Raziel gives me a sharp look. It had been one thing to joke about telling someone who wouldn’t believe the truth about magic and ghosts, another completely to actually consider doing it to someone who would. “That’s illegal.” My charge points out.

I carefully test out the flaw in his argument, “What exactly is the council going to do to you if you do break the law? Revoke your magic even more?”

“Throw me back in jail.” Raziel fires back which causes me to hesitate.

“Azazel wouldn’t stand for that.” But my words lack conviction. There is only so much that dragons could do in council matters. I try to find a different way to reassure him, “Don’t forget that when you were in-prisoned I was also.” The memory of the years spent under lock and key within the council’s treasury still makes me cringe. Raziel’s actions affect me too.

A small, sad smile flashes across Raziel’s face. “Would you really risk that for some random ghost you only just met?”

I sigh, “It is your decision. Just know that she will likely be back tonight hoping for our help. Whatever you decide I will convey to her.”

Raziel groans out in frustration. “Alright, fine! It’s not like I’ve ever needed convincing in the past to make a bad decision.”

“No, you never did.” I agree sadly.

“We’ll go to the father’s house. Des gave me the address.”

I blink in surprise, “We?”

“Oh, yes! You are coming with me. I’m not exactly a medium and I’m expecting our ghost to be there.”

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A trill of fear and excitement both run through me. I can’t remember the last time I left the shop and now that I even think about it I don’t think I ever had in the five years Raziel and I had been settled here.

The house is large and austere. Not nearly as impressive as the Snowfield manor, but still enough to make me suddenly very self conscious about my attire which I have been wearing for the last 800 years. Thin linen pants and shirt with simple, matching embroidery along the hems of each garment. In my time the clothes were evident of my middle class status with their neat, colorful patterns stitched in by hand, but now I’d been told by Raziel that they make me look like a hippie. Whatever that is. These are the clothes I’d been executed and buried in and there’s no way for me to change them. Raziel had showered and dressed in his nicest attire to try to make up for my lack of.

I switch from foot to foot nervously as Raziel rings the doorbell. Even the thought of being seen by another living creature makes my stomach churn in uneasiness. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask not for the first time.

“Shush.” Raziel quiets me and suddenly I feel like our roles have been reversed and I’m the pupil.

The door opens after a quiet moment and Mr. Hawthorne stands before us. He’s much smaller than I would have thought. At least five inches shorter than Raziel’s height. His clothes have the bunched up and worn look like someone who has been sleeping in them. His hair has a similar look paired with a thick shadow looming over his jaw where he hasn’t shaved. Mr. 

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Hawthorne adjusts his thick rimmed glasses and gives us a scrutinizing stare, though, that reveals a man who is not completely lost to mourning.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne-” Raziel starts, but the man quickly finishes for him,

“I’m not buying anything.” He quickly tries to shut the door in our faces, but Raziel slams his hand on the door so that it won’t budge an inch further.

“You misunderstand,” Raziel tries to smooth, “We’re not trying to sell you anything. In fact we don’t want your money at all. In cases like this we tend to work pro bono.”

I watch the man hesitate for a moment, “Case? You mean you’re lawyers?”

Raziel’s smile tightens, “Not exactly, you see we were hired by your daughter.”

All the color drains from the already pale face making Mr. Hawthorne look even more ghostly than me, “Excuse me?” He growls out.

“Err, maybe we could come in and talk about this?” Raziel tries unsuccessfully to gain us entrance into the house.

Mr. Hawthorne tells us exactly what we can do instead, “You and your barefooted friend can leave!” He snarls out. The ferocity startles Raziel enough that Winnifred’s father is successful in slamming the door closed this time. The sound of the lock turning over reinforcing our unwelcome status.

“I thought you said he’d been hiring psychics?” Raziel scowls at me in annoyance. I shrug causing Raziel to scowl even more. “Well, go in there and convince him to let me in.” He gestures impatiently at the door.

A bad taste fills my mouth at the direct order Raziel had given me. I know he hadn’t meant it, he’s just annoyed, but flashbacks of Tristan ordering me like a slave still haunt me.