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Isobel’s brow creased, her momentary paradise interrupted. Her hand, as though by reflex, tightened around his. Something in that phrase stirred her from deep within, breaking up the settled debris of her subconscious. Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, listening hard for the first time.
“It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of We—”
A loud crack, like a gunshot, resounded through the house. Isobel started violently, dropping Varen’s hand and jumping so that the book toppled out of her lap. It thudded against the floor and snapped shut, just missing Slipper as she launched herself beneath the bed.
Isobel looked up to find Varen already on his feet, though she hadn’t felt him rise.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“No,” he muttered under his breath.
Her heart quickened. “What?”
She rose to her knees and then stood, pulling the book after her—heavy as an anchor. She gripped it to her chest. “What? Who’s that?”
“They’re back early,” he said. “Get in the closet.”
Fear shot through her. “Varen—?”
Heavy footsteps on wood. Lead feet pounding steps.
He grabbed her by the arm just above the elbow and pulled her across the room. Isobel went, not knowing what else to do, startled by his suddenly iron grip. The pounding grew nearer.
She heard a woman’s voice now. “Joe,” she was saying over and over, like someone trying to calm an angry dog.
Isobel was plunged into darkness, wrapped into a tiny space by the embrace of countless black sleeves. The closet door slid shut, casting a jailbird pattern of light across her trembling form.
She could see Varen’s boots through the slats as he backed away.
The door to his bedroom flew open with another bang, causing Isobel to jump and squeak. She pressed a hand over her mouth.
“Did you hear me calling you?” the man yelled. “I said, did you hear me?”
Isobel’s shaking hand left her mouth, springing up to shield one ear, her other arm still tightly clutching the Poe book. She only lowered it again when she became aware of a guttural, feline growl coming from beneath Varen’s bed. Slipper’s wide eyes glowed silver from within the dark space.
She could see another pair of legs now, a man’s, clad in black dress pants, his shoes polished to a glossy shine.
“Why do you just stand there and never say anything?” the man said, quietly now, his tone oozing danger. “What’s this? What’s that mess on the floor? You know you’re not supposed to have food up here. Did you have someone over while I was gone?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Joe,” the woman’s voice pleaded from the stairway. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”
“I want this cleaned up now.” A pause. Isobel saw Varen hesitate. “Now!” He snapped his fingers. “Stop standing there and get down on the floor and clean it up!” He snapped his fingers again, then again, and again. He pointed toward the cartons of food.
Varen stooped, gathering the boxes. His face came into view, though it was unreadable beneath his hair. He did not look in her direction.
“What did you do to your car?”
Silence.
“I said, what did you do to your car? Answer me.”
“I didn’t do—”
