Well, that was a start: Barnaby’s imagination was just warming up the flavour and texture of this mouth-watering meal when this impertinent little moll had the audacity to ask if he felt cold.

“I am but the imprint of a departed soul,” Barnaby said, in sardonic monotone, dismayed by having to make this plain, and miserable, himself, to remember it. “I do not feel anything.” Did not, could not, not really, anyway – and she was hardly helping him pretend, the wretch!

He shifted a little closer to her; now she ought to feel a chill in the air from that.

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