time. Must remember to mention that to Ellis, surely he can make some time to go through all of this.

“Go away, Bertie,” a sullen voice whispers.

Not likely.

I take two steps toward him and plonk myself down in a wooden rocking chair that’s seen better days. Although I can have somewhat of a corporeal presence if I choose, most of the time my natural form is rather more insubstantial, which is probably a good thing given the state of the chair.

“Been looking all over for you, lad,” I say briskly. “Now, what’s this all about?”

“Nuffin’.” His arms are wrapped around his bent legs and his face is buried in his knees, muffling his voice.

“Come along now,” I say, a tad more gently. “Can’t be as bad as all that.”

“I said nuffin’,” he mumbles.

“Well, nothing doesn’t accord for all the upside-down furniture. I don’t mind you doing a little rearranging, but dash it all, lad, some of those pieces, particularly the bed in 419 and wardrobe in 406, have been in the family for centuries. I’d rather you didn’t damage them. My ancestors will be rolling over in their graves.”

His little face peeks up, giving me a full view of reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. I wince as he wipes his snotty nose on the sleeve of his jumper. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Here, lad. Use this before you end up with crusty train tracks up your arm. We do have a reputation to maintain around here, you know.”

He takes the handkerchief, but rather than blowing his nose with the darned thing, he balls it in his hand and looks up at me miserably.

“If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, Arthur, I can’t help.”