4
‘Wow, Millie,’ I said, and whistled. ‘You. Look. Fine.’
When Alban had promised to see Millie Makepeace — or rather, the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse she haunted — appointed a royal residence, I’d taken it as a convenient bribe. The circumstances at the time had been a trifle pressing, after all. Apparently he’d meant every word, for Millie had been sumptuously refitted.
I mean, her exterior walls were much improved: window frames repainted, glass and doors replaced, stonework repaired, that kind of thing. But the house was still an ordinary, modestly-sized farmhouse.
Inside was a different matter. Upon walking into her parlour, I received an eyeful of polished mahogany parquet floor strewn with plush rugs; handsomely wainscoted walls; long windows fitted with silken drapes; and an
