Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
There were more noises then, above us, below us, and it sounded, which was creepy, like something was running through the walls. But it couldn’t have been rats or squirrels or any kind of rodent because it sounded like whatever was moving around was wearing work boots.
“Come on.” Lorne helped me out of bed, wrapped me back up in his robe, and was surprised there was a second one hanging in the closet when he went to pull on a shirt and underwear so he wouldn’t be walking around naked.
It was nice, normal, that he was holding my hand as he led me to the bathroom.
Once we stepped through the door, we could only stare, wide-eyed, then decided to turn on the water to see if the shower from our bathroom in the cottage would work in a bathroom that until recently would have felt right at home in Versailles. The water pressure, in a shower that should not exist in 1799, was pretty good.
“Huh,” Lorne said, shutting it off. “Is it actually our shower?”
“It does look like ours, and also, there was one robe before, and now there’s two. This seems to me like a fairly observant home. A home that listens and provides, shelters and protects.”
“It certainly does,” Lorne said, smiling. “You wanna take a shower with me?”
As though he even had to ask.
EIGHT
The following morning, when we opened the bedroom door, I was surprised there was no one there. From the shadows and movement the night before, I was expecting people set on interrogating us. There should have been questions, especially from Giles. Where was he? Didn’t he want to murder me on sight? Frankly, I was confused.
“Interesting…” Lorne commented, glancing around. “Giles is usually out here first thing, asking me what my plan is for the day.”
“And do you give him a list?”
“No. Never. I tell him the same thing every day, which is that after I eat, I need to go check on everyone in the mansion. I start on the bottom floor and work my way up.”
“Why do you think he’s always here?”
“Same as with locking me in at night, he’s trying to show he has some kind of power over me.”
“That’s so petty.”
He shrugged.
“So we should go downstairs and get something to eat?”
“Yes. I’ve been cooking for myself and Argos, but now that you’re here, it’ll be nice to share the duties.”
“It’s how we do it at home.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed, reaching out and slipping a stray piece of hair around my ear.
“Then we should go and—”
“Look,” he said, tipping his chin at a large tray that had been carved from a single piece of cherrywood. I knew that because it was mine, or more precisely, belonged in my home and normally lived above the refrigerator.
My grandmother had named it the “near death” tray, the one she used when my grandfather was allegedly too sick with a fever or the flu to help her with chores. Because he was so “near death,” so dying of some communicable disease, she would leave it at the door with his food on it and walk away. Eventually, he understood she thought he was a hypochondriac, and worse, simply a man.
The tray reminded me of them and made me smile. It did the same for Lorne as I told him the story.
“There’s coffee.” I pointed at the mugs on the tray.
“Yes, there is,” he said, crossing the room to the blanket chest the tray was on. “You want to check that for me?”
“The cottage conjured that tray for you.”
“You’re right,” he said with a sigh, picking up the large mug of steaming coffee. There was nothing small, nothing dainty, none of the tiny coffee-service cups I’d seen carried around last night by servants. There was no cream and sugar, as he preferred to drink it black. And the mug was his too—one of his many ugly mugs—this one emblazoned with the words Osprey Police Department in the most revolting shade of blue known to man. Not navy, not royal or peacock blue, but instead a sickly color no one liked.
“This is mine,” he said, then took a sip. “And this is excellent coffee. Thank you, my cottage.”
The special smell the cottage had adopted for Lorne wafted through the room.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he apprised me as I picked up the other mug, full of Irish Breakfast and cream, a stoneware one in the shape of a cauldron. It had been purchased by Amanda, and on the other side, in gold metallic script, were the words Witch, please.
“Caffeine to start the day is always helpful,” I told him, just as four men strode into the room ahead of Giles and Ilara.
“Drinking what another has made for you?” Giles said to Lorne, his tone snide. “How brave of you, MacBain.”