Page 14 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

“First,” he started in what I expected was his SoCal professor’s voice, “I wouldn’t assume our polty-geist was either male or female without prior confirmation.”

“Checking for pronouns.” I reeled out an unwilling dollop of admiration. Polty agreed, rattling his tower. “Glad you’re joining our century, prof.”

“Associate professor,” he corrected me. “Then–”

“Wait, did you just make a polty joke?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes. Catch up. The next thing we should do is simply ask h– their name.”

I blinked at him, and tried not to be impressed. Failed.

“That’s…unexpected.”

Two arched eyebrows rose for the heavens. “What is?”

“That you not only considered gender and the fact that Not-Polty is actually real, but who this person might have been in their past.”

He mouthed two words that looked suspiciously likehistory department. “I’m glad you think so little of me.”

I didn’t dignify that with an answer, turning in the direction where I hoped our—friendly—ghostly friend who had a penchant for rattling salmon tins hovered. “Alright, Not-Polty. We’re here for your story, if you want to tell it.”

The tins remained still.

In fact, the longer I stared at the tin-tower space where I swore that the ghost last occupied, the less certain I was that he–or she—remained in this part of the castle along with us.

Maybe they did want that threesome after all.

Covin ran his hand over his five o’clock shadow he hadn’t shaved from the day before, leaning in until the bristles grazed my cheek in the sexiest manner. “I think our fighting scared Not-Polty off.”

“You think?” I’d had enough of retreating. Time to really elevate this.

I turned on my heel and bolted out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Covin called after me, confusion lacing his yell.

“To get breakfast!” I shouted back, intent on putting as many hallways and salmon tins between us as possible.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

I didn’t stop to turn around to find out if he meant the eggs, the smoke damage, the tin tower, or our sulking, absentee ghost. Nor did I care right then. I was going therapy shopping. I grabbed my bag off a small table where I had left it earlier that morning as I passed, my feet barely able to keep pace.

“Milk the damn cow!” I screeched back.

Covin muttered a curse that faded the closer I came to the castle’s front entrance. Finally, cold crisp air and pale sunlight filtered onto my face. My shoes hit the gravel roadway as I headed back into the small village, certain my mood would make the miles walk painless enough, and wondered if Covin would chase after me.

The only answer I received was a muted, plaintivemoo.

Ahh, he’d found the cow. Good to know he was trainable after all.

I headed into town, and wondered if they had some decorations I could buy to make the castle a little more Christmassy for Not-Polty.

Two full bags of garlands that threatened to turn me into a living Christmas tree and a bowl of undisclosed-ingredient hotpot stew-soup later I felt a whole lot better even if my bank account wasn’t about to thank me for the trip into the small town, never mind my waistline.

A small dose of guilt whispered through me at abandoning Covin, but he’d come on way too strong and way too fast.

There might have been a time, but now… I’d be staying on my side of the hole in the wall and keeping Not-Polty firmly between us, metaphysically speaking.

But at least my castle neighbor could milk the cow.

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