Chapter 2
Mercury had been working as a ghost broker for twelve years now, eight of those at Aventine Manor, which he’d purchased with the not insignificant income he had earned making himself a legend of his craft in his first two years.
Having so many ghostly attachments—no one but him knew the exact number, but he made a point of showing off at least ten whenever first encountering a new client—made him both a novelty and a source of options.
People had flocked to him instantly, knowing they would have a great many ghosts to choose from, something no one else in his profession could offer.
The arrival of a client, new or returning, was always met with the same display, one emphasizing what set him apart from his fellow brokers.
He donned a fashionable but subdued jacket that communicated wealth, fashion sense, and prowess.
Those ghosts who were not otherwise occupied or feeling particularly unsociable gathered on either side of the grand staircase hidden inside the walls.
Smythe placed the new clients at a table from which the stairs were visible. Then the show began.
The time had come to undertake it again.
He descended the stairs at a slow, swaggering pace, his usual expression of confident tranquility firmly in place.
Ghosts floated across his path from all directions, swirling around him, filling the space above and below, staggering their passes with the fluid precision of a dance.
The display very expertly conveyed that the ghosts of Aventine Manor were plentiful and impressive, and Mercury was the one with access to them all.
At the table below sat a young couple, likely still in their twenties.
They appeared to be of the upper class, but only just. New money, perhaps.
Or maybe they hailed from a less significant branch of a somewhat notable family.
He wasn’t disdainful of people’s station—if anyone knew of his origins, he would be more than merely looked down upon—but he did need to know his client’s financial situation as well as their social standing; his fees were fair but not insignificant.
And those looking to impress the ton focused on fashionableness when selecting a new ghost, so he would do well to lean in that direction.
Understanding his clients helped him make successful trades. And knowing a little about their current ghostly attachments helped him decide if he wanted to make a trade. The specter he obtained would become part of his household, after all.
As he drew closer to the bottom of the stairs, his attention shifted to the ghost hovering near the couple. The ghosts. There were two. That was unusual.
Mercury waved his arms as he always did, and his ghostly companions instantly rushed away. He sat at the table and offered the new arrivals a small smile of welcome.
“I’m Mercury Raine. What can I do for you?”
“We are the Padmores,” Mr. Padmore said, “and we are interested in a specter swap.”
Mercury nodded slowly and tranquilly. “You have arrived with two ghosts. Are they both attached to one of you or do you each have one attachment?”
“We each have one,” Mrs. Padmore said.
“And are you both considering swaps, or just one of you?”
“Only me,” Mr. Padmore said.
“Have you traded your ghost before?” Mercury asked.
Mr. Padmore’s high collar was so excessively starched that it didn’t move at all, even as it was battered by his chin while he shook his head. “This is my Originary.” He motioned to the taller of the two ghosts, who watched the exchange with drawn brows and the air of one ready to argue something.
Mercury turned to Mrs. Padmore. “Have you transferred a ghost before?”
She nodded. “A couple of times, but not with you.” She spoke almost apologetically.
“I ask only because it helps me know if you understand what to expect. I am not the least offended when people go to other ghost brokers.”
Mrs. Padmore looked immediately relieved. She pressed her gloved hand to the string of pearls around her neck. Her other hand daintily pushed a loose tendril of brown hair away from her face.
“I have been told that swapping an Originary is more complicated than subsequent swaps,” Mr. Padmore said. “Is that true?”
Mercury nodded. “The trade has to be approved of by every immediate family member living in the household of the person undertaking the swap. In this case, that would be your wife. And disconnecting an attachment a person was born with requires more effort and more concentration on the part of the broker.”
Every client he’d had who undertook their first swaps with him inevitably returned to swap again. Originary trades were worth doing even if they were draining and time consuming.
“But it can be done?” Mr. Padmore asked.
Mercury chose not to point out that if swapping one’s first ghost wasn’t possible, then his wife would still have her Originary. “I have done it many times.”
Mr. Padmore nodded. “Excellent.”
“May I ask why you wish to undertake a swap?” Motivation was an important thing to learn about his clients. “Are you wishing for a new ghost for the London Season?”
“We have never before attended the Season,” Mrs. Padmore said.
“Then your motivation is not fashion nor social cachet.”
The couple exchanged a quick glance.
“Our ghosts do not—” Mrs. Padmore attempted an explanation. “They are not—” She dissolved into a look of embarrassment once more.
Mercury turned to Mr. Padmore and waited patiently.
“Our ghosts are often at odds,” Mr. Padmore said. “They aren’t hostile or aggressive. They simply don’t get on well, and the clash of their . . . personalities, I suppose you could say, has grown more pronounced in the months we’ve been married.”
Ah. “Ghosts are like people in that sense,” Mercury acknowledged. “Some live very peaceably together, while others seem forever at loggerheads, or at the very least not terribly happy together.”
He received knowing nods from the couple. So, they would primarily be looking for a ghost who would get along with Mrs. Padmore’s attachment. Getting to know that particular ghost would help Mercury steer them in the right direction.
“I want to make certain you are both happy with the ghost you swap for, but also that your chosen ghost gets on well with Mrs. Padmore’s attachment.
” Mercury looked over at that ghost, hovering a bit out of sight, watching everything closely and silently and keeping almost entirely still. “Forgive me, I don’t know your name.”
“The Cream Canary,” was the whispered reply.
“A pleasure.” Mercury dipped his head. He then turned to Mr. Padmore’s attachment. “And what is your name?”
“The Other Hand,” the ghost said, one spectral eyebrow arched.
“Welcome to Aventine Manor,” Mercury said to all of them at once. “Please make yourselves at home while you are here.”
“How much time do you suspect will be needed?” Mr. Padmore asked.
“Were I in your position, I would plan on no fewer than ten days.”
That didn’t seem to upset them, neither did they rush out of the house intent on finding a different broker. A good sign.
“Your best approach this early on,” Mercury continued, “is to spend time with the ghosts. Allow your ghosts to spend time with them. And, while you do, enjoy yourself here. All your needs will be seen to.”
He stood once more, offered a very polite yet business-like bow, and walked very calmly away. Leaving clients with the firm impression of competence while also affording them privacy in which to begin their exploration had always proven a successful strategy.
Once he was beyond the doorway to the drawing room, just out of sight of the Padmores, he glanced back. He never did that, yet couldn’t resist the urge this time.
As he did, his eyes fell on the Cream Canary, and, quite unexpectedly, the tiniest hint of misgiving tiptoed over him. That never happened.
Never.