Maeve
Horace stood in the shelter of the darkened corridor, a candle in his hand. He was dressed for bed, a silly cotton nightcap and long nightshirt covering his withered body.
Oh, Horace was a grumpy old bat. He didn’t care that people thought that of him, either. Gemma and I had playfully tried to guess his age, once, and I don’t think my guess of one-hundred was far from the truth.
Usually he ignored me, only giving me a very stern passing glance, but something in his beady black eyes made a shiver run up my spine as he watched me move away from the door.
“I heard something, Horace—”
“Rats, probably. Nothing you need to pay any mind. Go to bed, mistress. You shouldn’t be wandering the halls at this hour.” He motioned his hand to shoo me away, narrowing his eyes as I passed by and
