Tom stops talking and gives a grunt of satisfaction when the stiff lock finally gives way. The ornate door that’s seen better days opens with an alarming creak. He waves her inside, watching the overgrown lawns and the trees beyond for faces. Miranda pushes off the last of the blanket, then scoots inside with an amusing clumsiness after being curled into such a small space for two hours. She’s lucky she’s a small person.
While Tom unloads the car, Miranda peers into the rooms directly off the main hall. She thinks it looks like a derelict set from an extravagant PBS production set in the late 1800s. Time has stopped here.
Sheets cover the furniture, but most have gone gray with dust. There are a few newer ones, which stand out in their brightness. The house smells musty and unused. Even so, it’s clear that the place was once a showpiece. The new light switches in the hall also show that it’s being brought into the modern age, even if slowly.
Dragging in the last bits of their gear, Tom arches his back with a grimace, then smiles with a touch of embarrassment. “It’s a mess. I know it.”
Instead of agreeing with him or countering that assertion, Miranda lets the relief she feels come out of her. It takes shape as a run across the two large rooms and the oversized hall between them. She twirls, returns, then slides to a stop on the hall floor, releasing puffs of dust into the air as she does.
With a grin, she says, “Maybe, but here I’m free!”
With that, they set to work.
It takes days of back-breaking labor, but they have one part of the house suitable for habitation. It’s not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it works for them. Two bedrooms down the long hallway in one wing of the house are clean and gleaming. The kitchen far below in the rear wing is working, except for the gas stove, which they’ll need to sort at some point. Tom simply hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet.
Tom digs out a camp stove and sets it up right on top of the old one. They make do. Two burners are sufficient for most meals, considering their circumstances. There’s also an old wood stove in that room, a huge monster that intimidates them both. The cold is intense, so they muster up the courage to use it as a heat source. They manage to make toast on it, and boil water for tea, but the rest will take patience to learn.
Luckily, the fireplaces were inspected for insurance in recent years. Tom had those that failed inspection brought up to code. New bricks and mortar are obvious against the darkened, older bricks. They tentatively begin using them. Each time a new one is used, they hover and sniff for suspicious smells, Tom going outside to gaze at the roof and ensure all is well.
The house was fitted with heat when such things were first put into homes, then updated to a fuel oil furnace at some point, but the tank is empty and they don’t trust it anyway. The caretaker would have had it filled and the house heated enough to remain safe in normal times, but times are no longer normal. Again, they make do and get on the waiting list to have it refilled. The entire process is stressful, but the lack of people makes it far less stressful than staying in London.
Most of their days are spent in the kitchen. It’s a big room, almost absurdly so, with a long, rough table that can seat twenty persons if they squeeze in. They move furniture until the room is as cozy as it can get, the wood stove creating a haven of warmth and safety they can enjoy without hiding.
Even with the lack of neighbors, Miranda knows she’s avoiding windows. She knows she’s avoiding the light. Her skin goes from pale to nearly translucent. In the mirror, she follows the blue lines of veins and arteries zig-zagging under the skin of her neck. When she traces one along her jaw, she knows she’s in trouble.
Humans can’t live without light. But now, she wonders if women can live with it.
After her bath one evening, she hurries along the chilly hallway, a thick terry cloth robe clutched tightly around her. The wet ends of her hair feel like ice where strands have come loose from the knot on her head. She’s shivering by the time she pushes through the kitchen door.
Tom rises when she enters. The look on his face stops her forward motion, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. She can’t really interpret his expression. Is that pleased? Surprised? Is he appalled at her state of undress?
Backing up, she reaches for the door and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
Apparently understanding her retreat, Tom holds up a hand and smiles. “No, don’t go. I…” His lips twist as he searches for words. His expression shifts, the old casual and easy Tom smile she’s gotten to know returning. He says, “I’m just surprised you managed the cold in a robe.”
Miranda gives an uncertain, slightly embarrassed laugh, her feet twisting against each other on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. “Well, it was chilly.” She looks down at her feet, the blue lines bright against the pale skin along the tops and up her shins. The smile falls away. “I wanted to show you something.”
“What is it?”
Brushing her hand along her jaw, she says, “I think I need the sun. My skin…” She trails off, sticking out one foot.
Tom examines the areas she points to, coming so close to her face that she can
