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for hire."
    "After Henry VIII confiscated the abbeys, they had to find some way to earn their keep. There's always a stately home in need of a specter or two."
    "Who are Don well Abbey's ghosts? I take it that there's more to them than just being monks."
    Colin gave the contents of the pot a final gush and turned off the heat. "It's the usual story. Renegade monk breaks his vows, runs off with the lissome daughter of the local squire—plate, please."
    I handed over a blue-and-white-patterned plate.
    "Enter monk, pursued by squire?" I suggested, paraphrasing one of my favorite Shakespeare stage directions.
    "Close, but not quite." Colin debonairly dislodged a large clump of goo from the serving spoon onto the plate. It looked a bit like dog food.
    I handed him the second plate. "The local squire didn't much care for his daughter, but he did scent an opportunity to turn a profit. With proper paternal outrage, he stormed over to the monastery—more?"
    A laden serving spoon hovered in the air like a phantom hand at a seance. "No, thank you."
    "The squire rushed over to the monastery and demanded a strip of land that ran between the abbey and his estate as repayment for loss of his daughter. The monks were not pleased. No one knows quite what happened that night, but the story has it that the monks caught up with the pair in a large field, not far from the abbey."
    "What happened then?" I'm a sucker for a good ghost story.
    "No one knows for sure," said Colin mysteriously, or as mysteriously as one can while waving a large ladle. "By morning, all that was left was the crumpled hood of a habit, lying discarded on the grass. Of the squire's daughter, there was no trace. But legend has it that he still looks for her on stormy nights, and you can see him, drifting endlessly through the grounds of Donwell Abbey, forever searching for his lost love."
    Little prickles ran down my arms, picturing the deserted heath, the pale rays of the moon illuminating their terrified faces… A large blob of something brown appeared in front of my nose.
    "Beans on toast?" said Colin prosaically.
    It is next to impossible to maintain a ghoulish aura in the presence of beans and toast. It's more effective than waving garlic in front of a vampire.
    The ghosts receded into the dusky darkness behind the window while we partook of beans and toast in the well-lit kitchen. Colin assured me it was his one culinary accomplishment.
    "If that's a ploy to get me to leave, it's not going to work. Now that I've actually seen the archives, a steady diet of ashes couldn't drive me away."
    "Hmm. Point taken. What about a ghastly apparition, all in white, hovering over your bed?"
    "Too late. You already told me you don't have any ghosts."
    Colin grinned a rakish grin that had an odd effect on the inside of my stomach—at least, I assume it was the grin, and not his culinary efforts.
    "Who said I was talking about a ghost?"
    Before I had quite puzzled out the ramifications of that statement, the door inched coyly open, and a feminine voice trilled, "Colin… Colin, are you home?"
    Colin froze like a fox within sight of the hunt. Catching my eye, he made anxious shushing motions.
    "Colin…" The door continued its inexorable swing inward, and a blond braid swung around the edge, closely followed by its owner, a tall girl in tight tan pants and a closely fitted jacket. Catching sight of her quarry, she stepped jauntily into the kitchen, booted heels clicking on the flagstones of the floor, riding helmet swinging from one hand.
    "Colin! I thought I'd find you here. When I saw your car in the drive… Oh."
    She had caught sight of me, sitting on the other side of the table. The riding helmet stopped mid-swing, and her jaw dropped. The expression didn't do much for her, bringing to mind portraits of some of the more heavy-jawed Hapsburgs. Or Red Riding Hood's wolf. Her teeth were very large, and very white.
    "Hello," I said into the silence that followed.
    The girl ignored