Chapter 16

16

I peer around the corner so I can watch Ellis wander down the corridor, a slight skip in his step. He's wearing a bathrobe and a pair of pink flip-flops and carries a towel and a loofah. I know exactly where he's heading. It's what he always does on a Friday night to relax.

After spending all day with my great-great-nephew, Ellis joined him for dinner again, but just when I thought we were making progress, they then parted ways at the dining-room door with an awkward goodbye.

For heaven's sake, honestly . If we leave the courting up to them, they'll still be circling each other when they're fifty. We need to up our game.

He heads into room 416, which is never locked, probably because Ellis uses it so often. Well, that and the fact there are never really any guests here anymore and certainly not on this floor. I watch as he heads inside and closes the door behind him.

"He's coming!" Roger rushes around the corner. "Hurry up!"

Cracking my knuckles, I summon all my psychic energy and push it into my fingertips. They tingle as I reach up towards the number 6 and slowly, painstakingly twist it upside down so it now reads 9. Rubbing my hands together gleefully, I turn to Roger, who peeks around the corner of the corridor towards the staircase one more time, then gives me a thumbs-up and hurries towards me.

"He's coming, he's coming!" Roger chants, giggling wickedly, and we duck down behind a large potted palm. Not that it really conceals the pair of us, but it adds a little more excitement. After all, being dead for decades can get a little dull.

We continue to watch as Morgan wanders down the corridor. Not paying attention, he types something out on one of those blasted phone thingies.

"He's going to miss it," I hiss to Roger.

"Don't worry, darling, I've got this." Roger winks.

Just as Morgan reaches the door, Roger points towards the carpet at Morgan's feet. The man stumbles, like he's tripped over something, and crashes against the door.

Roger smugly blows the tip of his finger like it's a gun and grins. "Bullseye."

"I say, jolly good show," I commend him.

We watch as Morgan straightens up and checks the floor in front of him, presumably to see what it was he tripped on. When he doesn't find anything, he glances up and does a double take at the room number. Looking up and down the corridor like he's lost his bearings, he finally gives up with a little shrug and opens the door, once again giving his attention to the phone in his hand.

Blasted things.

Roger and I hurry forward. I reach up and turn the 9 back to a 6, then we both slip through the wall into the room. Morgan is about to start typing something again when he notices the bathroom door ajar, a wispy curl of steam escaping through the crack. The sounds of splashing and happy humming come from the bathroom and Morgan, once again scowling, strides towards the doorway.

I remain in the bedroom since Ellis is most likely naked. Roger, on the other hand, has no such compunction. He skips merrily across the room and disappears into the bathroom right after Morgan. It's pointless to try and stop him; Roger can't help it. He loves drama and if meddling were a competitive sport… well, what can I say? He'd be on a podium with a wreath of flowers around his neck, clutching a giant trophy like he'd just won Silverstone.

There's a loud exclamation, followed by an alarming crashing sound, followed by splashing water, followed by… well, a lot of splashing water, and a few minutes later, Morgan comes striding back out, red-faced and limping. His suit is soaked and covered in bubbles, streaks of shampoo, and soap. He crosses the room and yanks the suite door open, then stares up at the room number in horror.

"Oh dear," I mutter as he storms out into the hallway. Well, that didn't quite go as I intended.

My attention is diverted as Ellis exits the bathroom a moment later in nothing but a towel with unicorns printed all over it wrapped around his hips. He rushes past me, his skin wet and soapy with clumps of bubbles up his back and neck, all the way into the back of his hair, as if he'd been lying back in the bath relaxing.

I almost feel bad.

Almost .

Then I remember why we're doing this. As Ellis scampers out into the hallway after Morgan, barefoot and wet, Roger comes out of the bathroom, cackling loudly.

"Oh, I wish I had that on film so I could watch it over and over again." He holds his flat belly and laughs so hard that tears spring to his eyes. "That couldn't have gone more perfectly if I'd scripted it."

"What couldn't have gone more perfectly?" We both jump and spin around to face the stern voice.

Stanley Fitzblossom Longtentacle is sitting on the edge of the bed, his beloved clipboard in one hand and his pen in the other. He raises one brow as he waits for our response.

"I've got this, Bertie," Roger whispers out of the side of his mouth. "I'll distract him." I watch in mute admiration as Roger flings himself brazenly over Stanley's lap. "Oh no!" he wails, his eyes large and his expression innocent. "I fell over, whatever shall I do!" He wiggles his pert little bottom in his tiny white shorts, which looks ripe for a spanking.

Stanley stares down at that wiggling posterior, and I have to admit, although I don't go for chaps myself, Roger's derriere is a peach. It's like two Fabergé eggs wrapped in a silken handkerchief.

Roger gazes over his shoulder coyly at Stanley and wiggles his bum again, looking hopeful. "Oops." He bats his eyelashes. "I don't seem able to get up. I do hope I haven't sprained anything."

Stanley continues to stare at him, his expression dry. Finally, he lifts his clipboard.

"Aaa-tempt-ed frat-er-nis-ation," he says slowly as his pen scribbles across the page.

He stands up and Roger rolls off his lap, hitting the floor with a small oof . Stanley looks down at Roger, who, unperturbed at being dumped unceremoniously onto the antique Persian rug, has simply rolled onto his side, one leg coiled underneath the other, his head propped up on his hand. From that position, he runs an enticing palm over his hip and licks his lips slowly.

I have to hand it to him, no one can brazen it out with such effortless style as Roger. He winks at Stanley and puckers his lips, blowing the straitlaced bureaucrat a kiss.

Stanley turns to me and, with a reproving shake of his head, scribbles something else on his clipboard, then dematerialises in a swirl of mist.

"Oh, bugger," I mutter under my breath.