“No, I don’t mean walking through a ghost will give you a chill, or take ten years off your life, or any of that sort of nonsense. I mean it’s rude.” Autumn pursed her lips at the difficult man who was, of all things, arguing with her about the paranormal while trying to haggle her down on a particularly complex original piece of art. A charmed piece, at that, which suggested to her that he knew more than he was saying about both the art and the paranormal.
“Rude?” He raised an eyebrow in what had to be a studied expression of disdain. “You’re talking about being rude to the dead?”
And now she had him. She smirked at him, and set aside the artwork, which would find its proper home in due time. “Well, sir, that’s a common thread throughout many cultures, isn’t it? It’s certainly considered rude to ‘speak ill of the dead,’ for one; it’s considered proper to honor a dying person’s wishes, and we pay homage to the dead in their cemeteries, do we not?”
He could tell he’d been out-maneuvered, but he was certainly going somewhere with this.
“Well, if it’s rude to walk through them, then we’re talking about dealing with them like they’re people, right? Then isn’t it rude of them to stick around a house they no longer own?”
The dead care nothing for deeds and titles would be the easy answer, but it was not, for all its ease, honest. Autumn’s frown came back, and she could feel it wrinkling her brow. “The dead don’t ‘stick around’ because they want to trespass,” she countered. There was a piece of art for this – and she hadn’t known why she was inking it, but she’d done it, framed it, priced it, and then put it on a shelf under her workbench. She pulled it out, now, the twist of the Ways suggested with the way the trees and the house closed together. “I think you’d like this piece better than the one we were discussing,” she continued, in apparent non sequitur. “And if you wish to continue discussing spectral roommates, perhaps the nice coffee place down the road, after the festival closes?”
“Moon-beans? Certainly. Nine tonight, then?” He didn’t balk at the too-high price on the smaller piece of art, passing her his credit card without further discussion. Amos Talbot. The name suited him.
“Thank you, sir.” She nodded politely, and wondered if she’d just set up a date or an appointment for an exorcism.
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/147945.html. You can comment here or there.