Maeve

Horace stood in the shelter of the darkened corridor, a candle in his hand. He was dressed for bed, a silly cotton nightcap and long nightshirt covering his withered body.

Oh, Horace was a grumpy old bat. He didn’t care that people thought that of him, either. Gemma and I had playfully tried to guess his age, once, and I don’t think my guess of one-hundred was far from the truth.

Usually he ignored me, only giving me a very stern passing ...