The cavalier stands poised at the end of the corridor. He holds out his sword, proud that his hand does not quake. Facing four enemies would perhaps defeat a lesser man, but Fowlis Westerby never backs down from a fight.
He hears a door open along the hall. He has only moments. He preens the immense feather in his hat with his spare hand. He is nothing if not fastidious. Intimidation is a valuable weapon, and what could be more intimidating than a cavalier dressed in all his finery?
Four young women approach. Each of them wears a bright pink ballerina outfit, complete with legwarmers and garish tutu. They all wear plastic tiaras in their bouffant hairdos. One of the four wears a tiara rather bigger than the others. A white sash thrown over her shoulder marks her out to be a 'Bride in Training'. They squawk at each other about drinking games and flashing their underwear at men.
"En garde!" shouts Fowlis.
All four women stop their chatter and look at him. They take in the sword, and the splendid attire. They remember the previous night; doors slamming, taps running of their own accord, writing appearing on steamy mirrors. The trainee bride turns white first; her cronies follow suit. They flee. He can hear their screams echoing throughout the house as they seek refuge in the gardens outside.
Fowlis smiles. Whoever assigned him a house rented to hen parties must have known this would pose no challenge, yet he is pleased nonetheless. This is why he is Ghostmaster General - he is the best.