I'm in one of those moods where I feel quite good about the story. I feel I might really have something here. (Especially after the discussion about writing comic novels on rec.arts.sf.composition.) I mean, how much angst and despair can the reading public take? Surely they need something lighter every so often?
"I want to apologise for the other night," the old warden said.
Wil said something that might have been, "Eep!"
"I assure you, it won't happen again. As a matter of fact, it can't; your wife's done something to the bedroom and I can't go in there at all now."
Wil blinked at the ghostly warden, still unable to utter a coherent sentence.
"Very capable woman, your wife," Master Newtridge added, nodding his head sagely. "She's got the measure of the Stove very quickly. You have to let it know who's boss. Be firm with it."
Wil finally found his voice. "What have you done with the money?" he snarled under his breath (conscious that it was after lights out and he mustn't make any noise).
"The money for all the advance bookings, you crook. I found all the booking letters saying they were enclosing money, but it's not in the office."
"Ah..." Master Newtridge's face fell. "It isn't? Oh, no. I put it somewhere safe. Now where did I put it?"