"Certainly," Ronan said, inclining her head as he stepped away from her luggage. Did he look weak, was that it? He could [i]definitely[/i] carry it up the stairs but – well, no matter. No point in puffing up in righteous indignation when there was no offense to be had. "From the landing, turn sharply right and head down the hallway. Last room on the left. Watch yourself on the top step, as well – it's slightly higher than the last!"

He was thankful that Findlay Manor's upper rooms were far cleaner and more rich than downstairs. The lounge had been plagued with generations of untidy members of the Underwood Society and their collections of journals; men that weren't likely to clean up after themselves. He knew it wasn't much to look at – and that Miss Williams was unimpressed by it – but if she had seen the state of it [i]before[/i] he took over. He suppressed a shudder. The guest room he hadn't exactly cleaned by himself but rather he made a quick, almost foolish contract with a brownie, a household spirit, and thus they were always kept immaculate by the often invisible creatures.

Rule two of the Underwood Society stated that the organisation should never work [i]with[/i] creatures, only against them. He'd already broken that rule several times.

The room he had directed Miss Willaims too was that of the previous Lady Findlay, almost six decades ago – a beautiful room of monotonous greys and whites with an overabundance of lace. Taken by the Fae, her notes and collections on the Court still resting on the shelves. It was the room of choice for any lady visitors (who usually tended to be the Sidhe, if anyone).

Sighing, he headed back into the lounge, peering out at the weather which had, unsurprisingly, taken a wintry turn for the worse as snow was beginning to build up on the moorland. [i]Wait a second–[/i] His eyes were drawn to a lone figure in the distance, dark shadow on the hilltop. What was that all about?