Jasfoup sat at the Edwardian café table in the garden, his feet up on the other chair, twirling an etched skull in his hands. “They got away all right?” he said.
Keritel nodded, his hands cupping the bowl of chai tea. “I got the stage make up like you asked and the ghost taught the homunculus how to apply it. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. He looks every inch the gentleman. The pretty ghost and the immortal monster-what-was-made-of-magic. There’s a story in that, if only you could tell it.”
“Quite.” Jasfoup spun the skull on one finger like a basketball. “What do you think, Pelagia? Do they make a fabulous couple or what?”
The skull remained dark and the demon laughed. “No matter. You’ll talk eventually, old son. I know you’re in there.” He turned back to the imp. “What of the other matter?”
“Done and dusted.” Keritel pulled out a sheaf of papers. “The Bishop’s retired and the Church Council have elected your vicar in his place.”
“Hardly my vicar,” said Jasfoup. “Will he be able to stay here?”
“Yes,” said the imp. “It needs the signature of the Church’s Accountant to authorise the upgrading of Saint Jude’s to a cathedral, with a commensurate increase in tithe and a resident bishop.”
“Excellent!” Jasfoup resisted the urge to steeple his fingers together. He pulled the papers across the table and signed them. “How’s the escape from limbo coming on?”
“So-so.” Keritel sniffed. “It’s not easy to sneak four billion souls out from under the watchful eyes of demons.”
“You’ll manage it.” Jasfoup shook the skull. “Hear that? I’m still keeping my end of the bargain.” He tossed it down again, though not so carelessly that it might chip. “Miserable sod.” He passed the papers back. “That’s all the loose ends tied, I think.”
“Will we see wedding bells?”
Jasfoup grunted. “Only if you move into the tower.”