A Stitch in Time (A Stitch In Time #1) - Kelley Armstrong Page 0,3
“If you forget and use she, though, I won’t hold it against you.”
“I won’t forget, Mr. Crossley.”
“Del’s fine, too.”
That’s right. He’d signed his e-mails “Del.” The only time I’d seen “Delores” was in the introduction from the lawyer handling the estate.
He heads for the door. “You have any trouble, call. Or come on down’t. We’re at the bottom of the hill, first cottage on the left. Easy enough run for a strong lass like you.”
“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
“I’ll be back come morning. Take a look at that old car. See if there’s any life left in her.”
I thank him again, and then walk out and watch him leave, a shadowy figure on a bicycle, newly lit pipe gritted between his teeth.
2
Del leaves, and I’m alone, which is nothing new, and hardly bothers me, even in this isolated old house. I plan to snuggle in with tea and biscuits and a book. I get as far as donning my nightshirt—one of Michael’s old tees—before the bed upstairs seems a lot more inviting than tea or biscuits or even a book. I’ve spent the last day crammed into a seat of some sort: plane, train, taxi. I desperately need to stretch out and sleep.
When I flip on the stairway light, it flashes once and sputters out. I flick it a few times before fetching a candlestick from the kitchen.
Being this isolated means the house is subject to power outages, and the utility company is never in a rush to fix them. Granted, I don’t actually need to light a candle. It’s one burnt-out bulb. I could get to my bedroom by leaving on the foyer light. Which would be no fun at all. I’m climbing a darkened staircase, alone in an eighteenth-century haunted house in the English moors. Anyone with a speck of imagination would want to ascend with a lit candlestick, white nightgown—or oversized white T-shirt—billowing around her.
I do exactly that, and I hear not a single ominous creak of a floorboard, catch not one unearthly flicker in the corner of my eye. Terribly disappointing.
I step into the bedroom and—
Something moves across the room. I jump and spin, nearly dropping my candle, only to see myself reflected in a mirror. It’s Aunt Judith’s antique vanity with three-way mirrors. I see it, and I can’t help but smile, that spark of fear snuffed out. As a child, I’d sit at that vanity for hours, silently opening jars of cream and pots of makeup, sighing over the exotic scents and jewel colors. Aunt Judith would always “catch” me, and I loved to be caught because it meant a little girl makeover, creams rubbed on my face, stain on my lips and my hair stroked to gleaming with her silver brush. Then out came the cold cream, as chilly as its name, wiping off Aunt Judith’s work before my mother saw.
I walk over and lower myself into the seat. The top is still covered in pots and boxes, their cut glass and silver tops gleaming as if Aunt Judith were here only moments ago. I open one jar of night cream, and the smell that rushes out is so familiar my eyes fill with tears. I sit there a moment, remember. Then I rise and pinch out the candle.
With moonlight flooding through the drapery-free window, I crawl into bed, and oh my God, I was not exaggerating about the linens, sheets so soft I want to roll in them like a kitten in catnip.
My eyes barely close before I’m asleep.
I wake to a tickle on my cheek, like a stray hair dancing in the night breeze. Michael used to say it had to be twenty below before I’d sleep with the windows shut. I crack open my eyes and—
A face hovers over mine.
I jump up with a shriek and crouch there, fists clenched as my gaze swings around the room. The empty room.
When I spot something big and pale to my left, I twist to find myself gazing out the huge bay window. A nearly full moon blazes through . . . a pale circle hovering above me.
I exhale and shake my head. In the bleary confusion of waking, I mistook the moon for a face, the shadowy craters for features. And I’d woken because a stray hair tickled my cheek, caught in the breeze coming through that window, which I . . .
I look over. Which I did not open last night—the window is shut tight.