She goes down like a sack of bricks, or books, blank pages scattering as she crashes, stair over stair, something snapping, something cracking before she hits the landing, all the wind rushing out of her in a gasp.
Sienna coughs, her ears ringing and her vision sliding in and out as she tries to see the figure still standing at the top of the stairs. But all she sees is a blur, and all she hears is the sound of herself going down, as if she’s still falling. Until she realizes it’s not her—it’s the typewriter, that block of metal and keys,clack-clack-clacking as it tumbles toward her, end over end. And the last thing Sienna sees is Julia Petrarch looking down from the darkened window with that knowing smirk before everything goes—
“Rufus”
Chapter One
HE CAN’T SLEEP.
His head hurts, and the bed creaks every time he turns, and all the lights are on, which is probably not helping, but he can’t bring himself to turn them off.
When he told the crew in the main house that he simply came to check on them, that wasn’t entirely true. The truth is, the power also went out in the cottage. And he might have panicked. Just a little. But it was pitch-black, and the wind was whistling through the cracks, and it sounded like far-off howls, or ghostly wails, and he’s never been a fan of the dark.
It was fun, getting to hang out with them.
They were all soniceto him. Well, after the incident with the pool cue.
He rolls over, the bed groans, and then so does he, because there’s a spring poking into his side. Springs! He didn’t know they even made mattresses like that anymore. His kingdom for memory foam. He tries scrolling on his phone, but the blue light makes the headache worse, and the service is so spotty that half the sites won’t even load. He flings the phone aside and sits up, wincing at the ache inside his skull.
It turns out he did not, in fact, have any Tylenol in his toiletry kit. By the time he searched his bag and came up empty, he couldn’t face going back to the main house. He wonders if he has a concussion, and probably would go down an online rabbit hole, but see again: no service. So he gets up, hoping the medicine cabinet is stocked.
Sliding on his slippers and robe, he pads across the room to the alcove that constitutes the cottage’s only bathroom, only to find that thereisno medicine cabinet, no drawers beneath the sink, even. He mentally deducts a star from his rating before remembering that this isn’t, in fact, a hotel.
He relieves himself and washes his hands, pausing long enough to consider his reflection.
The robe is a little much, a half-joking gift from a friend during college, but it covers the monogram on the breast pocket of his pajamas (his mother buys a new pair for Christmas every year). His glasses sit on the edge of the sink, where he left them. He slides them back on, admiring the subtle change in his reflection. They make him look... studious.
(That’s a great word, isn’t it?)
He always wanted glasses. Never needed them, much to his chagrin. Growing up, he’d even squint, hoping to erode his vision just enough. It never worked, but then he found out you could just get the frames, swap real lenses for plain glass, and there you have it: instant professor chic.
He touches his head, wincing at the flash of pain.
He took a lacrosse stick to the temple once, back at prep school, but that was a glancing blow, and in the heat of the match he’d hardly felt it. Now he pushes his hair back, examining the gash along his hairline.
He wonders, absently, if it will leave a scar. He’s always wanted a scar. Nothing disfiguring, of course, but his older brother, Wyatt, has a line through one brow, the result of catching a water ski on the lake, and it makes him look a little rugged, and perpetually amused. Also, according to Wyatt, young women find it rakish.
That’s another great word:rakish.
He’s always loved great words—that’s what drew him to the field (well, that and the fact that he couldn’t quite make it as an actor, much to his sorrow, and his father’s relief). He’d have loved to be a writer, but his mother said there was no money in books—which is a funny line to take, considering his uncle’s name is on the building. He supposes she meant no money inwritingbooks. There’s certainly quite a lot in publishing them. Not that he’s seen more than five figures of it yet. Still paying his dues, and all that.
The wind picks up again, leaning on the cottage, making it whisper. He doesn’t think he’s ever going back to sleep, so he wanders the room, running his fingertips along a row of battered paperbacks on a bookshelf. He tugs one out, eyeing the old-fashioned cover, a trench-coated figure walking down a rainy street,The Midnight Devilprinted across the road. He peels back the cover, starts to read.
But he’s stuck in that terrible place between tired and awake, and his eyes skim the words without reading. He sighs, tossing the book aside, and decides that what he needs is a good old-fashioned cup of tea. (He’s more of a mocha-with-an-extra-shot-of-espresso kind of guy, but when in Rome—Rome in this case being an island off the coast of Scotland.)
He heads downstairs.
The cottage is really just two rooms, stacked one on top of the other, the bedroom and toilet above and the sitting room/kitchen/dining room below, and he has to duck to keep from hitting his head on the way down.
At first he found the cottage charmingly rustic, with its old stone walls and its old wooden furniture and its kitchen that feels like something from another century, which he guesses it is. There are whole accounts online devoted to this aesthetic. But he read a think piece (well, he skimmed it) about the difference between the idea of a rustic lifestyle and the reality. Now, as he stands at the sink with a pounding headache, filling a kettle with not-quite-clear water and struggling to light the stove with a match while the room fills with the scent of gas, well, the charm is wearing off.
A mug sits waiting on the counter, and after digging through the cabinets, he finds a box of chamomile. He can’t remember ever drinking the stuff, but it smells like the soap his mother used to put in the summerhouse in the Hamptons, which is promising. He pours the water over the pouch, then closes his eyes and folds forward, letting his forehead come to rest against the cool countertop as he waits for it to brew, the room slowly filling with the scent of somewhere nice, and warm, and well-appointed.
Perfect, he thinks, lifting the scalding potion to his mouth, grazing his bottom lip as a weight slams against the door. He yelps, spilling hot tea down his front, hissing in pain and sayingshit shit shitas he fumbles the cup and it shatters against the floor, chamomile tea splashing against his pajama legs and soaking into his slippers.
He sighs and crouches to collect the shattered pieces, forgetting the source of the sound until it comes again, a series of short, hard knocks.
“Coming,” he calls automatically, the way you sayGoodwhen someone’s asked you how you are, even if you’ve had a terrible day or you’ve just spilled burning chamomile water down your front.
