He hasn’t returned.
This house seems otherworldly when I’m alone. I like its shadows more and more, maybe because they’re not just around me. They’re inside me.
Sometimes I sit in the upstairs hallway late at night. I close my eyes and listen to wind hiss down chimneys, the moan of aged wood. Perhaps I do it so Elias may find me. His presence fills these rooms like air. I can’t see him, but I know he’s here.
I look for him in places he could never be.
My thoughts have split, divided between Elias’s world and mine. It’s as though someone draped the manor’s furniture with bedsheets, locked the front door, but trapped me inside. That’s how I feel, like a frantic bird stuck within an empty home.
Elias felt that way too. I want him. He’s the part of me I always sensed but never understood. Is it possible to love someone before you know them?
Scratch that. Is it possible to love someone after they know you?
Don’t worry. I treat our emails like a journal, so I sound crazier than I am. It’s just . . . When you know what you want, nothing else seems good enough.
I should launch a biweekly newsletter to keep you informed on all matters Atteberry, Elias, and Cadwallader Manor. You’ll get busier once your fall semester begins. I don’t want to bug you with emails, and my life doesn’t change a lot in fourteen days.
An update every two weeks should suffice, right?
The latest news: I’m an official member of the knitting club. (Lucille gave me a certificate that reads: Josephine De Clare, fellow of the Atteberry Knitting Society.) Aren’t you proud? My scarf is near done. I hope to start on a hat soon.
Last week’s meeting was quite the event. Stuart and Margery sparked a debate about hair dye, which lasted over an hour. Clare fell asleep, and Dorrit—oh, that sweet, baffling woman—mumbled Scottish nonsense until Lucille ended our session by yelling, “Get out, you nitwits!”
I like them. Our gatherings remind me of family reunions. Stuart is the weird uncle. Margery is the fun aunt. Clare is the beloved grandmother. Dorrit is the distant relative, maybe a cousin. And Lucille—she’s the great-aunt who runs family affairs like a business.
At present I sit at Elias’s desk with my laptop and breakfast. (I made your favourite—sausage, eggs, beans, and roasted tomatoes.) Nan prowls the manor as if to make sure it’s safe. I’ll let her outside in a few minutes. Norman and Oliver need her to herd their sheep.
Well, I better sign off. My boss wants me to open the bakery soon.
Please email me!!
Josie
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, August 22, 9:40 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Oliver McLaughlin, aka Firewood Boy
Yes, Oliver and I hang out a lot. Don’t get excited, though. We’re just friends. He’s a ridiculous person. He dances in shopping aisles, and he can’t hold a tune. If my life depended on his ability to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” I would certainly die.
Oliver gets emotional about corgis. Really, his voice rises an octave whenever he sees one of those dogs. He sounds like a flute or choir boy addicted to helium. And he loves podcasts, but not the self-help or political kind. He listens to podcasts about espionage and true crime, anything that involves conspiracy theories. (You can’t stalk him online. He doesn’t have social media, probably because the podcasts freaked him out.)
Unlike me, he’s tidy and responsible, a communication expert. I’m not sure how we’re friends. He’s the most reliable person I’ve ever met. Ridiculously reliable. Just ridiculous.
He’s obnoxious too. He walks around with a half smirk on his face as if the entire world is amusing. And he teases me ALL THE TIME. Ugh, I wouldn’t care for him if he didn’t balance the teasing with ridiculousness . . . and kindness. He’s kind. He keeps my house stocked with firewood, and he brings me lattes when I’m at work.
You’d like him. He’s your type—smart, cultured, witty. I would play matchmaker if you weren’t dating Noah. At least you have a backup plan. Kidding!
Oliver is brilliant at baking. Just yesterday he made puff pastry filled with cream. He’s also close with his family, which makes sense because they’re not screwed up like mine. His dad and brother serve in the navy, hence his anchor tattoo. He phones his mum every day. He calls Norman and Martha his best friends.
I enjoy spending time with him, except when he forces me to watch classic movies. He’s pretentious about films. I thought Dad was posh about cinema, but his reviews pale in comparison to Oliver’s analyses. (Spoiler alert: I don’t care about Citizen Kane.)
Hope you enjoyed this comprehensive overview of Oliver McLaughlin.
Josie
From: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Sent: Wednesday, August 23, 11:09 PM
To: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Being Honest with You
Josie, I finished the chapters. They left me in tears, like, ugly crying. I reread them word for word the next day. That’s when I felt it—whatever you’ve been feeling.
I knew Elias had written about you.
Gah, I’m not sure where to start or if I should tell you what I think. You asked what changed my mind, but I can’t answer that question without giving away everything.
You were right about Josephine, so you may be right about other things. Who knows? Maybe Elias’s writing will bring you both together. However, until that happens, I recommend you tone back the . . . sitting alone in dark hallways and trying to induce hallucinations. Like, if someone did that for a living, boy, they’d seem nutty as a fruitcake.
I agree with you about the biweekly update. My fall semester begins next week,
