He scanned to the bottom of the details page, skipping past the ‘two bedroom, two bath, valets room converted to library’ to spot the rent rate.
What he saw? It set him back. Sharply.
“I say.” He said, checking for fine print. “Is this weekly.”
“Monthly.”
“For the entire apartment. Not… one room? “
“No, that is the rate. The previous owner – he owned the entire building – set the rent in his will.”
And it clearly hadn’t been raised since.
“What’s the catch? Let me guess. You installed a thrash band and a drug house next door?”
“Hardly.” From the tone, she wasn’t appreciating the jest. Which, yes, it hadn’t entirely been. Because for a flat this fine at a rent that low? How could the place be on the market? He, personally, would have to be three decades dead before he’d move out.
“I am, ethically, required to warn you that…well… you see… you’ll be the only one *living* there but…” The elevator stopped with a jerk, giving her a chance to break off conversation.
“What? Crazy Aunt Julia drops by for tea every Tuesday?” If so, he might yet buy scones. The view from the hall was even more promising than that from the street. White roses filled a vase set in an alcove, and the paintings on the walls were just that. Painted. Not great art, but solid oils. The carpet rolled spotless underfoot. Proof – once again – that this wasn’t the usual sort of tourist-trash short-term barrack.
“It’s haunted.”
“Haunted?” Wasn’t that a laugh and a half? He almost did – just from the implausibility of it. “You mean a ghost?
“Two ghosts.” The agent paused to unlock a door marked BWW. “The previous residents, a Lord Yaxley, and his man.”
“Really. Ghosts.” What a lame excuse for bad paper or weak plaster. Did that explain the old photos?
Except, as he stepped inside? The apartment was better in person than in picture. The dated furniture glowed with the sheen of fresh and devoted polishing, and not a speck of dust had settled on the antique porcelain.
“Rather active ghosts, I fear. There have been a few incidents involving… overly bright ties. And spats. Do not, I must warn you, do not under any circumstances wear bright-colored spats. They tend to get evicted – with or without prior removal from the individual wearing them.”
Really. What sort of fairy story was this? “And you can still rent it out?”
“There are compensations, for those who meet the required standard.”
Well, this place did look like it would compensate for quite a bit – even crazy delusional estate agents. Case in point.
He slid from his coat, hanging it on the waiting coat tree.
The scent of pastry and tea floated from the kitchen.
Literally floated. As in? A silver tray, fully laden with formal service, made it’s way down the hall without visible means of support.
It settled on the table.
One chair pulled itself back.
Then the other.
The teapot lifted, pouring a perfect tan stream into a fragile hand-painted cup.
From the other end of the parlor the piano began to tap out a sprightly tune. Gershwin, he thought.
“Yes, well.” The agent smiled as she took her seat. “With these particular ghosts? No one complains.”
no subject
What he saw? It set him back. Sharply.
“I say.” He said, checking for fine print. “Is this weekly.”
“Monthly.”
“For the entire apartment. Not… one room? “
“No, that is the rate. The previous owner – he owned the entire building – set the rent in his will.”
And it clearly hadn’t been raised since.
“What’s the catch? Let me guess. You installed a thrash band and a drug house next door?”
“Hardly.” From the tone, she wasn’t appreciating the jest. Which, yes, it hadn’t entirely been. Because for a flat this fine at a rent that low? How could the place be on the market? He, personally, would have to be three decades dead before he’d move out.
“I am, ethically, required to warn you that…well… you see… you’ll be the only one *living* there but…” The elevator stopped with a jerk, giving her a chance to break off conversation.
“What? Crazy Aunt Julia drops by for tea every Tuesday?” If so, he might yet buy scones. The view from the hall was even more promising than that from the street. White roses filled a vase set in an alcove, and the paintings on the walls were just that. Painted. Not great art, but solid oils. The carpet rolled spotless underfoot. Proof – once again – that this wasn’t the usual sort of tourist-trash short-term barrack.
“It’s haunted.”
“Haunted?” Wasn’t that a laugh and a half? He almost did – just from the implausibility of it. “You mean a ghost?
“Two ghosts.” The agent paused to unlock a door marked BWW. “The previous residents, a Lord Yaxley, and his man.”
“Really. Ghosts.” What a lame excuse for bad paper or weak plaster. Did that explain the old photos?
Except, as he stepped inside? The apartment was better in person than in picture. The dated furniture glowed with the sheen of fresh and devoted polishing, and not a speck of dust had settled on the antique porcelain.
“Rather active ghosts, I fear. There have been a few incidents involving… overly bright ties. And spats. Do not, I must warn you, do not under any circumstances wear bright-colored spats. They tend to get evicted – with or without prior removal from the individual wearing them.”
Really. What sort of fairy story was this? “And you can still rent it out?”
“There are compensations, for those who meet the required standard.”
Well, this place did look like it would compensate for quite a bit – even crazy delusional estate agents. Case in point.
He slid from his coat, hanging it on the waiting coat tree.
The scent of pastry and tea floated from the kitchen.
Literally floated. As in? A silver tray, fully laden with formal service, made it’s way down the hall without visible means of support.
It settled on the table.
One chair pulled itself back.
Then the other.
The teapot lifted, pouring a perfect tan stream into a fragile hand-painted cup.
From the other end of the parlor the piano began to tap out a sprightly tune. Gershwin, he thought.
“Yes, well.” The agent smiled as she took her seat. “With these particular ghosts? No one complains.”