I lean one shoulder against the frame and look around again, this time slower.
The staircase is still beautiful under the grime. The trim in the foyer has been hacked at in places but not destroyed. The ceiling medallion in what used to be the parlor still shows beneath layers of dust and smoke.
“No,” I say finally. “Most people walk into places like this and only see what they’d rather replace than fix.”
That stills her. Good, because I mean it.
Rook darts ahead, then doubles back immediately, unwilling to lose sight of either of us for long. He’s still jumpy, still carrying last night in his body even if he isn’t showing it as sharply.
Lark moves room to room with a notebook she grabbed off the staircase in one hand, checking things, writing something down, pausing now and then to run her fingers over damagedtrim or window hardware like she’s reassuring herself the bones are still here under all the mess.
I stay a step behind and watch. Not because I think she can’t manage herself. Because it’s impossible not to.
Everything in her changes when she looks at the house this way. The edges sharpen. The exhaustion from last night doesn’t disappear, but something stronger rises above it. Focus. Ownership. The kind of competence that doesn’t need announcing.
She stops in the dining room and crouches beside a section of wall where the paint has bubbled from moisture.
“This was already an issue,” she says, more to herself than to me. “The fire just made it easier to see.”
I brace one hand on the doorframe. “You talk to buildings often.”
She glances up. “Only the stubborn ones.”
My mouth shifts before I can stop it. “So you’ve got plenty in common.”
She stands in one smooth movement, turning toward me with that look she gets right before she says something sharp.
“You really like telling me what I’m doing wrong.”
“I really like pointing out when you’re obviously ignoring common sense.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“Pretty close, from where I’m standing.”
Her eyes narrow just slightly. There’s heat in it. Not anger. Something quicker. Something more dangerous.
For one second, the room feels smaller than it should, the air between us tighter, more aware.
Then Rook barks at a dust-covered corner table like it insulted his mother and the moment breaks.
Lark looks down. “That’s antique furniture.”
He barks again.
“It’s also terrifying,” I say.
Her laugh catches me off guard. It comes quick and low and completely real, cutting through the smell of smoke and old wood like something alive.
I feel it in my chest.
The knock on the front door saves me from having to respond.
Marshal and Inspector. Two people in county polos and hard expressions, carrying clipboards and the kind of caution that says they’ve walked too many scenes to offer easy reassurance.
The next hour belongs to them.
Questions. Timelines. Access points. Origin speculation without commitment. Lark answers everything with clean precision, her voice steady even when they walk her through the probable path of the fire and the likelihood that it started in the carriage house lean-to before traveling up and inward.
