The fat innkeeper was indeed tempted by the grand vision of the "Ghost Tour," but the last shred of his rationality reminded him not to make any major decisions too hastily. So, he told Elena that he needed some time to think it over.
Elena believed it was only a matter of time before he gave in. After all, the idea was novel, had successful precedents—albeit from the 21st century—and wouldn't cost much to implement. Still, considering she wasn't even paying rent, she mercifully told the innkeeper that they could launch the plan anytime.
After giving the fat innkeeper enough space to ponder, Elena decided to take a stroll and see if she could get the latest issue of *Ladies' Monthly*.
Covent Garden looked much larger during the day than it did at night. It was actually a spacious square, surrounded on three sides by tall buildings with arched arcades beneath, and on the fourth side stood the Church of Hermes, god of commerce, right next to the Royal Theatre of Lundon.
The square itself was a scene of utter chaos. Stalls, donkeys, and handcarts packed it tightly, leaving only narrow paths for pedestrians to squeeze through. Porters abounded—yes, the goods you bought here could be delivered to your doorstep. Milkmaids pulled cows around, peddling milk to passersby. Girls balanced baskets of perishable fruits and herbs on their heads, hawking their wares loudly. The air was thick with a blend of animal manure, fresh flowers, fruit, and human sweat.
Still hungry, Elena bought some apples, pears, and citrus, then headed to a bakery the fat innkeeper had recommended. According to him, this bakery was high-end: genuine ingredients, a clean and meticulous baker, and though the prices were a bit steep, the quality was guaranteed.
Food in hand, Elena spotted a copy of *Ladies' Monthly* at a nearby bookstall. Just as she was about to grab it, she remembered she was currently disguised as a man and reluctantly added a few more newspapers to the pile, including *The Strand*, which she had used earlier that morning to persuade the innkeeper.
Returning to the inn loaded with supplies, she was stopped at the door by the fat innkeeper, who rubbed his hands together and gave her an awkward smile. "About that proposal of yours… I thought it over, and I think it might actually work."
He helpfully grabbed the bag of fruit and added, "But I'm afraid I don't have much talent for, you know, making up spooky stories. And I can't really afford to hire you to write them for me…"
Elena suddenly understood the reason for his hesitation: he was worried about not being able to afford her services.
Of course, Elena had no intention of working for free. After a brief moment of thought, she replied, "That's simple. I'll write the ghost stories and submit them for publication—the payment for those will be mine."
"Of course," the fat innkeeper agreed quickly.
"As for planning the tour route, hiring the kids, and teaching them the scripts," Elena continued, "I can take care of that. Then any money people pay to join the tour will go to me."
"That won't do," the innkeeper shook his head, "I'll cover the cost of hiring the kids—after all, this whole thing is to benefit the Black Horse Inn."
Elena wasn't sure the tour fees would even cover those costs, and truth be told, she barely had a penny to her name. So she nodded in agreement.
After some back-and-forth, the two finalized the profit split. The fat innkeeper left in high spirits, not forgetting to return her fruit.
Back in her room, Elena eagerly peeled an orange, munching as she flipped through *Ladies' Monthly*. She was looking for any secret signals or unknown messages hidden by the Duke.
Her heart skipped a beat when she reached the page with *Helen*—a story she had written herself. She knew every word of it. But when she turned the page, she found a dialogue she had no recollection of writing.
It occurred after Helen discovered her biological parents wanted her to impersonate a distant relative. Helen said sadly: "I'd rather you send me to the countryside to live a poor but peaceful life."
Her mother replied, equally sorrowful: "Please don't blame us. Too many eyes are watching, just waiting for us to slip up. But trust me, this is only temporary."
Elena stared at the passage, deep in thought.
She was certain she hadn't written those lines. The magazine editors wouldn't dare alter an author's manuscript on a whim. If these words had been added by the Duke, it meant their kind—those from the club—had already gone to the countryside? And he couldn't send her a direct message because he was still under surveillance?
She couldn't think of another explanation. If the others had indeed reached the countryside estate and the Duke remained trapped, then everything would fall to her.
Elena was suddenly filled with determination. She stuffed the rest of the orange into her mouth, pulled out the pen and paper she had bought, and headed to the inn's common room—there was no proper desk in her room—and began writing furiously.
