Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“No, thank you. I drink this black.”
“Oh, that’s disgusting,” I assured him.
“Says you,” he muttered. “But about the house, I’m getting a very motherly vibe.”
“You are not. You don’t strike me as the vibe type.”
“You prefer feeling? I’m getting a very warm, nurturing feeling. It was the same the first time I was here. And how do you get it to smell like this?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Maybe it’s all the tea. But let’s talk to your dwelling.” When I raised an eyebrow, he said, “I’m being generic until we have the proper noun.” Then, “House? How do you feel about house?” He went quiet, waiting and listening. “Cabin?” Another pause. “Cottage?” he offered, going still again, but then suddenly grinning widely. “That’s it. That’s the one. Definitely cottage. Did you feel all the warm air and smell the lemon cake?”
I had not. “You smelled lemon cake?” That was what my grandfather said the house used to smell like all the time when his grandmother was alive. Apparently her signature dessert was lemon cake with lavender frosting.
“Yeah. Cottage it is,” he told me. “And so now you can ask the cottage if it would please point us in the direction of what we need.”
“No. It doesn’t work like—”
A loud bang had us both looking around before Lorne put his mug down on the kitchen table and jogged toward the living room. There was a trapdoor next to the couch, and interestingly, the rug that covered it had been thrown sideways, and the door itself was open.
I didn’t understand what was going on, because the dark, dank little room could be of no help to us. It was filled with boxes of Yule ornaments on one side, and on the other, where the stone shelves were, jars of tomatoes, corn, and pickles. After my grandmother died, my grandfather and I had shrunk the vegetable garden, even though there was still quite a bit of canning to do before every winter. We’d let half the garden go wild, and while the animals appreciated it, I knew from the judgmental dreams I’d had over the years that my grandmother was not happy about that. The hidden room was also supposed to be for firewood, but the up and down on the ladder was a pain for me, and dangerous for my grandfather as he got older. We’d moved the wood pile to the sunporch.
“There’s nothing in there that would be even remotely helpful,” I told Lorne as he reached the door and crouched down.
“How do you know?” He stuck his head into the room. “Is there a light down here or—oh, never mind, I see it, and the ladder is awesome.”
“What do you mean you see it?”
“This is so cool, how you turn this old knob and the light comes on,” he said cheerfully, holding on to the floor to find his footing and then starting his descent.
I threw up my hands, looking around the room. “I’m the one who takes care of you,” I said, reminding the house—crap, cottage—of where its loyalties should lie.
“What?” Lorne said, the top of his head having disappeared.
“Nothing,” I grumbled. “But really, be careful. That ladder is old, so test your weight on each rung.”
“It feels pretty solid to me,” he called up.
Of course it was sturdy and could support his weight when it was him on the damn ladder.
“You’re wasting your time.” I walked over to the trapdoor, where now, suddenly, light was emanating from the depths of the room. Normally, I had to take a lantern down there and hang it up while I grabbed whatever I needed. “There’s nothing down there but—”
“Oh, it’s awesome. It’s like a little library.”
What? Going to my knees, leaning down, head in the hole, I saw Lorne walking around the small room I thought I was familiar with, but instead of wooden walls, it now had brick ones painted white. Wooden shelves, I was guessing oak, were built into the walls, heavy woven rugs covered the floor, and there was a lovely desk with an antique hurricane lamp and a chair that looked like it was upholstered in leather. On the opposite side sat a wingback chair with what appeared to be one of my grandmother’s quilts draped over it, and an ottoman. It was decidedly cozy.
“Are you kidding me?” I was incredulous.
Lorne looked up. “Sorry?”
“Nothing. I guess you can check and see if—”
“Was this your grandfather’s desk?”
“No, it was not,” I assured him, leaning up before I got a headache. “His desk is in his den, that’s now my den but whatever. I’m gonna make us some breakfast while you look around down there.”
“Excellent plan,” he called up, sounding distracted.
I had to get back to the issue at hand, which was the imminent threat of bodies thrown out of the rift with increasing frequency, but I also knew that the land would have warned me if anything had actually breached the gateway. It meant I had time to get food in us before everything went to hell. And even faced with everything going on, it was nice to have Lorne there to spend my Sunday morning with.