He stood between the land and sea.

He cocked his head and beckoned me.

I shook my head, ‘You let me be.

You’ll get no power over me.’

His hair waved dark, his eyes sparked blue.

He raised his hand and the cold wind blew.

‘I will not bow nor bend the knee,

You’ll get no power over me’

Strong he stood, the clouds hung low.

I wanted him but dare not go.

‘A mortal woman’s not for thee,

You’ll get no power over me.’

The waves dashed high where the sea god stood.

I bit my lip and I tasted blood.

I wanted him, ‘You let me be,

I’ll give no power over me.’

He beckoned me, I felt the call,

The sun shone warm on the sea god tall.

I whispered, ‘Do not call to me,

I daren’t give power over me.’

He strode across the warming sand

And knelt to gently kiss my hand.

‘Lady, at your whim I be

You have love’s power over me.’

Kent waved the letter at his wife. “It’s the valuation.” Rupert watched carefully as Kent ripped the envelope, struggling with the expensive, heavy.  

“You can’t be thinking of selling it,” Alison said. “That portrait has been in your family for generations.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know painting is haunted. Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning.” Rupert nodded. At least someone else was paying attention. He looked critically at the portrait. It had worn well over the years, and the jewel shown still remained with the family. At least, he didn’t remember it being sold off.

“Those sort of accidents are normal for a house of this age.” Kent looked uneasily over his shoulder. “It was a coincidence. The gargoyle that fell on him was probably loosened by a storm and could have fallen at any time.” He sighed, still struggling with the envelope. “And we have to face reality. We are in a Grade I listed English Stately Home with a leaking roof. We can’t just get any old tiles from the local builder’s yard and get the cheapest quote plus scaffolding. Did you see how much the only firm I could track down wanted? We need the money.”

“Do you want to sell it?” Alison asked as Kent finally pulled the letter out of it’s rich, cream envelope. “Soames is talking about expanding the market garden side. We’re making a decent profit there, then there are the guided tours and the lavender farm.”

Kent set the letter face down on the table. “I don’t want part with the portrait. I grew up with it, and I was always fascinated by the man in the picture. I can’t believe that all the stories I heard were true, but if even a tenth of his adventures were real, he was such a character.”

Rupert grinned. Every exploit was true, and the gold and jewels that he stashed from the profits were a guard against just this sort of crisis. His grin faded. He didn’t understand why Kent hadn’t sold any of it. Surely he wasn’t emotionally invested in some cold metal and a few chunks of pretty rock.

Kent put his hand on the letter. “I really don’t want to sell it, but sentiment won’t patch the roof.” He absently straightened out the letter. “I wish we didn’t have to.” He straightened his shoulders. “And if I’m not getting a good enough offer, I’m keeping it. There are grants, after all.”

Jenkins stuck his head round the door. “It’s Soames about the gardens again. He’s in the study, sir.”

Rupert waited until Kent and Alison left the room and stood square in front of the portrait, his hands behind his back. He loved this estate, loved it with every fragment of him, and he wasn’t going to see it fail. He leaned a little closer to inspect the detail on the jewel. The artist had done a wonderful job, and it would be a shame to lose the portrait. But what had happened to the jewels? The family had been quietly prosperous for generations, but now it was finally time to use what had been put aside for just such a problem. It was hard to remember after so many years, and his recollection was foggy around the time of his death, but he would swear an oath that none had been sold. He turned to inspect the letter. £350,000 was a significant sum, but it wasn’t enough to leave a cushion and he wasn’t going to let his portrait leave. He concentrated. He’d not spent the last few centuries drifting around like the Grey Monk in the Long Gallery and he wouldn’t allow a letter to defeat him. It took some work to manipulate, but after a mentally strenuous ten minutes, the offer was £35,000, take it or leave it. The old ghost knew that Kent would never settle for that. But he still needed money.

Rupert thought back. His son had been something of a gambler, so he’d hidden most of the marginally legal spoils to keep safe for his grandson, but then he’d caught the fever his son had brought back from a gambling hell and was never able to tell young Henry where to look. That’s why the jewels had never been sold. No-one knew that they existed. Rupert straightened up. All he had to do now was remember where he’d left them.

The tension hung heavily in the air after Soames left. “It sounds like a good deal,” Kent said. “If anything, I think Soames underestimates some of the profits.”

