Huddling even further under the protectionof my large woolen jacket, I reached the right gate.
Despite the fact the night wasdark, and cast even darker by the eerie lack ofstreetlights, I could still see the house before me. It was pushedback from the road, a generous yard leading up to a three-storyVictorian style house.
I could barely see it, just make out theshape of its pointed roof and the sweet framed windows. Still, I'dseen it in photos from the will. The thing looked like it was rightout of colonial history. That, or some fantasy book.
“Crap, it’s cold,” I muttered to myself as I finally gatheredthe gumption to shift forward, hand slipping over the chipped paintof the gate. After a few sharp tugs, the thing opened. It was old,and it creaked. And for some damn reason, I heard thatcreak even over the roar that was the storm.
I felt something crawl up my back, too.The kind of biting, sharp sensation I'd always get if I rode thebus late at night or headed down the wrong alleyway only to heardistant footsteps following me.
The kind of feeling that told me my time wasup.
“You're making it up, as usual,”I told myself tersely as Iwalked with as much determination as I could down the crackedflagstones that led to the house.
A sudden gust of wind snapped a branch inone of the gnarled, oldoaks in the yard. There was a god almighty creak and groan as thebranch snapped in half and fell several meters behind me. The creakcouldn't match my scream. It pitched from my throat as I buckedforward, letting go of the flaps of my jacket as the wind took themand sent them slapping around my arms and legs.
After a few heart-tearing seconds I realized I wasn't dead.I forced my sopping wet shoes to twist on the broken flagstones,and I pushed forward. Another few steps and I made it to the porch. It was old, and every step Itook, the wooden boards creaked and protested under myweight.
I winced. The last thing I needed was forthis house to require urgent repairs.
I couldn't afford repairs. Hell, I couldn'tafford to pay the rates.
So I was going to sell the place, right?
That's what I’d decided on the plane tripover here.
This place meant nothing to me. My grandmahad meant nothing to me. I’d met her once when I was five, and thenonce again when my grandfather had died.
My dad had always told me grandma wasimpossible to live with. A woman with crippling expectations whopushed everyone away. Of the brief interactions I'd had with her,I'd been able to confirm my dad’s assessments.
I could still remember how my grandmotherhad stared at me during grandad’s funeral. The way her eyes hadticked disapprovingly over the black shirt and trousers I'd worn. How her eyebrows had descended in aflick as I’d paid my breathy,mumbling, stumbling respects to my grandad.
She barely said two words to me. She’dignored my dad, too, only acknowledging me once when she’dmuttered, “Her father’s daughter then? Such littlepromise.”
Such little promise.
I'd barely known thewoman, and ostensiblyshe’d had no effect on my life, but that refrain had always stuckin my head.
When I dropped out of college, it had beenthere – suchlittle promise.
When I'd lost my 10th job in a year, it had been there –such littlepromise.
And when I turned my hand tofortune-telling, following in my mother's footsteps, it had beenlouder than ever – such little promise, such little promise.
Now I grit my teeth, reached the door, and fumbled for the keys in my pocket. I pared my lips back. “Such little promise,” I said pointedly tothe house as the door unlocked and scraped open.
“Such little promise,” I heard something whisper from behindme.
I spun on my foot, eyes bulging as Isearched for someone skulking through the shadows.
Except, there was no one there. Because mymind had made it up, right?
A combination of the nervesstill scattering up and down myback and that godawful screeching wind.
“Pull yourself together,”I snapped as I brought a handup, searched under the sodden collar of my shirt, and drew out thenecklace from my mother.
It was a circle with blue, white, and goldenamel. On one side it depicted a goldenarrowana, on the other,a tiger with its paw stretched forward. The fish symbolized gold. Prosperity. The tiger, among other things,protection.
While my father was of Scottish descent, my mother was Chinese.It was a weird mix, and left me with the smooth skin of my motherand yet the freckles of my father. And the gritty determination ofboth.
My necklace, while categorically being themost expensive thing I owned, was also a handy barometer of mymood. If I was trying to attract cash, out came thefish.
If things were going stupidlywrong as they were now? Out came thetiger.
You know in the oval office how there’smeant to be a big circular carpet depicting a bald eagle looking ata quiver of arrows or an olive leaf depending if the US is at war?Yeah, my necklace is like that.
Except for me, not so much the peace – morethe money.
I held onto my necklace for a second thenlet it go, flipping the tiger forwarddeftly.
Don’t ask me why, but heading into this house felt likebreaching the first line of a battle.
Steeling my nerves, I fumbled for thelight switch, finding it after bumping into several side tables.Rubbing my knee, I flicked the switch several times only to remindmyself that the power wasn't on along the entire street.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath.
I hadn't brought a torch, and I was sure the hire car wouldn't haveone. Plus, my phone was almost out of charge.
I could head back out to the car and waitfor the power to come on, but who knew how long that would take? Ona night as wild and windy as this one, I wouldn't be surprised ifthe power stayed out until the morning.
But I was a big girl, wasn’t I? All I hadto do was stumble my way to a couch or a bed and ride this out.Then, in the morning, I'd explore this place a
