Rowan nodded ruefully. “Ah, you’ve got a wood-fuelled boiler. They’re just being fancy about it to appeal to the Greens in the cities.”
“I couldn’t see a boiler in the house.”
“It’s probably down in the basement. Maybe close to your fuse box, mains switch, that sort of thing.”
The mains switch. Electricity!
“I don’t think I have a basement.”
“Do you have a set of doors outside by the wall? Or a door under the stairs?”
The door under the stairs, cut at a slant.
“I thought that was a cupboard.”
“It’s probably the way down to your basement.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, things were starting to look up.
“Okay, so what do I do with a—a wood-fuelled boiler?”
“You put wood in it.” He grinned at me.
I mock-smacked my forehead. Idiot.
“Of course. Sorry.”
“That’s alright. Can’t blame yourself for not knowing if you’ve not used one before.” Rowan wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “If your seller was any good, they should have left you some firewood in the house somewhere. If not, you’ll need to buy some. At least until you’ve figured out where you can cut your own and dry it out. As you’re new here, I can throw in a bundle of wood and kindling with your axe.”
“An axe?”
“You’ll need an axe. For the wood. You’re not going to want to keep buying it at”—he put a hand up over his mouth—“tourist prices.”
“Oh, oh yes. Of course.”
“See, a local already.”
He’s just being kind.
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t think… what with… never mind. Just thank you.”
“No problem. You’re not the only transplant up here.”
He led the way to a range of axes. I never realised there were so many options. In my head I’d always imagined the red-headed, pale-handled type I’d seen in cartoons. Rowan had all sorts. Short, stubby handles. Black rubber handles. Square heads. Arched heads.
“Which one should I get?” I asked.
“Well, it depends. What are you doing? Splitting or chopping?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Different heads do different jobs—” He stopped himself, thought for a second, then said, “You’re probably going to want a bit of both. These ones are good all-rounders. Which one do you like?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“Um, which one should I like?”
He frowned, then laughed. Then the smile faded. A flash of something I didn’t recognise flickered across his face. He licked his lips, customer service manners coming back into play, and considered the range in front of him. He picked out an axe with a pale handle, brand burned into the wood, and a bright steel head, black leather cover buttoned over the edge.