“I think that he’s over-cautious on the start up costs as well,” Alison said, tapping the papers in front of her. “But we still need more money than we have, and if the roof isn’t fixed soon, we could get structural damage.” She stood and laid a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see the portrait go, either. It’s the soul of the house. But we are running out of choices.”

Kent looked around the panelled study. “We can’t lose the house,” he said. “This room hasn’t changed since the seventeenth century. Can you imagine what a property developer would do to the place? The wainscotting would be gone, the oak beams in the red parlour would be plastered over, the nineteenth century wallpaper would be stripped…” He sunk his head in his hands. “We have to make it work.” He jumped, startled, as a crack rang through the room.

“What now?” Alison said. “Not the chimney!” Another crack sounded from the fireplace and a shower of ancient soot fell into the unused fireplace.

Kent swore and hurried over. “We can’t afford anything more,” he said, pulling out his phone and switching on the torch. “But it was capped years ago.”

“It’s not the chimney,” Alison said. “Look.” She pointed to a split in the panelling at the side of the fireplace.

Kent aimed his phone into the crack. “Hang on.” He gently ran his fingers over the tiny gap, then slid them up to a burnished rosette on the fireplace. “I wonder…” He pressed the rosette, tentatively at first, then harder. “I remember going to stay with Phil and Larissa one year, and they were so proud of their priest hole.” He put his phone down and pulled out a pocket knife. “Come and look.”

Alison hurried over as the split grew wider. “A real priest hole!”

“I’m surprised to find this,” Kent said, gently prising open the crack. “We were Protestant all the way through, but I did hear that Rupert, from the portrait, had a hidden cupboard for all of his ill-gotten gains.” Ancient hinges protested, but gave as he swung the door open. “I thought that the tales of gold and jewels were just stories. You know, adding to the legends of his time as a privateer and explorer.” He reached towards a sad leather bundle that filled the floor of the cupboard, then drew his hand back. “We should probably get someone in,” he said.

“Probably,” Alison agreed. “We should get someone in to authenticate the leather and all that.”

“We definitely need witnesses,” Kent said. “But if we get the security guy from downstairs and call Soames back…” He picked up the phone and shone the bright light closer to the bundle. There was a rich gleam in the dust.

“I’ll give them a call,” Alison said. “And why wait longer. You may not be Rupert, but you’re definitely related. And we get to keep the portrait.”

“We always keep the portrait,” Kent said.

Melody tapped her translucent pink fingernails on the desk and looked around. “I wish that I was still alive,” she said.

“You get used to it,” Elsie said, drifting past. “But you know how courting happens in the modern world, don’t you? How can we get Rhia and Liam together?”

Melody looked at Mr Kennington. “I just wanted a few moments of drama, you know, nothing too big, just a note to say that I died in a library.” She shook her ghostly head. “I thought I’d die in a car crash or in a club. I never went to libraries.”

“We will all support you as much as we are able,” Mr Kennington said. “And though you may not have frequented a library in the past, your contribution to our work now is valued.”

Melody paced around. “I was getting headhunted by London firms,” she said. “I was a real rising star. Now I’m stuck here.”

“People were hunting you?” Mr Kennington asked, aghast.

Melody ignored him. “I couldn’t stop my mind working, even though I came here because of a different account. I was looking around, trying to frame some angles.” She shook her head. “That’s when it hit me, the – what did you say it was?”

“Rhia told us that it was an aneurysm,” Mr Kennington said. “I’m unsure what that means, but could it have been a result of the hunting?”

“How old are you?” Melody asked.

A slight grimace passed across Mr Kennington’s face. “Normally it’s considered bad form to ask ages as it could mean the age that I had attained when I died or the age I am now, but I imagine that you are curious about how long I’ve been here.” He drew himself up to his full height, drifting a little above the floor. “I died two weeks after the battle at Alma.” He sighed at Melody’s blank look. “You know, the Crimean War? I died in 1854.”

“Was that the Charge of the Light Brigade? That’s a long time ago,” Melody said. “I guess that it means that you don’t always use current usage – expressions that are normal to me. When I said that I was being headhunted, it means that other firms were trying to get me to leave my current employer and join them. I worked in marketing.” She tilted her head as she regarded Mr Kennington. “I found different ways to sell items and services, like adverts, social media campaigns, endorsements, and all that good stuff.”

