“Whoever gives him the time of day.” Fenice made a face. “Randy little sod. I’m glad you and Alden have hooked up. Otherwise, Patrick would be sure to hit on you. You’re just his type.”
“I am?” Mercy asked, obviously startled.
Alden was irritated on her behalf. If he heard that Patrick had bothered her the least little bit, he’d be forced to take action. Just the idea of Mercy being annoyed that way had him thinking dark thoughts.
“Just know he’s out at the stable if you need him for anything,” Fenice finished.
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” Mercy said, turning slowly in a circle to examine what furnishings remained (a bed, a massive wardrobe, which would probably have to be dismantled to remove it from the room, two chairs before an unlit fireplace, and a faded periwinkle and white striped fainting couch).
“Don’t you believe it. I saw what he did with thegroom’s room there—he’s got a gas ring for tea, cooler full of beer, and a massive air mattress. He’s as happy as he can be. Right, I’m to bed. Good night, you two.”
“She definitely thinks we have something going on,” Mercy told him when Fenice left.
Alden cleared his throat, relieved that Fenice had gone. “She can think whatever she likes. We know the truth.”
“That we don’t have anything going on,” Mercy said, nodding.
“That’s right, we don’t.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds; then Alden remembered he was in her bedroom, and he wished her a good night.
“You don’t think there are any rodents here?” she asked as he was leaving. He paused at the door. “Mice, rats, that sort of thing. I have a phobia about them. I don’t see any signs of mouse droppings, or anything that’s been gnawed, but I don’t suppose you know for sure that there aren’t any here?”
He had been on the verge of telling her he had no doubt whatsoever that the house was inhabited by mice, since it was of an age that allowed such things—not to mention having been neglected for decades—but the words stopped before he could get them out.
Mercy hefted one of the chairs and peered into the corner before lifting up the edge of a faded blue and rose rug. “Nope, no signs of poop.”
“I think you are safe,” he said, making a mental note to call an exterminator and have him assess how much it would cost to have the house mouse-proofed. Or at least their living quarters. “If it would make you feel better, I could put a few traps out.”
“Ugh,” she said, shivering and rubbing her arms. “That would be even worse. I’d be forever holding my breath waiting for the trap to go off. And once it did, then there would be dead mice all over the place. Horribly dead mice. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Wait—are you saying I need to have traps?”
“Not at all. I simply was offering to put some out to make you feel more secure.”
“Oh, OK.” She relaxed, and gave him a little smile. “If you say there aren’t any mice here, then that’s good enough for me. Night.”
“Good night.”
He’d walked back to his room after that, and spent some time in contemplation of what he wanted to say to her. Then he’d hit upon the brilliant idea of writing the note, and now here he was, lying in bed, glad both that he’d written the note to express his gratitude, and also that he’d had the foresight to bring with him bed linens, pillows, and a couple of duvets.
He ignored the rustling in the wall (he really would have to get an exterminator in) as well as the tap of the tree on the window frame around the now glassless windowpanes, and listened instead to the distant rumble of the surf, allowing it to lull him gently, inevitably to sleep.
It was late, the darkest part of night, when a noise filtered through his sleeping brain to wake him. It wasn’t a noise that he expected to hear—the tree tapping, or a night bird calling—but one that instead had a stealthy quality that sent him from sleeping to groggy awareness.
Someone was in his room.
He fumbled for the lamp next to his bed before remembering that the bulb had gone out earlier in what he was coming to think of as the house’s attempt to lethim know it did not appreciate his presence. “Whosit?” he said inarticulately.
“Alden? It’s me.” The voice was breathy and soft, and with it, the bed dipped down on the side nearest the door. “You were wrong! Therewasa mouse in my room! A horrible, vicious, beastly thing.”
“Hrn?” he asked, rubbing his face and peering at the barely visible black form that was silhouetted against the darkness of the room.
“A mouse. Were you asleep? You’re awake now, right? I said that I have a mouse!”
“Don’t bring it in the bed,” he said sleepily. “I’m not afraid of them like you are, but I won’t have one in my bed.”
“Oh my god, don’t even joke about me touching it.” The bed shook a little as she shifted. “It was huge, Alden. A massive brute of a beast.”
“Rat?” he asked without thinking.
