“Stay right there,” he says, already moving. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
He grabs his coat from the peg and slips out the back door. The wind slams it behind him so hard the whole wall shudders.
The beams groan like old bones under strain. The house has been taking things harder these days. Even with the soft hum of magic stirring back to life, it feels frayed at the edges, stretched too thin to mend itself completely.
If the storm’s bad enough to knock out the power, it could set back the repairs. Jeopardize a future sale. She might not weather another blow so easily.
And what about Wells? Could he take that kind of disorder—water seeping in, walls buckling, roof bowing under the weight of too much?
Could I?
“Come on, girl,” I whisper to the house. “Hold on. You’ve lived through worse, haven’t you?”
The lights flicker again, slower this time. She’s listening to me.
I press my palm flat to the counter. “I know I made a mess of things. You tried to warn me.”
A gust howls against the eaves. Another shutter bangs open, then slams shut again.
“He was right,” I say quietly. “About me. About hiding. About all of it.”
I don’t know if it’s a confession or an apology. I just know I want someone—or something—to understand. And pleading with the house to listen, to see me anyway, feels like the only language I still have left to speak in.
The stove exhales a soft sigh. One of the lights narrows to a pin. Then the power goes, and the kitchen folds into darkness, sudden and whole. Somewhere beyond the house, the wind bellows.
I stand still, hand on the counter, heartbeat counting itself out. This is the kind of darkness that swallows. That presses in and steals the shape of the room right out from under you. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve already been forgotten.
“Okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. We can do this.”
20
ELSIE
I hate the dark,now and always.
When I was small—five, maybe six—my mother used to shut me in her bedroom while she made long phone calls on the porch or left for the bar. Sometimes she forgot to turn the hallway light on. Sometimes she remembered and didn’t bother.
I would sit cross-legged on her flowered comforter, holding my breath, imagining the shadows as monsters. Worse, imagining they were something real come to steal me away,
I don’t like that those memories still live inside me. That I’m twenty-six and still have to repeat: it’s just a storm. It’s just the dark. Everything is the same as it was when the lights were on.
This house is safe. It always has been.
“Wells?” I call into the room.
There’s no answer. Wind moves through the chimney, and the windows tremble in their frames. Something heavy shifts over the roof and settles again. And I’m fucking terrified.
“Wells,” I say, louder.
My instinct is to fold inward. To crouch in a corner, close my eyes, pretend it’s only dark because I made it that way. That’s how I used to cope: disappear, wait for it to pass.
But that won’t work now. It’s not just me anymore. Wells is out there, and if he’s hurt or stuck or lost, I have to be the one who finds him.
So, I push down the panic, square my shoulders, and reach for the lantern.
By touch, I find the switch. I thumb it on and wait, breath held, until the bulb steadies. It doesn’t cast much, but it’s enough. Enough to move. Enough to try.
I carry it through the parlor and into the garden room. My feet are cold as bog mud in October. The air has lost its warmth, and my breath leaves my mouth in slow clouds.
