Page 14 of Possessed Silverfox

Eleanor’s never mentioned dating anyone, but most of our conversations focus on the archives. Still, with all this talk of Martin and Beatrix, she’s never said anything about a torrid affair of her own.

“I mean, I doubt she would tell you if she did. You’re technically her employer.”

“Yes, but I still love some girl talk now and then!”

She elbows me in the ribs. “Keep this between us, but I think she fancies you.”

I can’t help it. I’m blushing. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I get. I may be old, but I still remember that first initial spark, you know.”

I pour myself a cup of coffee and brush her off. “I know, but I also know there’s no spark between me and Eleanor,” I say a bit too quickly for my liking.

My mother smiles blithely. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Dinner is excruciatingly awkward. Now that my mother pointed out our “spark” I can’t stop thinking about how ethereal Eleanor looks in the candlelight. She pops a bite of salmon into her mouth and delicately dabs the corner with a cloth napkin.

She’s wearing a pale blue silk blouse. Her hair rests in soft waves on her shoulders. I can see her nipples beneath the fabric. The sight is making me hard, tenting the cloth napkin on my lap. I swallow gruffly and take a sip of my water, willing myself to think of the least sexy things possible: taxes, toenail clippings, the DMV.

Eleanor and my mother talk about the library and the staff, again, decidedly unsexy topics, but I can’t stop staring at her.

After dinner, I retire to the library with a glass of scotch. Of course, Eleanor is there, on her knees digging through another cardboard box.

She’s got a fire going. It smells woodsy and atmospheric. I settle into the armchair nearest to the fire and clear my throat. Eleanor startles.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I come up here to think sometimes. It’s peaceful.” I take a sip of my scotch. It’s a vintage 18-year-old Macallan, double cask, single malt. I relish in the burn as the scotch pours down the back of my throat.

Eleanor hefts a pile of paper onto the floor next to her with a loud thump.

“Or, at least, it used to be,” I add.

“Ha-ha,” she says. She grabs a hair tie off her wrist and loops her hair into a bun on the top of her head.

“What are you doing up here?” I ask.

“Well, some of us have to work overtime to get everything accomplished rather than taking a three-martini lunch each day. I found these newspaper articles from when the house first burned down. I’m trying to see if they’re sturdy enough to survive transporting them to the library so I can make copies.”

She scoots over and gestures to the empty space on the burgundy rug beside her. “It’s interesting. You can take a look if you want.”

I get up and sit beside her, peering over her shoulder. I can smell her shampoo; it smells like lemons. I lean over and peer at the headline:

10 DEAD IN DISASTROUS FIRE AT IDYLEWYLDE HALL! ONLY ATTIC REMAINS.

“That is one thing that’s always struck me as odd,” I say.

“What?” Eleanor asks.

“The fact that the attic survived. If the rest of the structure were torched, you’d think the flames would have made it up to the third floor instead of stopping. You know, something to do with the oxidization of the flames.”

“Or it was just dumb luck.”

“I think you’re the first person to suggest that this family might have ever been lucky.”

Eleanor shrugs. “I mean, who knows?”

We read the article together, silently. I know I’m about to hate myself for asking this, but I need to ask. “Does it ever freak you out when you’re up there by yourself?”

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