We took two steps toward the house and I said, “Snap out of it, Susan.”
“Huh, what?”
“You were daydreaming.”
“Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I’m short on sleep.”
“Could be. You can sleep at the house, if you want to.”
“How much farther is it?”
“We’re here.”
“This place?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s beautiful. When was it built?”
“I don’t know. Late nineteenth century, I think.”
She looked at it, studying as well as she could in the relative dark; the nearest streetlight is half a block away. She said, “I’d like to see it in the daylight. How far around does the porch go?”
“About halfway.”
“Is that window stained-hey, you haven’t shoveled the walk.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I mean, why aren’t there any tracks?”
“I usually leave by the back door, but I wanted you to see the front.”
“Oh. Why is there orange tape across the door?”
“Don’t ask. Go under it.”
I tried the knob and said, “That’s right. It’s locked. Wait here and I’ll let you in. Shan’t be a minute.”
“‘Crime Site’?” she read from the tape.
“Don’t ask,” I repeated.
“All right.”
I slipped inside, turned on the one working light in the living room, and let her in. She stepped into the entryway and said, “Jonathan, this is splendid.”
“Thanks. Rent-free, too.”
“It is?” She stared.
“Well, officially no one lives here.”
“You mean you-”
“Right.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Easier this way.”
“Who owns it?”
“A professor at Twain. Carpenter.”
“French Lit?”
“Right.”
“Does he know you’re living here?”
“I keep forgetting to look him up and tell him.”
She shook her head, puzzled, I guess, and looked at the woodwork that was there, the woodwork that had been removed, the stained glass, the floors, the high ceilings. She looked back at me to say something, then frowned. “Jonathan, are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know; you look ill.”
“I’m feeling a little shaky, but it’s all right.”
“Are you certain?”
I nodded. About then, Jim came down the stairs, noticed the light, and said, “Won’t the police notice if you leave that on in here?”
I shook my head.
Susan said, “That’s funny.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I thought for a minute… Jonathan, is this place haunted?”
“Not unpleasantly so. I didn’t know you believed in ghosts.”
“I’m not sure that I do,” she said. “But…” Her voice trailed off into silence.
“Come on, let’s look at the rest of the house.”
“Yes, let’s.”
I showed her the rest of the house. She made several comments to the effect that it didn’t look lived in, and several more about the fixtures (she seemed especially delighted that the old gas lamps were still in place, even though there was no gas coming through the pipes), but most of her discussion was about how she would fix it up. She spoke of Victorian-style furnishings without the Victorian love of clutter; of the painting that would go above the fireplace, of William Morris wallpaper.
She was enchanted with the kitchen, and spoke of cooking some crepes. I smiled noncommittally and mumbled something. She said, “You don’t have a refrigerator.”
“No, but isn’t the stove clean?”
“You don’t cook much, do you?”
“I must admit I’ve never really learned how.”
“I’ll teach you,” she said. “But you’ll have to get a refrigerator.”
She tsked at the shape the basement was in, and spoke of finishing it, while I went over in my mind some of the practical considerations of the two of us traveling together. Funny I hadn’t thought of any of this before. What’s in the trunk, dear? Oh, nothing important. And, Where are you going, darling? Oh, I’ll be gone again until this evening. Looked at that way, the whole thing was absurd.
The answer was simple enough. All I had to do was tell her-let her know. Hand her a silvered mirror and say, “What’s wrong with this picture?”
I wasn’t certain I could do it.
I discovered that I was trembling slightly, and decided that my mood and my thoughts were probably the aftereffects of my condition; dealing with the cops had, as Susan noticed, left me pretty shaken. But there was no good way to solve that just then. I knew I was going to have to before tomorrow midnight, when I intended to perform the ritual to break myself from Kellem, but I had time.
When I showed her the upstairs, she lit on the typewriting machine at once, saying, “Good heavens. Does it work?”
“Yes, I’ve been using it.”
“For what?”
“For writing love poems to you.”
She smiled, her eyes very wide. “Not really.”
I shrugged with my eyebrows and smiled back with my lips.
She said, “May I see them?”
“Maybe. Let me work up the courage, first.”
I showed her the rest of the upstairs. She loved the L-shaped master bedroom and library combination, with its own fireplace, and asked why I didn’t have my bed in there. I said, “I can’t sleep far off the ground.”
She said, “Where do you sleep?”
“In the basement.”
“Really? Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
“Not terribly. I’ll show you later.”
“All right. What’s this?”
“Linen closet.”
“Oh. Why is it empty?”
“Why keep things up here when I sleep in the basement?”
“That makes sense. You must kiss me now.”
“All right, there.”