“I bet you were really ruthless,” Tony said, sliding through a bookcase and over to Melody. “I can’t believe how you negotiated with Rhia about the exhibition.”

“It’s a start,” Melody said. “I need to be able to use a computer, though. Going through Rhia takes time that this library doesn’t have. Besides, she’s busy here and I could use the computer at night when no-one’s around.”

“Tony can switch the boxes off and on again,” Elsie volunteered. “He was trying to explain a…” She waved a hand. “You had to make a line of things.”

Mr Kennington and Melody turned and looked at Tony, who flushed. “Thanks a lot,” Tony said. He looked at Melody. “I’m still having trouble navigating, but I can manage basics.”

“You need to show me!” Melody said. “I need to be monitoring the feeds in real time if things get hot.”

“I’m not exactly sure of your meaning,” Mr Kennington said.

“This exhibition is just the start,” Melody said. “There needs to be engagement on the right feeds.” She paused to translate. “A lot of universities and colleges are interested in research material, like the piles of records stuffed into your cellars. They also follow what’s going on by using the internet. One the computer that Tony uses.”

“I think that I begin to see your point,” Mr Kennington said. “If we can be noticed on this internet computer, then the universities and colleges will direct their students to visit here – and subscriber numbers will rise.”

“That’s right,” Melody said. “And I need to watch to see how the figures, that is, the number of people watching and reacting to our content, the things that we post, to get an idea of how well things are going and whether we need to change some things, what we need to stop doing and what we need to do more of.”

Mr Kennington was a little glassy eyed. “I see.” He straightened his translucent jacket. “Then you must gain access to this internet computer.” He turned to Tony. “How soon can you facilitate the necessary training.”

Tony wasn’t listening. Instead he followed Elsie towards the massive exhibit taking up most of the spare space on the main floor of the library. “Are you alright, Elsie?”

“Elsie is a lovely girl,” Mr Kennington told Melody. “But I have concerns about your exhibit. You are correct that the records we hold about the social impacts of the Great War are unparalleled, but that is when she died. It was quite sad, really.” He drifted slowly after Tony, Melody following close behind. “She was never much of a reader, but she was respectful enough. She only came here to meet her beau. They had an agreement that once her young man returned from France, they would get married. Unfortunately she passed from influenza, collapsing in this very place, and her young man never returned to the library.”

“That’s so sad,” Melody said.

“I’m still not sure about her competency at reading,” Mr Kennington said. “However she may find the exhibit distressing.”

Elsie stopped next to Rhia as she put the final touches to a display in the corner. “That’s my name, there,” Elsie said, pointing at a list on the board in Rhia’s beautiful calligraphy.

“That’s right,” Rhia said. “Elsie Stretton, Spanish influenza.”

“And that’s my nan, and my auntie,” Elsie added.

“This is a list of all the people in the parish who died of Spanish Flu,” Rhia said. “I’m trying to show how many were infected.”

“And this is the names of the soldiers who died overseas of the Fluenza,” Elsie said. “That must have taken some working out. They were so far away from here, so it must have been hard to work out what happened.”

“There’s lots of information in the stacks,” Rhia said. “And I had some help from Tony. He’s wonderful with computers.”

“And that name, that’s Albert,” Elsie said, suddenly still.

“Albert Birkenshaw, yes he died of the Influenza when he was at Etaples,” Rhia said, shuffling through the copied photos. “It’s very sad. He was wounded in action and got a medal for bravery – the Military Medal, and he caught the flu the day before his discharge. A lot of soldiers who survived the Great War were killed by the Spanish Influenza.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Tony laid a gentle hand on her insubstantial shoulder. “It’s has been a while,” he said. “And if he could have got back here, he would have done.”

“Albert was an estimable young man, with great potential,” Mr Kennington said. “I was always confident that he would have returned if at all possible.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie repeated. “So he won’t come back to meet me here?”

“I’m afraid that he won’t be able to meet you here,” Mr Kennington said. “He would never let you down if he could possibly help it.”

“Albert can’t come here to meet me,” Elsie said. “If he could, he would.”

“Indeed,” Mr Kennington said sadly, as Elsie started to fade.

“And if he can’t meet me here, why am I waiting?” Elsie asked herself. “What if he’s waiting for me outside the Pearly Gates? I can’t be hanging around here.” There was barely a trace of her left, a wisp hanging in the air. “I’ve got to go and meet my Albert.”

