Ghastly Bespoke was not a particularly extroverted person. He never had been, and most likely never would be. Large gatherings of people unnerved him, and it was incredibly hard to feel comfortable in a crowd with most of them staring at your face in disgust.

So the only reason he had agreed to come to this party was because he knew alcohol would be involved. Inebriated young adults always saw what they wanted to see, and at these occasions he could almost pretend he was like anyone else. His fellow 'classmates' were more inclined to speak to him when they had a bottle of something or other in their hands. It made them braver, and less likely to be repelled by Ghastly's scarred countenance.

Still, he wasn't one to enjoy unwanted attention in any case, so he sat in the least occupied corner of the room and tried to hide behind his steadily disappearing drink. Around him, it seemed like this tiny island's entire population of youth had turned up to join in the festivities. A tradition, as the cinnire had earlier announced during break from classes.

Apparently, it was an excellent opportunity to meet the locals and try out their newly acquired gaelic.

'Bhi me ag caint leo inne agus diurt siad beidh a lan craic agaibh ag an coisiur anocht! (I was talking to them yesterday and they said you'll have a lot of fun at the party tonight)', she had said.

Ghastly hadn't been sure whether to take her word for it or not, as his classmates' fluency at the old Irish tongue was rusty at best, but looking around himself now he did have to admit that the locals did seem determined to send them back home with fond ( and maybe blurred) memories of the experience.

Tomorrow, Ghastly thought. Tomorrow I'm finally leaving the Gaeltacht and I'll never have to speak another word of Irish for the rest of my life!

He decided, right then and there, that he didn't care if his mother wanted him to understand the native language. He didn't care that English influence was killing it, and in a few centuries time no one would speak it anymore, not even these isolated people on Aranmore who never spoke anything else. He didn't care that these Gaeltacht courses were regarded highly by the people of Dublin, where English was the dominant language and most people were too poor or busy to go to the west for two weeks and learn to speak Gaelic.

The whole thing had been a trial for him. The little he had been taught in school had done nothing to prepare him for the strictness of this place. The teachers here punished severely any student caught speaking English, and then sent them home with their heads bowed in shame. No amount of beauty could make the rugged landscape any more welcoming to him, and it was undeniably hard to try and communicate with people who spoke a different language to your own.

A chair crashed to the ground and he and several others jumped, startled for a second. But after the initial alarm, revelry and laughter returned. He watched absently as a group of local cailini wandered past, conversing rapidly in Irish and casting admiring glances at a young lad across the room. By the wild, windswept look of him, Ghastly guessed he was also a resident of the island. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have people look at him that way, the way the girls were looking at the young man.

He sighed, slouching further in his seat and clutching his drink as if it were a life raft in the ocean and he was drowning.

The night wore on, and several times Ghastly exchanged a few words with a classmate or two. Nothing close to a full conversation, but then again, he didn't want one. He bought drink after drink, but alcohol had never effected him the way it effected other young people his age. He remained unbearably sober, watching and wishing he could be enjoying himself and having as much fun as everyone else seemed to be.

It was around two o clock in the morning when he got that wish.

He looked up from his empty glass and raised his head. He had been meaning to get up and buy another from the bar, but after a quick search of his pockets he discovered he'd spent every penny he had.

He sighed and was about to sit back down again when he accidentally caught the gaze of a man on the other side of the room. The same man the girls had been eyeing earlier on, he realised.

He was about to quickly look away, face burning, when the man grinned and crooked a finger at him. Ghastly hesitantly raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and then made a gesture at himself.

Me?

The man nodded, smiling, and then pointed at Ghastly's empty glass and motioned for him to come over again.

Confused, Ghastly picked up his glass and then spent a minute or two squeezing his way through the crowd until he reached the stranger, trying to think how he could say ' what is it' in Irish.

Ceard… No. Cad e….?

It didn't matter, as it turned out. Instead of greeting him with a flurry of Irish he wouldn't be able to understand, the young man grinned and spoke in the universal language of secrecy.

He put a slender finger to his lips and glanced around him furtively, before miraculously producing a bottle from behind his back and refilling Ghastly's glass.

Surprised, and also slightly amused at the young man's exaggerated antics, Ghastly struggled to convey in Gaelic that he didn't have any money to pay him with.

After watching ( and visibly enjoying) Ghastly's awkwardness, the man smiled again, a kind smile, and shook his head.

'It's all right, mo chara, I don't want you to pay. That was, how do you say it in English… For free? That's right, is it not?'

It took Ghastly a second or two to reply, so accustomed was he in the past few weeks to speaking Gaelic. 'Yes, that's right. I thought most people here didn't know any English.'

'I think you'll find I am not most people.'

And with that, the stranger smiled and tipped his glass to Ghastly's before downing his all in one swig. He set the empty glass down on a table and said, 'Cad is ainm duit?'

Ghastly was relieved that he at least knew how to answer this one. 'Ghastly Bespoke is ainm dom. Agus … tusa?'

The stranger hadn't heard the last part. He was suddenly staring at Ghastly like he was some insect he was trying to decide what to do with.

Excellent, Ghastly thought sourly. The fog of intoxication has been lifted, obviously. He's finally seeing my face.

But when he took a closer look, he had to admit that the man didn't seem to be disgusted. He was just… staring.

'Follow me.'

The stranger turned and strode gracefully out of the room and into the cool night air without waiting.

Now more than a little perplexed, Ghastly did as he was told and pushed his way through the crowd obediently.

When he eventually stepped outside, it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him. His senses, which had been dulled by the warmth and noise of the party, were alert once again and he couldn't resist taking a deep breath of the night air.

He exhaled after a moment and then looked around, wondering where the stranger had gone. He spotted him leaning on one of the ancient stone walls encircling the island, waiting for him.

Cautiously, Ghastly walked over and stood in front of him, arms crossed. He couldn't tell what the stranger was thinking, but his ink black eyebrows were pulled together like he was thinking about something very hard indeed. He was boring a hole in the ground at his feet.

'What is it?' Ghastly said impatiently, abandoning all attempts to speak Irish.

The stranger lifted his head at last and looked straight into his eyes.

'Are you a sorcerer?'

Ghastly's heart skipped a beat and panic washed over him like a disease. How could this young man have guessed? What was he going to do? The Sanctuary would not be happy if public relations officers had to be sent all the way out here.

Deciding there was no way around it, and seeing something in the stranger's eyes that suggested he knew the truth already, Ghastly took the leap.

'Yes.'

There was an awful silence for several moments. And then,

'I've never met another one. Well, another one apart from my mother and my girlfriend. My mother, she … She was burned to death in Galway when I was fifteen. They thought she was a witch. After that, I didn't think it would be safe for me to leave this island again. And so I haven't. But my girlfriend is like me too. We're the only ones here.'

Ghastly was too stunned to say anything for a while. He was abruptly realising how frightening it must have been to ask a complete stranger if he was a sorcerer. In a little community like this, so far from the Sanctuary at Dublin, there would have been nothing to save him had Ghastly told the villagers what he's said. He could have died the same horrible death as his mother. Suddenly, the stranger laughed at his expression and he realised he was waiting for him to say something. Ghastly managed to blurt,

'What's your name?'

The stranger smiled once more and held out his hand.

'My name is Skulduggery Pleasant.'