He takes his umbrella and gives it a few practice swings and a few fencing jabs into the empty air. Seemingly satisfied, he straightens to his full height. “We shall.”
Now that we have a course of action, we’re off. We go to the right first. The hall is lined with old, historic portraits. Not the stern ‘founder of the university’ type, but family shots—a couple seated together looking regal, a woman in a deep green dress with a collared neckline that makes me think of pilgrims.
Her hair is pulled back in a bun, her eyes that hazy green you only see in expensive glass. Her expression is not kind, but it’s also not unkind.
It’s more like she knows secrets and thinks you might not deserve to share in them.
“Who do you think she is?” I ask.
“Elenora Hallowind, I suspect.” Asher taps his finger against a badly tarnished bronze nameplate embedded in the bottom edge of the frame.
“Hallowind,” I repeat, letting the word drift in my mind.
“Do you recognize the name?”
“No, you?”
Asher shakes his head. “But I don’t think this is about me. Blue Eyes came specifically for you.”
We continue on. The hall opens into a parlor that is pretending it isn’t a parlor. There are books everywhere, but it’s not a library, not officially. Shelves line the walls, yes, but there’s also an upright piano with a well-worn stuffed bunny on the lid, a pair of low velvet sofas facing a cold fireplace, a Settlers of Catan board lain out on a table like somebody got called away mid-game and never came back.
I run my finger along the edge of a book. No dust. The book itself is a field guide to poisonous plants of North America, which is a very specific and slightly disturbing read.
A thin datebook sits closed on the piano bench, a fountain pen laid across it. I don’t open it. I want to. But this place feels like it would know if I did, and I am not ready to be yelled at by a house.
The closer I get to the piano, the quicker my heart beats, until the hair on my arms stands on end. There’s something happening here… “Hey, come put your ear near the piano.”
“Put my what near the what now?”
I fold over the glossy lid and listen. “It’s humming. Do you hear it?”
Asher does as I ask and makes a face. “No.”
Huh. Maybe I’m still drunk, but I’d swear there’s a thin note, a faint cord of a sound. I pull back, and the sound fades. I lean in, and it’s there again.
“Okay.” I straighten. “Maybe the house has tinnitus.”
“More likely an electrical system that isn’t up to code.”
I blink at him. “Why would a piano have electrical?”
Asher frowns and then raises a finger. “Point to you.”
We leave the parlor, following the wide, burgundy runner to a doorway that smells like the simmering of butter and thyme. The kitchen dispels all my preconceived ideas of this place being a stodgy old haunted house.
This room is lived in—orwas, anyway.
Warm oak cabinets. A farmhouse sink big enough to bathe a Great Dane. Copper pots hanging like a chorus line. The big gas stove is off, but the oven light glows, and the little red dot on the thermostat says it’s still warm.
A small wooden bowl of apples sits on the marble-topped island. The fruit isn’t wrinkled like it was left here and forgotten. The apples are glossy, red, and look crisp.
There’s a loaf of bread on a cutting board, and a knife sits beside it. Asher leans in close to smell it, and his stomach lets out a long rumble of appreciation. “It smells too fresh to be decorative. Do you think anyone would mind if we cut ourselves a slice?”
I shrug. “We’re locked in. Peeps gotta eat.”
“Wisdom of the ages, girlfriend.” Asher picks up the knife and cuts two chunky slices, one for each of us. Little flakes of crust flick off as he cuts, but the inside of the bread is soft and fresh.
There’s a little decorative bowl with whipped butter next to the cutting board, and I slather a tasty layer on each to get us set up.
