Clare nodded. All through the night, any time she’d come close to waking, her thoughts had always turned to the little black radio hidden in the back of her car. Knowing it was so close but so unattainable was agonising.
Enough complaining. You have shelter. There’s a fire to keep you warm. And Dorran didn’t murder you in the middle of the night. Things could be a lot worse, all considered.
She reached her feet over the edge of the bed, but Dorran held out a hand to stop her. “You should rest. I can bring you food if you would like to stay in bed.”
“Thanks, but I think I might go stir-crazy if I do nothing today.” She rubbed the back of her neck. Little bits of grime stuck to the skin. “And, um, I’d really love to clean up a bit.”
“Of course. But don’t push yourself.” Dorran lifted a bundle off a nearby bench and held it out to her. “Your old clothes were unsalvageable, I’m afraid. But I found these in one of the maids’ belongings. I’m sure she would not mind your having them.”
Clare took the dress and underwear he offered. The dress was made of a thick fabric and had a gentle floral print, and like a lot of things in the house, it hinted at an older era. It was clean, though, and looked like it would fit her better than the too-large dressing gown.
“Thank you.” Clare held the clothes close. “Do you have showers here by any chance?”
“Yes. We have showers. But I’m sorry—it would be best if you washed with a cloth today. We can’t risk infection entering the cuts while they’re still healing.”
“Right.”
He nodded towards the bathroom. “I’ll fetch some warm water for you. Wash anything that isn’t covered by a bandage. I’ll help you with your hair.”
As Dorran disappeared into the bathroom, Clare put the clothes aside and slipped out of bed. Her legs were working better. Everything was stiff, though. She had to put effort into straightening her back.
The hallway door was just barely ajar. Clare approached it. She’d seen outside her room the day before, but that had been part of a desperate ploy for freedom, and she’d barely paid any attention to her surroundings.
The hallway was colder than her room. Goose bumps rose over her exposed skin as she looked through the open door, and Clare hunched her shoulders defensively.
To her right, buried in the shadows that smothered the lightless hallway, a door creaked open. She frowned and leaned forwards, trying to see through the gloom. The creaking sound dragged out then finally fell silent. Clare could have sworn she heard something that sounded like a sigh.
She stepped back inside her room, her heart beating furiously, and shut the door. Behind her, she could hear splashing noises coming from the bathroom. She crossed to it and stopped in the doorway.
Dorran knelt by the bathtub as he poured a bucket of water into a basin. He gave her a wry smile. “The water heater is broken. I suspect the system froze, ironically. I’ll warm this over the fire.”
“You don’t need to do that. I don’t mind cold water.”
He chuckled as he lifted the basin and stepped past her. “It will only take a moment. And your morning will be so much better for it.” He moved back into her bedroom, knelt in front of the fire, and scraped embers out of the dying flames.
Clare carefully lowered herself onto the rug beside him. “Dorran, are you sure we’re alone here?”
“Hmm? Yes. Everyone left.” He placed the metal basin on the embers and sat back on his haunches. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard a door open earlier.”
“That will be the house. This abysmal thing creaks and complains constantly, and it’s worse on windy days like today.”
The high ceilings and ornate architraves seemed to have a way of always making their presence known, even when Clare wasn’t looking at them. She shuffled closer to the flames. “How old is it?”
“Old.” He rose and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he carried a stack of towels and a bar of soap. “I will prepare some breakfast. Take as much time as you need here. I will knock before I reenter.”
“Thanks.”
Tiny bubbles appeared in the base of the bowl as the coals heated the water. Clare dipped her fingers into the liquid and was surprised by how quickly it had warmed. Dorran gave her a brief smile then stepped into the hallway, closing the door neatly behind himself.
Clare waited a moment before undressing. Even though Dorran had left, she still didn’t feel fully alone. The house had a presence that seemed to loom around her, watching her and judging her. She didn’t belong among the antiques and heirlooms, and it didn’t want her to forget that.
She dipped a washcloth into the water then began scrubbing her face. It was a relief to get rid of the grime. Days of sweat and dirt had built up, leaving her feeling tacky.
A floorboard creaked above her, and Clare lifted her head. The wind really seemed to be trying to tear the building down. It whistled and rattled, seeking out every tiny hole and every loose tile.
Clare moved the washcloth lower to clean her chest. Dots of blood had stained her bra, and she carefully removed it. Now that she was paying attention to her body, she found a dozen little scrapes, mostly on her left side. They stung when the hot cloth touched them, but Clare was careful to clean them well. Courting an infection was a bad idea even under the best of circumstances, and Winterbourne was far from an optimal place to be sick. Dorran had said they had antibiotics, but she wasn’t sure she fully believed him when the building seemed to be living in the seventeenth century.
The rattling on the roof grew louder. It took on a rhythmic tone, almost like a force was beating its fists on the tiles. Clare rose, a towel clutched over her chest, and crept towards the window.
The storm was heavier, if that were possible. She could no longer see the forest in the distance. Even the shrubs below her window had vanished under a blanket of white. She looked up. Lightning arced through the sky. Reflected across a million snowflakes, it was blindingly bright. Clare pressed her hand over her eyes and waited for the specks to fade. The rattling noise fell silent. After a moment, it resumed.
A chill rolled off the window. Clare shuddered as she moved back to the dying fire. She rushed through the rest of her washing, more eager to be dressed again than to be clean.
Beth, I hope you’re not worried about me. I hope you stayed at home instead of coming to look for me. Because there’s no way you could get through the roads like this.
The basin of water was discoloured by the time she finished with it. Clare shook out the maid’s dress and changed into the new clothes. The dress had obviously been designed for the milder autumns, even though it had full sleeves and a high neckline. Clare supposed it made sense that the family didn’t own much cold-weather attire if they never stayed through winter. The outfit was a couple of sizes too large, but a cloth belt let her adjust the waist.
She folded the dirty towels into a stack then rubbed her chilled arms. A noise reverberated from the hallway. Clare tried to pinpoint its source. Something sharp being scraped across stone?
She crossed to the door. It barely made a noise as she opened it. Clare hesitated on the landing, staring into the gloom. Dorran hadn’t turned on any of the lights when he’d left. All Clare could see was a warm candlelit glow coming from the staircase to her right and thin slivers of cold white light glinting out from underneath innumerable doors.
The sound repeated on her left from the path that led deeper into the house. Clare frowned. It sounded close, but she couldn’t see anything.