She had heard plenty of strange tales about Covent Garden over the past few days, so she decided to write them all down and flesh out the details. One of the most famous stories was about a ghost haunting the Royal Opera House—a once-renowned actor who had tried to help a friend ruined by alcoholism by giving him a role and recommending him to the theater. The friend, however, killed him in the dressing room.
Ever since then, a genteel ghost wearing an opera cloak and gloves was said to roam the theater grounds.
It was the most well-known ghost story in Covent Garden. It wasn't scary—more sorrowful and poignant. Elena leaned into that sentiment, painting the actor as someone who deeply cherished his friendships, always trying to save his friend. And when that friend killed him out of envy and resentment, the actor was stunned, as if seeing the true nature of his friend for the first time. As life drained from him, he sang—brokenly—his most familiar aria: *Ah, perfido!*
"*Ah! perfido, spergiuro,*" muttered the fat innkeeper, who had been peeking over her shoulder. "That's the perfect line."
Elena smiled, grateful for Vera's opera chats—they were finally paying off. Though having someone burst into song while dying was a little awkward, like an Indian soap opera, still...
"Just imagine," she told the innkeeper, "when the kids reach that part of the story, you appear in a grand opera cloak and gloves, singing this aria in the flickering light of oil lamps. Wouldn't that be spectacular?"
The innkeeper stared blankly, clearly picturing it, then quickly shook his head. "No, no, no. I can't sing. And I look nothing like that ghostly actor. If we're doing this, we should get a real opera singer—one down on his luck."
"If the ghost himself could show up, that would be even better," Elena thought aloud. "We wouldn't even have to pay him."
The fat innkeeper gave her a look, as if she were the kind of capitalist who should be strung up from a lamp post.
In addition to the opera ghost, Elena wrote about several other supposedly true stories. There was the ghost of a nobleman who lost everything at the "Seven Gentlemen's Club" and committed suicide to save face; the spirit of a flower girl who vanished mysteriously in a back alley; and a tormented nun who found no peace even in death.
She hadn't realized it before, but Covent Garden was positively overflowing with ghost stories. It was the perfect setting for a ghost tour.
Elena spent two days polishing and compiling the tales, adding a short advertisement for the ghost tour at the end. She submitted the work to *The Strand*, using the same pen name as last time. Meanwhile, the innkeeper enthusiastically began recruiting articulate boys to serve as guides and actors.
Elena had only briefly mentioned the idea of "cloak, gloves, and an aria," but the innkeeper found it brilliant. Just walking to various spots and hearing stories was dull, but if there were some live performances—now that would dazzle the crowd.
The problem was finding suitable actors. Opera singers were expensive, busy with nighttime performances, and uninterested in playing ghosts for modest pay. Retired, out-of-work, or alcoholic former singers did apply, but the innkeeper dismissed them—he wanted an in-demand performer with no evening gigs, someone who could earn a little side money. Unfortunately, such unicorns were rare.
Lacking actors, the innkeeper focused on props: he bought pig's blood at the market and splashed it in a certain alley mentioned in one story. Thankfully, the police didn't arrest him for pollution—though considering the state of the area, they probably had bigger concerns. He also hung a cloak on a wall said to be haunted by a ghost who jumped to their death. When the wind blew, it fluttered like a real person. He used candles instead of torches, for their dim flicker created a more eerie ambiance.
Everything was nearly ready—just waiting on *The Strand* to publish the article. Still, they had no opera singer. In desperation, the innkeeper had the guide boys distribute printed flyers throughout Covent Garden, hoping for a miracle.
One day, Elena returned from the market to find the innkeeper excitedly rushing toward her, leading a man whose clothes didn't quite fit. Beaming, he said, "Look! This is our new opera singer applicant. I just heard him sing—he's got real talent. And his name is William Trice. Isn't that a coincidence?"
Elena's eyes widened. A chill ran down her spine.
Because, in the old ghost story, the name of the murdered opera singer was also William Trice.
In a place like Lundon, name coincidences were common.
But something about this one made her skin crawl.
After all… she was a vampire.
So who's to say ghosts weren't real too?