Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
And I had no choice in that change.
Grabbing my favorite slouchy gray cardigan out of my bag, I shrugged it on, then pulled on thick woolen socks. The fire had warmed up the room, but I knew it would be freezing outside these four walls. I’d forgotten slippers, but the house was clean so I just padded out in my socks. I could see light from under the doors of all the rooms, but couldn’t hear anything aside from the odd clank or gurgle as the others showered or otherwise used the plumbing.
The lack of any voices, the silence beneath the creaks and groans, made me feel a great deal of sympathy for the woman who’d been lured out here with the promise of a life as the socialite wife of a wealthy gentleman—only to find herself trapped in what would’ve then been one of the most remote places on earth. Far from all polite company.
I made sure to skirt the slippery floor runner as I headed for the stairs.
Once downstairs, I poked my head into the living room to check if anyone else was down there, but it proved cold and lifeless. Ash must not have started the fire after all.
The only light came from a single anemic wall lamp.
The stag heads glared at me.
My peripheral vision stirred with shadows, but at least I could see. Shaking off the chill of those cold dead eyes, I retreated back into the hallway, then followed it to the kitchen. Once at the archway that led into the large space, I reached in and moved my hand around, looking for the light switch.
A touch, papery and alive, on the back of my hand.
11
The only reason I didn’t scream down the house was shock.
My fingers moved automatically to flick on the switch . . . scaring away the large moth that had landed on my hand.
Laughing at myself, I pressed a palm to my racing heart.
Get a grip, Nae-nae.
God, Bea would’ve cackled at my jumpiness.
I grinned as I looked for an electric kettle—but all I could find was a heavy old iron kettle that looked like it might whistle. Not wanting to make too much noise, I found a pot instead, filled it at the sink—deep, with softly squared edges and patches of rust in the corners—then placed it on the gas hob.
It took three tries before I managed to get it going, but then came sweet blue flame.
Inspired by the chill in the air, I went and found the milk in the old but sturdy fridge.
Vansi had taught me how to make chai back when we were in high school, but I was usually too lazy to put in the effort. Now, however, with my mind far from relaxed, I had nothing but time. After adding the milk to the water, at the ratio that I preferred, I put away the container, then began to open and quietly close cupboard doors on the hunt for loose-leaf black tea.
I didn’t have to hunt far. Whoever had stocked the kitchen had put most of the tea and coffee supplies in an easily accessible spot near the hob. No loose-leaf tea, but I spotted a box of strong black tea bags. That would do. Once the water and milk mixture came to a boil, I threw in the tea bags, then monitored the flame until I had it at a temperature where the mixture would simmer but not boil over.
I’d already grabbed a jar of honey from the hot drinks cupboard and set it beside the hob, alongside a mug. No hope of cardamom pods or chai masala, but it’d be nice plain, too. While waiting for my drink, I decided to snoop through the other cupboards, see what else we had. Maybe I could talk Aaron into making his fantastic green chili—if we had the ingredients.
When most of the cupboards proved empty, I went to the door opposite the hob that I’d previously assumed led to a cellar, and pulled it open. The light from the kitchen spilled inside to reveal neat rows of wooden shelving, on which sat equally neat rows of cans and jars full of nonperishable supplies. Included in that were bags of potato chips and boxes of cookies.
Painted directly on the back wall was a faded image of a plump woman kneading bread.
Faded though the paint might be, the brush lines were precise, nothing soft or fuzzy about the artist’s style despite the placid domestic scene. The baker’s hair had been painted strand by fine strand, and the flour on the board and around her hands was a fine spray that appeared in motion.
A hidden treasure.
The servants would see this, but never the master and mistress of the house. The baker’s clothing looked like late nineteenth century to me, and I knew enough about how old houses like this had worked at the time to guess that the baker’s employers were highly unlikely to even step into the kitchen, much less examine the pantry.