Well, she had not tried to shoo him from her parlour at once, so that was an act of mercy on her part. Perhaps he had managed to incite her pity, then; Barnaby gave her a wry half-smile back, floating tentatively on the spot. “I try to be of some use. But it, ah, is not always easy to exist in accordance with the customs of the day,” Barnaby admitted in agreement, because he had a hard enough time keeping up with what year it was, never mind what society supposed was appropriate or inappropriate now. He shrugged, in helpless modesty. “Conventions seem to change faster than the centuries.”

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He had a bit of a point and she hummed along in agreement; being as in tune to the latest fashions that she could - and that was being generous - Adrienne found that identifying those were rather hard to keep up with. But his previous words had a profound impact on her, and she wondered how often he lamented his existence as a ghost. Then felt abruptly ashamed about that thought (though no less curious about the rest of his outlook on life).

He was a rather delightful man - if not incredibly and intrusively forward - and she wondered how often he talked with other people around the magical world. “Fully enjoy the fruits of life.” She repeated thoughtfully, reaching into the air to take her teacup again and sip contemplatively. “Are you a poet by any chance Mr. Wye?” She wondered if he had ever tried to commit his words to paper. Living as long as he had (if her estimate was right judging by his attire), she would be surprised if he hadn’t. Then again, perhaps he didn’t have anyone to help him with that. “I could imagine people might be much more forgiving of candid verse if it were in the form of a poem.”

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If he had tried to look abashed at the effects of his earlier untoward remarks, all sheepishness was then forgot as she asked him about poetry. Barnaby beamed, delighted and gratified that she could tell this of him, just by a few turns of a phrase and name-dropping some sordid old verses.

“You could say so, indeed,” Barnaby said, all false modesty; he might have fluttered his eyelashes to feign this. “Though I tend to put my verses to song – make musical compositions of them, you see.” He tilted his head at her. “Do you play anything, perchance?” (He was always looking for people to accompany his songs, or make notations.)

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It hadn’t been a grand intuitive leap, but Adrienne was pleased she’d hit the mark all the same, and she held back a giggle as he basked in the revelation. If she knew of ghosts better, she might have said he was blushing - the silver of his cheeks had gone particularly shiny. “Musical compositions,” She mused, immediately thinking of how well the Bard and Aristide might work together. As if he had read her mind, he asked after her musical abilities, which were certainly not as prolific as her brother’s. She explained as much to him, going onto say: “I’m not sure if my musical talent could measure up to your poetry, if what Ive heard so far is any indication of your abilities, but I learned the pianoforte as any upperclass woman is taught. Aristide plays beautifully though, I shall have to introduce you and him.” They would get on quite well, she decided. “Are you looking for an accompanist?”

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No sooner than he had asked, the vision had come to him in full force: the possibility of composing a duet together, voices mingling, or else sitting fondly side by side at the newfangled harpsichords these new age types possessed. It evaporated again just as fast, pure fancy that it was, but he tried not to let his shoulders sag too sharply.

“I am perpetually looking for accompanists,” Barnaby admitted to her, because also who was to put his works of genius to paper if he could not get a Living to transcribe the notes for him? “Who is Aristide?” he asked doubtfully. “Not your husband?” What if the muse struck him to compose a song for her? He thought it may perchance be a little strange to do so in concert with her husband, but – he had not written off the notion entirely.

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She felt a pang of regret as she saw a flash of excitement flit across his features before it disappeared as he tried to readjust his expectations. Still, Adrienne hated to disappoint; perhaps she’d ask Aristide for lessons. Or perhaps Mr. Wye might be interested in a game of chess? It seemed quite on a different spectrum than poetry, but all the same, she knew she’d taken a liking to this ghost and thought she might as well put in some effort to build bridges when it came to friendship. She gave an airy laugh at his question. “Oh no, he is not my husband but rather my brother.” She replied cheerfully. “My twin brother in fact! He is quite talented with musical instruments, and I feel certain that you and him would get on splendidly.”

She looked to the window. “And he lives next door!”

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“Twins!” Barnaby exclaimed, astonished and delighted. Twins were always an interesting phenomenon. Shakespeare had had some, a boy and a girl, but Barnaby hadn’t known many in his own Life time.

“And just next door! You must indeed introduce us sometime,” Barnaby said, to be polite – but he had already well decided he would have to float through and see what instruments he possessed. Doors and walls and windows were no obstacle to him. Nor was – as she had gleaned from today, no doubt – any sense of decorum or privacy.

“And I hope, as well,” Barnaby added coyly, perhaps pushing his luck after everything else he had said, but not wanting her to imagine he was more excited to meet Aristide than her, “that you might have the patience to be our audience, too?”

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Adrienne nodded eagerly, already wondering if Aristide might be home so they could make their acquaintance sooner rather than later. But something told her Mr. Wye would not be a stranger in their household, so the opportunity to do so would not be hard to find. At his request she laughed. “I am already often my brother’s audience when he practices so you can be sure that I’ll be in attendance for whatever you two inevitably create.” She gave him a content smile. “I find myself quite eager, so you must start working on your prose soon.”

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“Then I see this is an exceptionally convenient arrangement,” Barnaby agreed, bobbing up and down slightly with eagerness at such an opportunity. He composed and played, wrote and sang at any hour or occasion he liked already, but it was not so often he had a willing audience or accomplice in it.

“It truly has been a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Lady Lestrange,” Barnaby added swiftly, hoping by now they had smoothed over any offence he might have caused with their earlier topic – he beamed at her, to prove how pleased he was.

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