5th April, 1893 — Wellingtonshire
Sometimes he liked to follow strains of music when he heard them – and, unsurprisingly, the nicer parts of the village tended to have better performances on offer. Not that Barnaby burst in too often – he could lurk patiently outside a window or on the roof and listen to the chime of a pianoforte or a harp echoing out from the chimneys well enough. Sometimes he lodged himself, unseen, in the wall itself, or simply chanced to drift through a deserted adjoining room.
Today he had been bold enough to dip his head in for a glimpse, and had been shooed out right through the walls and into one of the neighbouring houses. This residence, at least, seemed perfectly quiet, so Barnaby indulged himself again and began to peer at the contents of their bookcase. All he could do was cock his head to the side and scan the titles, of course: there would be no pulling them from the shelves. There were a fair few French titles here...
But his luck soon ran out, and Barnaby heard a padding of feet behind him. Disinclined to be forced out unceremoniously twice in quick succession, he lingered there, determined to make a better impression. He turned on the spot (where he was hovering, a few feet off the ground) and inclined his head as if he were nothing less than a visitor come to call, and had been as good as invited.
“Good morrow,” Barnaby offered, and lifted his gaze only to narrow his eyes as he found he recognised the girl – young woman – before him, and was summarily distracted from his chosen course of politeness. She was the girl from the lake, wasn’t she? Who had had a sharp tongue, a wealth of questions, and an uncanny interest in The Great Beyond.
Yet to decide whether this was good fortune or bad, Barnaby hedged his bets for the moment, and remained where he was. “I do not recall that we were ever properly introduced,” he admitted, conversationally. “Barnaby Wye.”
Today he had been bold enough to dip his head in for a glimpse, and had been shooed out right through the walls and into one of the neighbouring houses. This residence, at least, seemed perfectly quiet, so Barnaby indulged himself again and began to peer at the contents of their bookcase. All he could do was cock his head to the side and scan the titles, of course: there would be no pulling them from the shelves. There were a fair few French titles here...
But his luck soon ran out, and Barnaby heard a padding of feet behind him. Disinclined to be forced out unceremoniously twice in quick succession, he lingered there, determined to make a better impression. He turned on the spot (where he was hovering, a few feet off the ground) and inclined his head as if he were nothing less than a visitor come to call, and had been as good as invited.
“Good morrow,” Barnaby offered, and lifted his gaze only to narrow his eyes as he found he recognised the girl – young woman – before him, and was summarily distracted from his chosen course of politeness. She was the girl from the lake, wasn’t she? Who had had a sharp tongue, a wealth of questions, and an uncanny interest in The Great Beyond.
Yet to decide whether this was good fortune or bad, Barnaby hedged his bets for the moment, and remained where he was. “I do not recall that we were ever properly introduced,” he admitted, conversationally. “Barnaby Wye.”
