“Wells?” I try again, stepping toward the back door. “Are you out there?”
Nothing. The wind answers for him, and worry threads through my chest.
He went out to check the noise. He told me to stay put. Of course, I didn’t. Of course, I’m here, lantern in hand, scanning the windows for any sign that he’s—
The door slams open. I yelp and nearly drop the lantern.
Wells stumbles inside, soaked to the skin, snowmelt clinging to his lashes. Hemingway is tucked under his arm like a sullen loaf, fur spiked and offended.
“You—” My voice tangles between panic and fury. “You scared the shit out of me.”
He lowers the cat onto the rug with unexpected care, then shrugs out of his coat, heavy with ice, and lets it fall by the door.
“He was on the back stoop,” he says, brushing wet hair from his forehead. “Got himself stuck when the wind picked up.”
Hemingway releases one long, unimpressed meow and stalks toward the kitchen without a backward glance.
“Serves you right,” I mutter at him. “Hiding from us.”
I press my hand flat to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat. The relief makes me lightheaded. They’re both safe. That’s all that matters.
“Did you see what it was?” I ask, finally steadying my voice. “The crash?”
“Branch off the maple,” he says, crouching to unlace his boots. “Didn’t hit the house. We’re fine for now.”
“For now,” I echo, staring past him into the storm.
He shuts the door hard and gives a small jerk of his chin. “Come on. We need light in the main rooms before the temperature drops.”
We move through the house, placing candles, lighting lanterns, stacking logs near the parlor. It feels less like preparing for weather and more like bracing for a siege. The house gives a low groan.
“I shouldn’t have pissed her off,” I mutter.
He pauses, lantern in hand. “Excuse me?”
“The house,” I say, gesturing vaguely upward, then all around. “She’s mad at me.You’remad at me. Everyone’s mad at me. What else is new?”
He huffs. “You think you caused what’s likely a county-wide power outage by hiding from me and sitting on my letter?”
“It’s not funny.”
He frowns, hard.
“It’s not just that,” I continue. “You were right about the house hearing us. She knows what I’m planning, and she hates it. Maybe she should. Maybe this place deserves better.” My fingers knot together. “You say the trust is easy. So fine, I’ll do it. It will make everyone happy, won’t it? And I’m so goddamned tired of disappointing everyone.”
He stays quiet, scanning the storm-lit windows, the flickering light. I don’t know what I expected—joy? Gratitude? A lecture?
Instead, “This doesn’t seem like the best time to discuss it.”
“You said we can always make time,” I reply. “Well, here it is. A perfect window.”
“You’re under duress.”
I snort. “I’m notunder duress.”
“You’re freezing. You’re spiraling. You’re—” He stops short. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
