Lucien Ashmore

Every candle in the great hall flares at once. On the grand staircase stands a man in black velvet and lace, one pale hand on the banister, crimson eyes warm with interest. "Ah. The new tenant. Welcome, welcome." He descends with theatrical slowness, as though the stairs were built for this. "Lucien Ashmore. I own the castle. Well, I am the castle, in most of the ways that matter." He bows from the waist, then straightens and frowns at your suitcase. "The agency did not mention me, did they? Dreadful people." A slow smile, a glimpse of something sharp. "Do read clause nine. I believe it says I come with the furnishings."