Page 45 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

“Because Stanley doesn’t know about it.”

“Actually,” a dry voice drawls, “I know all your hiding places.”

I turn to Stanley and offer my most innocent look.

“Good afternoon, Stanley. Wonderful day for a stroll on the grounds. Have you seen the orchards yet? Perhaps Edwina could take you for a tour?”

Stanley looks past me to the light but steady snowfall drifting past the windows.

“Indeed.” He lifts his pen and clicks it ominously before glancing at his ever-present clipboard. He scribbles something across the page and then turns his attention back to me. “I do hope that you are not planning to put on a show for the film crew currently setting up downstairs in the study?”

“Of course not.” I guffaw loudly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Would we, chaps?” I turn to the others, who are all shaking their heads and muttering low denials.

“I can assure you that we are following the rules you stipulated in the terms of our license to haunt to the letter.” I begin to count off the points on my fingers. “No showing ourselves to the fleshies. Only moving objects, slamming doors, ghostly wails.”

“What I said was, only moving small items when the living were not looking, not levitating an art deco statuette across the lobby at six feet off the ground.”

“Oh.”

“A strike against each of you is going in your permanent files.” Stanley sets his pen against the clipboard once more.

“Actually, it doesn’t state that anywhere in your stuffy rule book,” Roger interrupts before Stanley can start scribbling again.

“Pardon?”

“I read the complete volume of laws and guidelines regarding the conduct of spirits and their interaction with the living world.”

Stanleys eyes narrow. “All ten thousand four hundred and seventy-six pages?”

Roger shrugs. “I had a spare afternoon. It was awfully dull reading, but as Ashton House’s appointed union representative–”

“Did we vote him as our union representative?” Skid whispers from where he has just materialised at my side. Artie seems to have got bored with all the grown-ups talking and has disappeared. I don’t blame him.

“Don’t ask me,” I mutter as I continue to watch.

“Guideline eighty-two F, subparagraph four, additional supplement one C, clearly states that, for the purposes of health and safety regulations, any levitation of stationary objects is permitted, providing it does not exceed a maximum weight of fifty-three and a half pounds or a height of eight feet from ground level. That rather charming art deco sculpture was a mere thirteen and a quarter pounds and six point two feet from the ground.” Roger smiles.

Stanley’s brow rises. “But rule five hundred and seventy-nine, addendum nineteen B, stipulates that guideline eighty-two F, subparagraph four, supplement one C, can only be applied in accordance with supplement one D, which is that no corporeal entities can directly witness said levitation.”

“Unless Supplement one E is in effect, and the corporeal entity in question—or rather, fleshie in question—is in any way diminished in capacity by pharmaceutical enhancements or alcohol.”

“As it was, in fact, eleven oh two in the morning, none of the living were under the influence of any prohibitive substances. Therefore, I must return to the aforementioned supplement one D. No corporeal entities can directly witness–”

“Primary rule one hundred and ninety-two, subsection six B, paragraph four,” Roger says slowly. Stanley sucks in a sharp breath.

“How do you know about that?”

Roger smirks. “I’m not just a pretty face with a pert bottom.”

Stanley’s mouth falls open and he grips his clipboard tightly. His gaze slowly trails over Roger’s body as if he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private and discuss regulation three-four-two, subsection ninety-three… A,” Roger purrs, his mouth curving smugly when heat flares in Stanley’s eyes.

He turns around and, with a saucy wiggle of his bottom, coyly glances back over his shoulder at Stanley and disappears.

Stanley stands dumbfounded for several long seconds, neither moving nor speaking, just staring at the spot where Roger disincorporated himself. I’m becoming slightly concerned that Roger might have finally broken the poor man. The last thing we need is the blasted Bureau sending a replacement even more stuffy than Fitzbottom over there.

Oh, well. Needs must and all that. I’m just about to offer my assistance to the insufferable chap, get him a cup of tea or brandy or something, when he turns to me and points.