“I can show you how to wedge the window and doorframe,” I say, “so the heat stays in a little better.”
“Yeah, okay. That would be great.”
We’re quiet as I carry a heap of blankets back across the landing. In her room, I show her how to wedge a sliver of cedar between the windowpane and the sill. She watches closely, fingers brushing the frame when I’m done.
“How’d you figure all this stuff out?”
“Trial and error,” I say. “Mostly error.”
Her mouth quirks up slightly. “That sounds right.”
I head for the door, and she curls up on the bed. The star-patterned quilt is bunched around her hips with two extra throws stacked on top. Her nose is still pink from the cold, and her eyes are tired, but she’s here—settled, for now.
I watch her for a beat too long. I shouldn’t care that she’s cold. Shouldn’t want to make it easier for her. But I do. So, I grunt to cover it and stalk down the narrow steps.
The cold will punish my joints, but I unplug the little space heater from the corner anyway and carry it back toward her room. It buzzes like a dying bee, more noise than warmth, and it won’t do much more than blunt the edge of the chill. Still, it’s something.
She bolts upright when I return. “No—no, you don’t have to do that. Really. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m a big boy, Hart,” I say.
Six-three, broad-shouldered, solid. Scruff on my jaw, hands rough from years of repairs. Past partners used to call me a furnace in my sleep. Giving up a space heater for a few nights won’t kill me.
I set it at the foot of her bed and plug it in. “You can use this until we dig up a second one.”
Her shoulders ease. She exhales slowly and sinks back into the pile of quilts. “Thank you. I mean it.”
I nod and turn away before I can let it settle. Her gratitude is soft in a way I can’t sit with. She’s grieving, trying to find herfooting in a house that remembers more than it reveals, and I’ve done nothing but push since the moment she walked through the door. Whether or not I think I’m right, she’s felt it.
“’Night,” I mutter.
Back in my room, I slide beneath the covers. The air is colder without the heater, but the draft through the window has eased, and the floorboards stay quiet when I shift. It’s a small change, one most people wouldn’t notice.
I’ve lived here long enough to know better. The house is waking up, slowly—for her.
I wonder how it treated her as a child when Elspeth kept it brimming with life. I can almost see her: small, quick-footed, barefoot on kitchen tiles, talking too fast or not at all. Maybe she resented the magic. Maybe she thought it unreliable, and the world beyond was loud enough to make her believe she didn’t need it.
Either way, it’s clear the house hasn’t forgotten her.
The sun hasn’t finished climbingthe ridge when I wake. Quiet movements keep the floorboards from creaking; no sense in waking Elsie before she’s ready. If she starts soft, maybe the day will, too.
Downstairs, the hearth still holds last night’s warmth. A spark, a breath, and the fire brightens. The house feels cooperative this morning, light spilling golden through the lace curtains, snow glittering under a pale winter sun.
In the kitchen, I grind a pinch of cinnamon into the coffee grounds the way Elspeth used to. If her granddaughter’s visit to Juneberry was any indication, Elsie takes it with a whisper of cream, heavy on the spice.
While the coffee brews, I let the record player hum to life, Leon Bridges easing into the parlor. It’s my favorite way to start a winter morning.
By the time the skillet sizzles, the whole place smells of browned butter and vanilla. The old vent rattles in approval. For a moment, it almost feels like the house is showing off. Then the hallway creaks.
Elsie storms in, eyes squinted, curls mussed, one sock sliding halfway off her heel. She looks like she lost a fight with her blanket and came out swinging. So much for a soft start.
“What’s happening?” she asks. “And why does it smell aggressively pleasant in here?”
I flip a pancake. “Morning, sugarplum,” I say lightly. “I made you breakfast.”
She squints harder. “And why would you do that?”
I ignore the question and set a mug on the table with a soft clink. It’s not that chipped fox of hers. I still don’t get what she sees in that thing. This one’s glazed ceramic, cornflower blue. Elspeth used to set it out for guests she liked. The handle’s a little crooked, but it’s sturdy and warm.
