Page 17 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

I closed my eyes. “I can’t have a meaningful conversation with you here, can I?” But I wasn't displeased to see her, either. “Did you catch that conversation?”

“It was impressive.”

In my periphery Lindy paraded into the room, a vision in blue. Paint, it seemed, when she reached for the frame with wet stuff from the cloying scent of her.

I slapped her hands away. “Don’t you dare sully his frame,” I warned her.

“Have you asked?” She looked up at me, indignant.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You were the one who pointed out the importance of pronouns. For all you know, Mister Aloysius prefers to identify as female. Or them. It wasn’t unheard of, in certain circles, for men to cross dress. And that is not a happy face, Dustman.”

I stared down at her. “You are incredible. Still, I don’t want to see a speck of blue paint on that frame. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she muttered, glowering just a little.

Damn, but that was cute. Like a kitten being told no that plotted its next move and thought it could get away with whatever trouble brewed for some future trouble.

I elected to ignore her brattiness as she raised a fine point. Linking my fingers through hers, I was pleased when she stilled but didn’t pull away.

“So, Al…” I paused, giving the frame enough time to rattle. I’d held some interesting interrogations in my time, but this took the whole cake. “How would you like us to identify you?”

Nothing.

Alright, Al wanted options, or else the nickname sucked. That’s okay. We shared a common problem.

“Is there a preference for they or them?”

Silence.

“She, her?”

Nada.

Lindy blew out a breath. “You’re aheafter all that, aren’t you?”

The frame jingled merrily, and for the scantest moment, I had the impression that the young man pictured in the painting smiled.

Then the fragment of light passed with the moment and the shadow fell across his face leaving him as morose and alone as he had been before.

As he would be when we left.

I really need to work out that family history.

“I think Al,” I said carefully, “appreciates the effort and the entertainment factor we bring along.”

More frame jingling.

“Is there somewhere we can find out who you were?” Lindy asked, and winced. “Are?” she corrected herself.

I squeezed her fingers and waited, as intent on the answer as she was, but the ghost gave us no answer, and his frame remained still. I glanced about the rest of the room. Dust motes floated in the air leaving a slightly muted finish on every surface.

“This might be a room best left undisturbed,” I murmured, finding the cloth that had come loose from Al’s painting. I held it up, but Lindy’s pressed hand over mine as she strained on her tiptoes to reach, stopped me.

“No,” she said softly. “Let him see.”

We exited the room hand in hand and didn’t speak until we left the quiet wing of Witnot Castle where the air flowed freely and the portraits didn’t smile.

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