“Impossible!” Barnaby squawked, as if he was not, suddenly and truly, terrified by that possibility. Haunt alongside him – more like haunt him! If she became a ghost, he would have no peace in death, none at all! “Foul creatures like you belong only in hell,” he assured her, damningly – but no doubt she would have something to say about that, too, so Barnaby did the only thing left that he could think of: flee.

With only a last wounded, deploring glare, Barnaby turned for the outside wall, floated halfway through it, before darting back to retrieve his lute from the rafters – and then, with a dramatic swooping dive through the air, fled into the winter night.

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