Page 143 of Ever After

“Really?”

He eyes me. “I felt rather guilty actually.”

“For what?”

“Levi asked me why it was available, and I didn’t tell him the truth, which is that people mostly run away screaming because of the ghost. I thought I’d tell you after the first day, but you never seemed bothered by anything.”

“Ah, we’re hardy people,” I say dryly.

“Well, that’s nice.” He taps his fingers on his thigh. “I used to play here as a child. A friend of my mother’s rented it for a while. She was an artist and said the same as you, in that it had atmosphere. She seemed to find it interesting. Unlike a lot of Yelp reviewers.” The latter is said in a dark tone, and, once again, I hide my smile. He settles back in his chair. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

My elbow slips off the arm of the chair and I jerk upright. “Erm, maybe,” I say in a slightly too high voice. “I’m sure they’re possible.”

“I saw one here.”

I turn to stare at him. “Really?”

He nods. “I was playing in the kitchen while my mother and her friend were talking in the lounge.” His eyes are faraway, revisiting the memory. “The rocking chair started to rock.”

“Were you scared?”

“No. Isn’t that funny? I just sat there and the shape of a man formed. He was very handsome and smoking a pipe.”

This is fascinating. It’s almost like he’s met a good friend of mine. “Go on,” I urge.

“He looked at me for a while and then nodded and spoke once. He said, ‘I see the calamitous and wild St Claire hair is still flourishing in the lineage.’ It was said very affectionately.” He shrugs. “And that was that.”

“Obviously, a ghost of brevity.”

“He vanished as if he hadn’t been there. I thought maybe I’d dreamt it, but when my mother came into the room, she could smell the pipe smoke.” He shoots me a look. “Have you seen anything while you’ve been here?”

“Nothing of note.”

“You probably think I’m ridiculous.”

“I really don’t.”

He examines my face and then offers me a smile. “The cottage has been in our family for centuries. Nobody could ever tell me why it stopped being called Smuggler’s Rest and became Gorse Cottage.”

“Maybe people wanted to forget.”

He considers that and then shrugs. “One of my ancestors had a torrid affair with the man who lived here. The very smuggler who the cottage was named for. Maybe the very man I saw that day.”

I widen my eyes, adopting an innocent expression. “Really? Wasn’t that frowned on in those days?”

He shrugs. “The St Claires have never really paid attention to conventions. Or English laws,” he adds after a pause. “We funded most of the smuggling in these parts. I like that.”

“Me too. Must have made for an interesting life.”

“Maybe.” He sits forward and I suddenly realise there’s been a purpose to this chat all along. “That ghostly meeting as a child equipped me for some very strange experiences. The hall is haunted too, you know.”

“Is it?”

He nods. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you could explain this.” He pulls something out of his pocket and my eyes widen for real this time. It’s the diary. How has he got it? I wonder if Xander put it back. That would figure.

“It’s a book,” I say brilliantly.

“It’s a diary,” he corrects me. “From the ancestor I mentioned who had a smuggler lover. It makes for interesting reading. He wrote about their affair.”