Page 116 of These Tears

Straightening to my full height, I glance towards the black corridor, where the locked door looms at the far end.

Is he in there?

As soon as the question blooms, a neon Post-it draws my attention towards the fireplace mantel.

The henhouse – it sits as a reminder of my morning chores.

I glare at it.

It’s probably under a mountain of snow.

My gaze travels the floor and climbs the thick oak door where the night still has a firm hold over the glass.

And the thought creeps in slow and damning.

Technically – Elias is nowhere nearby. Technically – the door is unlocked. Technically – there are no restraints on me.

Then I deflate before ideas of escape run me over.

Because – technically – the snow, the distance, the no-phone-signal, the missing passport and the lack of any visible road are all doing the locking for him.

‘Arsehole,’ I grumble, shaking my head.

The chains or the rest of me? It slips back in.

Heat pours low and fast through my belly, the exact opposite of the outrage snapping from the other end. My thighs press against each other, and disgust follows a heartbeat later.

I go through the motions with my unease growing into rage and my rage growing into restlessness.

Ron was not like Elias. Not in form. Not in language. Not in fear.

In fact, most of the time, I couldn’t even climax with him.

I push away from the spot where I’ve rooted myself into the wood and indignation, and head towards the kitchen.

And, of course, another note awaits in the metal sink.

Cursive, nearly abominable in its meticulousness, the script commands: Supply line freezes overnight. Keep the water shut off until the heater’s had an hour. The generator automatically turns on at 7:30 a.m. FLOOD RISK.

For good measure, I look at the tap arcing over the sink before reading the rest.

Cooler just outside the back door with clean ice blocks. Melt them if you need water.

Sighing, I leave the note on the counter and hang my head as I push against it.

I miss England.

If I could call Anna, she’d probably start with some wisecrack remark about life giving me lemons – or, in this case, a handsome former prisoner with all his screws loose – and then tell me to make the best of it.

But Anna is also the kind of woman who enjoys her Sunday afternoons with spicy tea, wrapped in a blanket, and reading questionable reverse harem books.

Skipping breakfast, I shove myself into the ‘bullseye-snowsuit’, as Elias called it yesterday, and head outside.

After a short circle around the estate, I’m almost certain he is not outside. As the mysterious door keeps pulling my attention, I begin shovelling away a white drift close to the back entrance, wondering what he’s doing in there.

The sky is clear – no clouds, just the moon and a fading smear of green from the northern lights, while the reluctant sun threatens the horizon.

When my restless nature gets the better of me, I count my own breaths on the way to the henhouse.