The wind continued to beat at the house, clawing more holes in the ceiling. Even with the blanket thrown over her, Clare felt the chill. Their breaths plumed in the frosty air.
When they reached the hothouse, Dorran shifted his grip on her to unbolt the door. A gust of warm air rolled over them, and he stepped through and shut the door before more could escape. He carried Clare to where a little reading chair had been placed in one corner and carefully set her down.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Warm enough?”
She grinned and gave him a light shove. “Don’t fuss.”
He smiled back then turned towards the plots of dirt. Clare couldn’t resist. She pushed the blanket off her shoulders and approached the nearest bed.
Tiny green leaves poked out of the earth. She bent to read the marker at the end of the row and was thrilled to see they were the tomatoes she’d planted.
“They’re coming along nicely.” Dorran had fetched a watering can and was trickling liquid over green sprouts in a different row. “If I can keep it at an optimal temperature and leave the lights on a few hours longer each day, we should be able to beat the estimated growing times.”
“Good.” She gently caressed one of the bright-green leaves. It was tiny and delicate, and Clare felt her heart swell with hope and nerves. Their survival most likely relied on those sprouts. She was painfully aware of how easily they could be broken—the green shoot, barely thicker than a thread, seemed horribly close to disaster. A misplaced hand, too much water, or even a strong wind could be enough to kill it.
She tried not to focus on how vulnerable they were. Dorran knew what he was doing. He moved from garden bed to garden bed, watering the plants that needed it and checking every row. A small, content smile grew as the plants met his approval.
“I’m going to add more fuel to the furnace.” He placed the watering can back onto its bench and dusted his hands on his pants.
“What can I do?”
“Can I convince you to sit and rest?”
She pulled a face, and Dorran laughed.
“All right. I’d like to have a few new rows of spinach. Could you make a start on that?”
“Yes, definitely!” She rounded the bed to the shelf of seeds and began shuffling through them while Dorran left. She found the jar full of tiny brown seeds and scoped out an empty plot of dirt for them.
She had only just started digging a trench with her fingertip when a sense of unease broke through the calm. Her pulse kicked up. Her scalp prickled. Slowly, she turned to face the door.
A shape stood on the other side of the frosted window. Clare’s smile died as she stared at it. The figure lifted one hand—its fingers knobbly and far, far too long—and pressed it against the glass. Its head tilted to one side as they stared at each other through the blurred screen. Then it stepped back, fading into obscurity again, leaving Clare clutching the jar against her chest as she fought for breath.
Chapter Nineteen
A war waged through Clare. Instincts screamed for her to stay where she was, to keep hidden in the greenhouse with its thick metal door and warm, comforting light. But that would leave Dorran alone and unaware in the basement.
It’s not real, her mind whispered. There is no need to run to Dorran because he’s not in any danger. He wants you to fight this stuff. Resist it. Don’t give it power.
But the small risk that she might be wrong—that Dorran could actually be in real peril—was too sharp to ignore. She took a breath and, still holding the seeds tightly, pushed on the garden’s door.
She was alone in the room. Dreading the loss of light but knowing the plants needed their warmth preserved, Clare shut the door behind herself and shuddered as the gloom flooded around her.
A lit candle rested on a holder on the opposite wall. It was the only light in the space. To Clare’s right, the gaping archway led to the wine cellar. As she watched it, she began to imagine she could hear whispers floating out of the darkness. The longer she stared, the louder the echoes grew. They dragged through her mind like nails on a chalkboard. She didn’t realise she was biting her lip until she tasted blood.
Clare backed away from the arch. The whispers began to fade. She turned to the door in the opposite wall. It was smaller and narrower, but she could feel traces of warmth drifting out from under the wood. She gave the wine cellar one last wary glance then stepped through the basement door.
The metal stairs were steep and narrow, and the wall had no railings. Clare walked with one shoulder brushing against the stone to her left and a hand reached in front of herself. Refracted light highlighted the edge of each curving step. The staircase led her deeper and deeper under the house, so deep that her legs began to shake and her lungs burned. She began to worry that the stairway might never end. Then it levelled out and opened into an enormous cavern.
The room was made of bare rock walls. Five huge, funnel-like furnaces were spaced through the area, with large stretches of bare ground between them. One of the furnaces was lit. Clare gripped her coat tightly as she approached it.
Dorran had taken off both his jacket and shirt as he fed wood into the furnace. Sweat shone on his muscles and ran down his back. In the red light and dancing shadows, he almost looked like something mythical.
His bruises were starting to heal. They had darkened but no longer looked as raw. He crouched as he checked the furnace’s glowing insides.
“Hey,” Clare called, trying to sound cheerful.
Dorran jolted at her voice then stood and crossed to her, his eyebrows heavy. “Are you all right? You weren’t supposed to leave the garden. Did something happen?”
“Oh, no, just…” She swallowed thickly. “Wanted to see the furnace.”
His eyes flicked to the seed jar in her hand, and she knew he’d guessed the lie. He was quiet for a heartbeat then beckoned her forward. “Of course. You haven’t seen it yet. Let me show you.”
He gestured to the furnace he’d been working at then the other four scattered about the cavern. “These were designed to heat the lower levels of the house. This one, of course, directs heat up to the garden’s floor. The others go to the dining room, the library, the foyer, and the main sitting room.”
“It’s hot.” Even twenty paces away, Clare could feel the heat radiating out of the fire. It was no wonder Dorran was sweating. A bead of liquid trickled between strongly defined shoulder blades, and Clare hurriedly averted her eyes.
“It’s not the most economical way to do things,” he admitted. “It heats slowly, but once the warmth has seeped through the floor, it holds for a long time. Normally, the fire wouldn’t be this intense, but we’re playing catch-up.”
He wiped his forearm across his forehead then beckoned for her to follow him back towards the stairs. “See that chute in the wall? That connects to the back of the property and lets the staff drop chopped wood into here without having to climb the stairs.”
A small mountain of logs had developed below the metal opening. They all seemed to have come from the same tree type, and Clare guessed the family had been cutting into the pines that surrounded them.
Dorran stopped next to a bucket of water near the stairs, drenched a cloth, and began to wash off. Clare was caught between the impulse to turn away and the irrepressible temptation to watch. She’d never met a man like Dorran before. He was fascinating. Strong neck muscles merged into wide shoulders. As water dripped over his back, Clare was reminded of one of her earliest impressions of him: that he had been carved out of stone by some master artist.