“Goodbye.” Mr Kennington said softly to the empty air. “And God Bless.”

“I told you to stay away from me.” Cana rolled away from him, clutching at her long knife. There was plenty of room in the clearing and the fire was still bright.

“I thought we stayed close when camping in the woods,” Sion said. “To keep warm.”

“It’s past midsummer,” Cana said. “It’s not cold.” She rolled over and looked at the stars peeking through the canopy of leaves overhead. “The fire will keep away wolves, and the horses will warn us if anything approaches. Get some sleep. We should reach the castle by noon tomorrow.”

“You won’t come into the castle with me?” Sion asked.

“I’ve been warned about monsters in the castle,” Cana said. “Besides, as you have often told me, I’m just a girl.”

“Tomorrow I go to fight a monster,” Sion said. “This could be my last night on this earth. Won’t you at least make it a little warmer for me.”

“No,” Cana said, shifting a little further away from him and wrapping her blanket closely around herself.

“I could come back laden with jewels and gold,” Sion says. “The rumours say that there is treasure beyond counting.”

“And that is why you are going to the castle,” Cana said. “If there was no castle then the villagers could rot under monsters for all you cared.”

Sion laughed. “A man has to make his way in the world,” he said.

“I’m only here because of the steward’s orders,” Cana said. “You could turn back at any time.”

“I received no encouragement from village,” Sion said. “Don’t you fear monsters?”

“We fear them,” Cana said. “And we have learned to recognise them. You are going into this with a black eye because you couldn’t learn to take ‘no’ as an answer and the men of our village are protective.”

“And the women are no fun,” Sion said. “You are sleeping with a knife under your pillow. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Is that why the priest refused to bless me and my weapons?”

“It’s because you wouldn’t confess your sins first,” Cana said. “The whole village heard the argument.”

“Tomorrow I face a blood sucking, immortal creature that has powers that no-one can measure,” Sion said. “Won’t you warm my bedroll, to give me a fragment of comfort to take into battle?”

Cana turned back and looked at the greasy, red face, predatory intent clear. “Save your strength. You’ll need it.” She looked coldly into his eyes. “And you’ll never make the castle if you try to force me.”

Sion laughed again. “It’s worth asking, at least.” He placed his sword in the clear ground between them. “There, do you feel safer?”

“The horses will warn of any movement,” Cana said. “Goodnight.”

***

Cana watched him leave the next morning and then tidied the campsite. Those who tracked the creature in the castle came at all times of year, so she stacked up firewood against the winter. She had lost count of those that she had brought here, seeking their fortune and, perhaps, fame. There had even been a few that had wanted to serve what they thought lived in the lonely fortress that was a short ride down the path. They all needed a campfire the night before they approached the castle and firewood was always needed. She shook out the blankets, checked her pony and the packhorse, and quickly scouted around the perimeter. There were raspberries in the forest, and she picked a good basket full before the shadows lengthened. Then she made up the fire again and waited.

She slowly became aware of a familiar presence on the edge of the clearing. “You defeated him?”

Calixtus nodded and joined her near the fire. “To be truthful, he was a careless warrior. And he was avoiding me as he searched for the fabled treasure. I think he would have fed you to me to buy time if he could.”

“And you’re unhurt?” Cana asked.

“I can’t be hurt like you,” Calixtus said softly. “But no, he didn’t land a blow. The black eye didn’t help. Let me guess, he tried to flirt with Maria?”

“He tried more than flirting!” Cana said. “Fortunately for him, her husband reached them before she could do much.”

“How is Maria?” Calixtus asked.

“She’s well.” Cana said. “Rhia has had her baby, it’s a boy and they are calling him Calix, after you.” She frowned. “Father John’s joints are hurting him, I think, though he isn’t saying anything.”

“I’ll call in soon and see what I can do,” Calixtus said. “And I’ll have a look at the mill while I am there.”

Cana smiled. “You know so much. Perhaps you should take an apprentice.” She loosened her tunic.

“Perhaps I should,” Calixtus said. He held up his hand. “I won’t need blood for a while. The would-be warrior gave me plenty and there are many animals in the forest. But thank you.”

Cana shook her head. “You have saved us from so many monsters. Now, sit, share some raspberries and let me tell you all of the news.”

“We have to do something,” Elsie whispered. The faded ghost peeped around the corner. “She’s in a world of her own, pining away. I think that she’s lost weight, and she wasn’t that stout to start with.”

