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“No. It’s creepy and freezing. Near the fire would be better.”
I had to agree. The damp, dusty room was not very inviting.
“And the bathroom’s too far. At least there’s one downstairs that’s not too terrible,” she added.
“There are two mattresses downstairs. In the servant’s quarters. They’ll be easier to drag out. Should we do that?” I asked.
Rain pummelled the windows, and the howling wind made them rattle.
“Anything. Just let’s go back downstairs.” She gripped her arms.
“There aren’t any ghosts.” I chuckled.
“Oh, there are. I’m sure. I sense these things.” She clutched onto the red coat.
I stretched out my hands. “Here, why don’t you put it on?” I took the coat from her and helped her into it.
“It smells a bit. But it’s warm.” She stood before a mirror.
“It suits you.” I knew her well enough to know that would matter. I wasn’t bullshitting, though, because red suited her.
Everything suited her. She was gorgeous. Even in this difficult situation, Savanah still looked radiant. Her thick dark hair was messed up like I’d run my hands through it.
We returned to the kitchen, where I piled wood into the potbelly stove.
“At least there’s a shed of chopped wood. There’s enough to last for a week or even more.” I poked at the fire.
“A week or more?” Her face crumpled in horror as she pulled up a chair at the large wooden table.
I laughed. “Oh, Savvie.”
“Savanah to you.”
“Well, pardon me.” I pulled a posh voice, and her mouth curved slightly.
“That should warm up the kitchen.” I rose from the stove to inspect the cupboards, where I found candles, tobacco, torches, and a cigarette lighter.
“Oh my god. I want one.” Savanah looked longingly at the packet of cigarettes as a child would a bag of sweets.
“I thought you’d given up.” I placed the items on the table.
“I had. But this is stressful.” She lunged for the pack.
“Knock yourself out.” I poured myself another shot of whisky and held up the bottle. She nodded, and I poured some into her glass.
She took the drink and lit up a cigarette, and as smoke poured out of her mouth, she sighed with relief. “Oh, that’s better.”
I hated passive smoking, but I wasn’t about to complain.
She raised the pack. “Do you smoke?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Never. My mother died of smoke-related disease.”
“Oh really. Lung cancer?”
“No. Throat cancer.”
She puffed away, looking interested and concerned at the same time. “That’s so sad. I know so little about your life.”
