Hanna jolted awake as an icy touch brushed her hand. She reached up to find her face damp with chilly tears that tracked down her right cheek. When she inhaled, her breath hitched. “Friend? Are you here? Do you need something?”
Another touch. Just a tickle of feathers that had spent hours in a freezer against her right hand. A breath of wind sighed from behind her, tugging one lock of her hair forward.
“All right. Let’s play Hot and Cold. If I’m right about something, you make it warm around me. If I’m wrong, you make it cold. Do you understand?”
The air around her right hand warmed.
“Good work! Now. You want me to get up?”
Warm.
Hanna stood up. “I was dreaming about this room. This was your room, where you stayed after you arrived.”
Warm.
“In my dream, there was a tag of paper. It was very special to you.”
Warm. Quite warm.
“That was when I woke up. When I was dreaming of the tag.” That dream had felt so real, so vivid, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had also happened. Visions of her spirit friend when he still lived.A message, maybe?She made a guess. “Is it still here?”
Her hand warmed as though she’d put her hand near an oven.
“It’s still here. I’m going to walk slowly around the room. Hot and Cold still, okay? Tell me when I’m getting closer.” She took a step towards the door. It stood open, since she’d neglected to close it, but it didn’t seem important just now.
Cold.
“Not that way. What about this way?” She took a step in the opposite direction.
Warm.
“This way. You’re very good at this, you know.” The room took several steps to cross. She reached the far wall, then tried edging right. Cold. Left produced warm air, as did down. She knelt on the floor.
When she touched the floorboard at the very apex of the corner, just a small square of wood meant to fit the odd space left by other floorboards in the pattern, it rattled, and she grew very warm. One corner of the old floorboard had worn away and provided a place to grip with two fingertips to pry it up. Wood groaned as she pulled the piece away.
A tiny hollow beneath the floor held a scant handful of treasures. One slender, brown feather. A lumpy cloth bag. Three or four papers, rolled up and tied with a bit of twine. A paper tag with a string dangling off one end.
Hanna reached in, hand trembling, to pull out the little tag. The paper felt rough, old, weighty in a way modern paper did not. While the ink on the paper had faded with age, it still stood out clearly enough for Hanna to read.
“Stuart Marsh. Is that you? Are you Stuart?”
The air flared hot, radiant as a sunny day, warm as an oven opened to check the delicious contents within.
Then a flash of cold stole her breath, left her gasping on her knees and frozen in place. The wisp of presence she knew as Stuart disappeared, replaced by a sense of malice that filled her with dread.
“I know what you’re doing,” sneered a woman’s rough voice from behind her.
* * *
Gran’s roomsat to the left of the stairs, but Gregory diverted to the right. He told himself he wanted to ensure Hanna’s bags had ended up in her room. He told himself he wanted to let her know what time the kitchen would serve dinner. The truth, which he didn’t tell himself, was that he just wanted to see her smile after the meeting had left him snarly and out of sorts.
She hadn’t closed her door. He raised his hand to knock on the doorframe just before he saw her on the bed. It looked like she’d lost her battle with travel exhaustion, laid back in a position far too composed for a person who’d intended to sleep. Not to mention the open door. He imagined she would have closed that for privacy if she intended to pass out for a while.
But she looked beautiful in her repose, at ease and without the nervousness he knew she’d carried all day. Not the smile he had hoped for. Better, perhaps, another side of her he didn’t know if he would have the opportunity to see again. He stood at the door for a moment longer than he intended to, relaxing by watching her do so, enchanted by the lines of her face, before he tore himself away.Greg. Watching a woman you just met sleep? It’s creepy. Minus ten points from Greenhill Hall.
Gran was awake, however, and he enjoyed seeing her as well. She sat by her window, teacup and saucer in her hand, looking out over the gardens. Late afternoon sunlight washed over her lovely, age-wrinkled face, over her slender hands as they held the bone china, lit up the white corona of hair around her head to give her the halo Gregory had always felt she deserved.
He fumbled his phone out of his pocket to snap a picture of her.Who knows how many more pictures there will be. I’m not ready for life without her. Not yet.Only when he knew he’d preserved the moment in memory did he clear his throat. “Hey, Gran.”