“You can’t interfere with someone’s love life,” Mr Kennington said with all the authority of a deceased head librarian. “It rarely turns out well.” He hesitated. “Although when it is successful, it is usually in cases such as this, with strong affection between numbskulls.”

Elsie ignored Mr Kennington’s criticism. “She absolutely adores him. Everyone can see how she can’t take her eyes off him. But she can’t seem to grasp that he’s besotted by her.” Elsie sighed. “It’s so romantic.”

“She may not return his affections,” Mr Kennington pointed out. “She seems to have some – ahem – attraction to the lad, but she may not believe it worth pursuing.”

The third member of the library’s ghosts drifted over. “It’s up to him,” Tony said. “It’s the man that has to make the first move. And he hasn’t. Made a move, I mean. He’s bottling it. And maybe she likes him but has a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.” He caught Mr Kennington’s eye and looked away hurriedly.

Mr Kennington glared at Tony before settling his translucent cuffs. “That’s not the only reason she would refuse,” Mr Kennington said. “After all, the young man is not likely to be a good provider.”

“We only know what Rhia told us.” Elsie said. She looked wistfully between Rhia, sorting out the classic fiction, and through the door into the office where Liam was engrossed in his computer. “And as she’s the only one who’s been able to see us since I, you know, died here, it seems only right that we help her out.” Elsie turned to the young ghost. “Tony, go and see what he’s looking at, there’s a love.”

Tony looked at Mr Kennington. “I suppose so,” Mr Kennington grumbled, waving permission. “She has been respectful and listened well to instructions when it came to the classical section. In fact, she’s been respectful of the library as a whole. Perhaps we should be at least supportive.” He nodded at Tony who disappeared through the wall to check on Liam and his laptop.

Elsie and Mr Kennington carefully composed themselves as Rhia picked up a faded book and walked past them to the back room. The ghosts followed and Mr Kennington cleared his throat and wagged a faded finger. “Your cleaner did not attend again this morning. It is completely unacceptable. You need to speak to her. In fact, it was Mr Liam who did that vacuum thing and dusted this morning.”

Rhia managed a smile. “Hello, Mr Kennington,” she sighed. “Liam can’t afford to pay the cleaner anymore. He said he’ll take over that job.”

“It is inappropriate for the owner of the library to dust,” Mr Kennington said firmly. “The first owner, his esteemed ancestor, would never had done such a thing. He had a woman for it.”

“Times have changed,” Rhia said. “And we need new subscribers. People aren’t coming here like they used to, and those that do get a day pass. Liam doesn’t know what to do. He says people don’t like old books anymore.”

“Hi,” Tony said awkwardly as he slid out of the wall behind Rhia. She jumped and turned around.

“Tony, I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Rhia said. “Anyway, I need to get on.” She waved a battered book at them. “I have to keep busy, and the quiet is a good time to catch up on some overdue maintenance. I’m going to see if I can do something about this spine before it goes.”

The ghosts watched her as she walked briskly into the workroom before Elsie and Mr Kennington turned to Tony. Tony had only been dead three years and had managed to keep up with a lot of the technology. He shook his head.

“I think Rhia’s right. He’s looking at stuff like auctions and articles on the best way to sell old books. He looks pretty down as well.”

“See,” Mr Kennington nodded. “He’s not a good provider. Rhia is mostly sensible and would not choose a husband who couldn’t provide for her and a future family.”

“It’s not really like that these days.” Tony avoided Mr Kennington’s eyes. “Anyway, it looks bad. Perhaps he can ask her for a date once he has sold the library.”

“What?” Mr Kennington snapped, before taking a deep breath. “He can’t sell the library.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Elsie said with fake confidence. “It can’t. I mean, we live here, if you know what I mean.”

“We’ll probably be still here, but I think they’ll turn this into a bar or some flats.” Tony looked between the two other ghosts. “They’re not likely to demolish the place, it’s still a good building. It’s just that they’ll get more money for renting out cheap accommodation.”

“Flats?” Mr Kennington said. He didn’t always remember modern terminology.

“Apartments, small sets of rooms where people live,” Tony said helpfully.

“But then how will my Albert ever find me?” Elsie asked, her pale eyes wide. “If the library isn’t here, how will he know how to meet me?”

