Page 83 of This Haunted Heart

When she was finished, we used the torches to light the shattered remnants of the door first, burning away the evidence of the desperate scratch marks our smaller fingers had made. We stuffed our torches under the sofa, pushing them up against the wood piled there. It didn’t take long for it all to catch—everything was so aged and dry—and then we hurried out of the house, back into the marshy wetlands.

It was a slog to reach the horses, but once on dry land, we made a point of watching the thick smoke billow from thewindows. The flames came next, burning away the greenery and blackening the glass. The fire roared and crackled as it expanded, carrying our retribution with it.

Rynn threw her hands up and cheered on the flames. I laughed at her exuberance. The walls caught. It was shocking how fast it all spread.

“Houses are supposed to protect people,” she said, as more fire licked up the wooden siding. “You were a shit house!”

I found a stone in the grass, and I hurled it through an attic window. Rynn joined me. We threw rocks until our arms were tired, and I worried we’d lose the light if we didn’t leave soon.

“Where are we going now?” I asked her.

“Home,” she said.

“We won’t make Salt Rock at this hour.”

“Not there.” She shook her head, her smile small and sweet. “I want to go back to my house. The one you built for me.”

* * *

I shared her bed that night, though we were both too exhausted to do more than sleep. When I awoke at sunrise, I found her staring at the ceiling, already alert.

“What do you think happened with Utrecht?” she asked me. “Do you think he’ll bother us again?”

I tucked my arm under my pillow, propping up my head. “I doubt he’ll dare. The weaver women do not tolerate men like him. It’s unlikely he made it through their woods unscathed. If he survived them at all.”

“Good riddance, I suppose,” Rynn said, playing her fingers over the embroidery on the blankets, expression pensive. “Arethe witches . . . are all of them dead?”

“They’re ghosts, yes.” I squinted at her, wondering how long she’d been awake, staring at the ceiling, pondering witches and ghosts. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” she said solemnly, but then she shot me a grin. “But I didn’t dream about that damn house either.”

“An improvement,” I cooed.

She sighed, and her eyelids fluttered closed. “I know I need to get myself out of bed now . . . I just. I don’t know. I just feel rotten inside. I guess I’m disappointed because I was hoping I’d feel better after all of that yesterday. Shouldn’t I feel relieved? Renewed? Forgiven?”

“You are forgiven, but why do you have to get out of bed at all?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, waving my words off. “One shouldn’t wallow and all that.”

“Where is that written?” I asked her.

She snorted. “You know what I mean. It’s time to start the day. Time to shake off the ghosts, the darkness, and all the bad feelings. Time to get dressed, put on a smile, and get on with it.”

“Hm. Not today, I think,” I told her.

She turned onto her side to face me. “What are you suggesting?”

“We make our own rules, Rynn. That’s what I’m suggesting.” I threw off the blankets and popped to my feet. “Stay right there and don’t stop wallowing. I’ll be back.”

Her chuckling followed me out of the room.

I returned with a cart loaded with tea service, a kettle of coffee, and breakfast, including an assortment of boiled goose eggs courtesy of our friends the witches. Because it was herfavorite, I brought extra butter and thick warm toast.

We ate breakfast in bed. She insisted on leaving to wash. I let her attend to her morning ablutions so I could visit the lavatory and see to mine, but then I instructed her to put her nightclothes back on. She re-joined me under the covers in the chemise I liked best, the one that was sheer in all the most tempting places and hugged her lush body.

I rolled on top of her, caging her in with my arms and easing between her inviting thighs. “Are we still wallowing?” I asked her.

She stuck her lip out in a pout. “A little.”

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