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off to look after her own family before things got too bad. She’d fussed like an old hen, making sure Gillian had enough provisions for several days, ‘should the roads become blocked, you understand’. Gillian had almost been thankful when the housekeeper had finally left.
    *               *               *
    The draught blew through the room again, cold, damp and bone-chilling. In frustration, Gillian got out of bed to see where it was coming from. She picked up a torch, then started off down the dark corridor towards the front of the house. In front of her, at the far end of a passageway she saw something shimmer, but when she shone the light on it she saw only the panelled wall.
    The draught came again, ruffling her hair and sending a shiver down her back. With her anger rising, she felt it stop just as suddenly, but this time the distant shimmering didn’t disappear. It was indistinct, like a swarm of midges in the air at twilight – only these were electric midges, with tiny sparks to them.
    She hurried towards the shimmering, but it stayed in front of her. Close, but always out of reach. Then she found herself in the Long Gallery and, as she stopped in surprise, she heard the whispering again.
    Now the shimmering appeared to pass through the woodwork and into the Library. From inside the room, light spilled out around the door, which was odd, as Gillian knew the wiring to this part of the property had been disconnected for safety reasons long ago.
    Cautiously, she turned the handle and walked in, immediately feeling another, more natural draught, damp against her face. In the centre of the room, Marcus was pacing up and down, and as Gillian watched, the swarm of sparkling dots flew towards him, then into him, causing him to stop and look up. No longer dressed in his armour, he was wearing a plain, short toga, along with a very worried expression on his face. It was then that Gillian realised the light illuminating the room was coming from him, rather than any lamp.
    â€˜You came, thank the gods! Mistress, Mistress, Mistress, I need your help to save him – he is in grave danger!’
    Confused, Gillian looked around her, but apart from Marcus and herself there was no one else in the room.
    â€˜Who? I don’t –’
    â€˜The Lord Dalverton!’ Marcus was clearly agitated, only Gillian didn’t think a slap on the face would effectively bring him back to his senses. In fact, she had no idea what would work on a hysterical ghost.
    She tried speaking calmly. ‘If you tell me what’s wrong, then I might be able to help!’
    Another strong gust of wind shook the windows, and she felt the damp draught on her face again. Looking up, she saw several panes had been shaken out, and the holes had allowed a steady flow of wind-blown rain to get in. She followed the wet trickles until they stopped at the nearest bookcase, where they dripped from shelf to shelf, finally pooling on the wooden floorboards.
    Gillian looked back at the distraught form of Marcus. ‘I still don’t see …’
    There was a sudden burst of incandescence, which hurt her eyes, then he was over by the bookcase, pointing to a shelf. On it were scraps of the once-great library, and several books lay on their sides in puddles of rainwater.
    She reached up and carefully lifted the waterlogged volume Marcus had been pointing at. Even as she picked it up she’d felt the bindings disintegrate, the swollen papers falling away from the cover boards and detaching themselves from the spine.
    â€˜You must save him, Mistress! I have seen you rescue other things from the edge of the Abyss. All I ask is that you save The Lord Dalverton, and I will bind my allegiance to whatever your cause desires!’
    Carefully, she opened the book and read the flyleaf. It was an autobiography of Daniel Mathias Dalverton, Third Lord