“He isn’t coming back.” Mr Kennington said with as much patience as he could manage. “You have been dead over 100 years. If Albert was going to come back, he would have already got here. The more pressing question is what will happen to the books.”

“I waited for him.” Elsie said. “I promised him. I said I would wait and always be in the library whenever I could so no matter what happened while he was away, he could find me.”

“I have overseen this library for nearly two centuries.” Mr Kennington pulled himself to his full height, such as it was, and drifted slightly upwards. He shook his head sadly. “It is all my fault. I have spent far too much time coaching Tony and now that Mr Pierce and Miss Ellis have found peace and moved on, well, we are spread thinly.” Mr Kennington looked at the other ghosts. “Not that I blame either of you,” he said quickly. “It’s been a pleasure to see you come on, young Tony, and I certainly don’t want any more deaths in the library.” His translucent finger tapped at his pale chin. “We need to take action. I shall instruct Rhia about attracting more subscribers to our library, exhibit our treasures to the world as we should. There are some treasures in these shelves, you know, true treasures that would be lost in one of the big public libraries.” He started pacing. “I should have taken action sooner, but that can’t be changed. And I can hardly blame Rhia for the state of affairs, after all, the fairer sex rarely understand business.” He paced faster. “If only I could reach Liam! His grandfather could see us, you know, and was a wonderful man. He knew his own mind, of course, and perhaps didn’t always treat my advice with the weight it should have carried but…” Mr Kennington paused, staring at Liam’s small office. “But the young owner is so, well, young, and untried in the cutthroat world of libraries. And with his father not setting the best example…” He whirled around and faced the stunned ghosts. “We shall have to have an advertising campaign in all the appropriate newspapers. Perhaps even a picture!”

Tony shrugged. “People don’t bother much with papers these days,” he said. “Besides, adverts cost money. If Liam can’t afford a cleaner, then he can’t afford hundreds of pounds and a marketing manager.”

Mr Kennington drew the ghostly equivalent of a deep breath. “This is a crisis, and there’s nothing else to do. He shall have to sell a book.” Mr Kennington started pacing again. “It’s a dreadful thing for a library to do, and it should be resisted until there is truly no other way. But if the entire library is at stake, we have no choice.” He glared at the other ghosts. “This is absolutely the last resort, but I’ve always been aware of the possibility of unknown disasters. With that in mind, I have been holding one or two things in reserve.” He drifted towards the classics section. “It was before your time, Elsie, but Charles Dickens visited Leeds.” Mr Kennington sniffed. “He was not complimentary about our good city, but he did sign some copies of that Oliver Twist book.” Mr Kennington’s mouth twisted. He was not a fan of serialised fiction. “I know he signed quite a few, because the rascal came in and tried to force Mr Horace, the owner at the time, to purchase them.” Mr Kennington shook his head. “There was a dreadful scene and several of the dozen books he brought in fell down the crack at the back of the bookcase. No-one noticed as the rogue got quite vocal and had to be escorted out. Mr Horace threw his books at him afterwards. I couldn’t get out to see what was happening, of course, but the constabulary were called and there was quite a scuffle, Mr Dickens being popular.”

The ghosts drifted over to the classics section. Sure enough, behind the collected works of George Bernard Shaw, was a crack where the thin pine of the original shelves had split. Elsie slid in to check.

“They’re dusty, of course, but they seem okay and you can still see their autographs. But we can’t tell Liam. He can’t see us,” she said, dusting down her pale dress. “How are we going to get the books out?”

Mr Kennington looked over to where Liam was slouched at his desk, his head in his hands and a blank look on his face. “We tell Rhia. I’m sure that she can create a convincing ruse to find them, and they are bound to be worth something.” He drifted over to Liam and tried to put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “He was always such a serious little boy, you know. I remember how he came in at every opportunity he had. He has always cherished this place, but he has never had the guidance that his forebears had.” Mr Kennington sighed deeply. “The best we can do is to talk to Rhia and hope that she can persuade Mr Liam to invest the small sum raised by the books into an advert in the Yorkshire Post. That has to be a start in attracting new readers. And then,” he said, shaking his head, “We need to work out how to get them respectably married – once Mr Liam can provide properly of course.” He frowned. “Do you think that they will raise enough funds with those novels?” He shook his head. “I shall start working on contingency plans, just in case.” He cast his eye over the two ghosts. “The library must go on!”