return of greg the florist

A few minutes later they each had a steaming mug of tea and fresh bread thickly slathered in butter and jam. They watched the sun dip behind the trees in a blaze of golden-red glory.

Behind them the castle loomed, windows dark. An owl screeched in the nearby woodlands.

Greg shivered.

"It's too bad we don't have a ghost," John. "It'd be good for business." 

Greg shot him a quick glance, but he appeared to be perfectly serious. "Quite glad we don't, I think," he said. 

"No old legends? Women in white? Women in black? Why's it always women in white or black? It's never little boys in red. Or grandfathers in blue."

"Drama," Greg suggested. 

"Suppose so." 

The sun left a lingering line of fire along the tree tops and then vanished entirely. The light went from warm to cool blue, and John edged closer as the temperature dropped. They stood there until the blue washed away and ink black spread out over the hills and sky. The stars bloomed, a handful at a time, until they covered everything. There was no moon. 

"Inside," John said, finally. "Come on. It's too...big out here." 

Greg thought he knew what he meant. Both sky and possibilities seemed infinite, more than his mind could comfortably contain, and the future was as penetrable as the dark bulk of the night forest. 

He took John's hand and led him inside for more tea, and toast, and bed. 

*

In the morning, he lay in bed for all of five minutes when he woke, and then he picked up the phone and called an electrician. That was where the trouble really began.

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On a non-florist-related note, I've bought racquet-shaped pasta again for Wimbledon.