Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

glad you came, my lord! I was beginning to think I had turned completely invisible.”

You have. Trey bit down on the words, unable to say them with Miss Trent’s eyes meeting his with frank amusement.

Instead he looked over her shoulder to where Shrine Park brooded behind its barrier of evergreens and stone walls. The massive wrought-iron gates warned away rather than welcomed in. It was like another world in there, quiet and weighty, cut off from the life of the city. Had this young woman died there? He found that hard to believe, not with the monastic orders keeping watch over the place.

“I didn’t know people still visited shrines during the Vernal Rites,” he remarked. High society was generally glad to leave religious obligations for Holy Week, which would begin in three days. “I thought it had fallen out of fashion.”

“Well, I am decidedly unfashionable.” Even as a ghost, Miss Trent was more animated than most people managed while being alive. Her eyes fairly danced with enthusiasm. “I came to Lumen late last autumn, and I want to see and do everything, no matter how rustic people think me. My friends were kind enough to indulge me by visiting the shrines today, but I have stupidly misplaced them and caused them trouble.” Faint frown lines appeared between her brows, a detail that wasn’t lost on Trey.

She must be very recently dead.

He was starting to feel sorry for her. It was a dangerous emotion, especially in his occupation. Apparitions often transformed from piteous victims to murderous specters with alarming rapidity.

But since this oblivious ghost showed no signs of growing fangs and attacking him, he merely said, “Then let me take you home, before your guardians are needlessly worried about you. You live with the Elliots, do you not?”

“Yes. Aunt Cecilia is my father’s sister. We reside on Crescent Circle, in Bottleham.”

“Come, then.” Trey caught the eye of an oncoming carter, gestured imperiously, and strode into the road. With a baleful glare, the driver reined in his horse. Behind him, other carters halted their own vehicles, cries of “Make way for the gentleman!” going down the whole line.

Miss Trent squeaked, gathered up her cloak and white skirt, and scurried after him. Her incorporeal feet made no sound on the dusty street, but she didn’t appear to notice.

She gave him an appreciative look as they stepped once more onto pavement. “Well done!”

“For managing to cross the road without being flattened? I thank you,” said Trey dryly.

His tone did nothing to dampen her merriment. “When I made the attempt, I was attacked by geese and almost run over. That is why I’m so impressed.”

Trey was tempted to explain that almost being run over was the least of Miss Trent’s troubles. But he settled for, “No geese in sight. You’re safe, Miss Trent.”

“Indeed.” She matched his longer strides with quick ones of her own, not complaining at the pace he set. “I can see you are one of those competent and useful sort of men. I’m glad you came along!”

Trey wasn’t. A headache pounded in his temples. However, he could hardly tell Miss Trent that he was contemplating the least bothersome way to send her off into her afterlife.

Pedestrian traffic gave way before Trey the same way the carters had. Maybe it was his air of unconscious authority or the hum of magic that surrounded him.

Or perhaps it was that he projected a formidable vexation.

Whatever the reason, the flow of laborers and housewives parted around him, giving him wider berth than was strictly necessary. Trey considered this to be for Miss Trent’s benefit—even an oblivious ghost like her could hardly fail to notice if she walked through a basket of mackerel. She certainly wouldn’t appreciate a close encounter with the fish’s silver scales and round eyes.

They proceeded in silence for a while as the crowds thinned out around them, before Miss Trent spoke again. “To be candid,” she confided, “I had always thought you a trifle aloof.”

“I thought you were being candid,” remarked Trey. “I think the word you’re looking for is disagreeable. Or maybe toplofty. Haughty?” He examined the pale sky above some chimney pots, weighing the word. “Yes, haughty would definitely do.”

“If you say so, my lord.” Dimples peeped in her cheeks again. Her hood had slipped off her glossy head, so he could clearly make out her expression with a quick glance. “I recall you displayed a lack of enthusiasm when you danced with me at the Holmsteads’ two weeks ago.”

“It was in self-defense.”

“From me?” Her brow furrowed.

“No.” He gave her a sideways look and grinned. “I have been battling all of society’s matrons for years. You were unfortunately caught in the crossfire.”

“Oh?” She looked intrigued and amused. “What is the nature of this conflict, my lord?”

Trey shrugged. “It is simply that I am young, unattached, and of good birth. It is my duty, according to society, to be available to even out numbers at a supper party or make a fourth at cards.”

“Or partner a lady who would otherwise have to sit out a dance,” Miss Trent put in. She sidled past two barrels some chandler had seen fit to place outside his shop. The stench of tallow filled the air.

“Precisely.” Trey’s lips twisted in a self-mocking smile. “I admit I have little use for social niceties, so I do my best to discourage hostesses from thinking of me when making up their guest lists. But perhaps I should not have told you.”

“I’ll take your secret to the grave,” she vowed in mock-seriousness.

A chill went over Trey. Out of habit, the fingers of his left hand curled, seeking a sword hilt.

Miss Trent gave him a slight, puzzled frown. She went on, less brightly, “For an instant back at the park, I was afraid you would turn on your heel and leave me to my fate on the street corner.”

“I almost did.” His own honesty startled him. Was it Miss Trent herself who invited confidences, or her circumstances? After all, as