sure of myself and stop depending on other people for my happiness.
Still, I wasn’t used to being alone. The isolation of Winter gripped tightly, and for a moment I felt like a lunatic in an isolated Victorian asylum, or the madwoman in the attic room. I was alone in a place where even if I screamed it wouldn’t be heard. A panicky tension fluttered through my stomach, and I took a deep, calming breath. I wasn’t going to scream, or even cry. This was nothing compared to losing my mother and ending my relationship with Francesca. Winter wanted me here, to help rescue it from the past and show it a bright future. If I could do that—and Auntie Edie had faith in my ability to do so—then I could at least find some optimism for my own existence too. Winter and I had both languished for a while, but we would face the future together. It would just take a little work.
Wanting to infuse the air with my tentative optimism I fished about in my boxes of possessions for my oil burner, a stubby candle, and my small case of essential oils. I selected purifying clary sage and added a few drops, along with some water, to the well in the top of the burner. I lit the small candle and slid it underneath, waiting for the heat to vaporise the oil and for the aroma to begin to fill the room. The little glowing candle and the wisps of aroma were dwarfed by the size of Winter, but I looked at the bright flame, breathed the scent, and knew I had to start small, one glimmer of light at a time. It was possible to bring this place back to life. If I had no other definite direction in my life, at least I had that to aim for.
Chapter Three
Over the next days, which were pleasantly visitor free, I forced myself to become acquainted with the house, even if some days I felt it was trying to expel me from its chambers or frighten me away. A water pipe in the bathroom sprung a leak, which meant I couldn’t use the bathtub water supply until I called in a plumber. I tripped on the rotting carpet of the grand staircase and fell most of the way to the floor below, bruising my hip uncomfortably in the process. And as I was examining the damaged ceiling in the east wing, a huge chunk of damp plasterwork simply came loose and coated me in gritty powder.
I took everything the house threw at me with an unperturbed sense of calm. Whether it was the house trying to tell me something, a reminder of the terrible condition of the building and the daunting task I had taken on, or the less likely possibility of poltergeist activity, I had to keep going. At least the physical process of going room by room and noting what needed to be done, consulting with Auntie Edie’s own notes, and taking photographs with my digital camera of spots I particularly wanted to ask Anna about gave me something to push away any doubts. By the end of the week, I had a good idea of what needed to be done and in what order, plus a list of people to contact in order to achieve my goals.
After my inspection of the rooms I decided it would be advisable to consult the architect again. Surely Anna would have some constructive input into my plans. However, a week of total isolation and immersion in the house, concentrating mainly on avoiding the ghosts of the recent past, made the prospect of dealing with her, in all of her professional glory, quite frightening. I told myself I was merely intimidated by her confidence, a quality I’d always struggled to possess. Yet the prospect of meeting the equally assured and competent Maggie Potter again was something I welcomed. Maggie made me feel that if she could make the best out of life then so could I. No, with Anna it was something else too. I knew perfectly well what it was. Why did my architect have to be a stunning and compelling woman? Why not a bumbling old man who I wouldn’t feel remotely attracted to?
Before I could think twice about it, and knowing I’d never get anywhere with the house if I didn’t consult her, I picked up
Still, I wasn’t used to being alone. The isolation of Winter gripped tightly, and for a moment I felt like a lunatic in an isolated Victorian asylum, or the madwoman in the attic room. I was alone in a place where even if I screamed it wouldn’t be heard. A panicky tension fluttered through my stomach, and I took a deep, calming breath. I wasn’t going to scream, or even cry. This was nothing compared to losing my mother and ending my relationship with Francesca. Winter wanted me here, to help rescue it from the past and show it a bright future. If I could do that—and Auntie Edie had faith in my ability to do so—then I could at least find some optimism for my own existence too. Winter and I had both languished for a while, but we would face the future together. It would just take a little work.
Wanting to infuse the air with my tentative optimism I fished about in my boxes of possessions for my oil burner, a stubby candle, and my small case of essential oils. I selected purifying clary sage and added a few drops, along with some water, to the well in the top of the burner. I lit the small candle and slid it underneath, waiting for the heat to vaporise the oil and for the aroma to begin to fill the room. The little glowing candle and the wisps of aroma were dwarfed by the size of Winter, but I looked at the bright flame, breathed the scent, and knew I had to start small, one glimmer of light at a time. It was possible to bring this place back to life. If I had no other definite direction in my life, at least I had that to aim for.
Chapter Three
Over the next days, which were pleasantly visitor free, I forced myself to become acquainted with the house, even if some days I felt it was trying to expel me from its chambers or frighten me away. A water pipe in the bathroom sprung a leak, which meant I couldn’t use the bathtub water supply until I called in a plumber. I tripped on the rotting carpet of the grand staircase and fell most of the way to the floor below, bruising my hip uncomfortably in the process. And as I was examining the damaged ceiling in the east wing, a huge chunk of damp plasterwork simply came loose and coated me in gritty powder.
I took everything the house threw at me with an unperturbed sense of calm. Whether it was the house trying to tell me something, a reminder of the terrible condition of the building and the daunting task I had taken on, or the less likely possibility of poltergeist activity, I had to keep going. At least the physical process of going room by room and noting what needed to be done, consulting with Auntie Edie’s own notes, and taking photographs with my digital camera of spots I particularly wanted to ask Anna about gave me something to push away any doubts. By the end of the week, I had a good idea of what needed to be done and in what order, plus a list of people to contact in order to achieve my goals.
After my inspection of the rooms I decided it would be advisable to consult the architect again. Surely Anna would have some constructive input into my plans. However, a week of total isolation and immersion in the house, concentrating mainly on avoiding the ghosts of the recent past, made the prospect of dealing with her, in all of her professional glory, quite frightening. I told myself I was merely intimidated by her confidence, a quality I’d always struggled to possess. Yet the prospect of meeting the equally assured and competent Maggie Potter again was something I welcomed. Maggie made me feel that if she could make the best out of life then so could I. No, with Anna it was something else too. I knew perfectly well what it was. Why did my architect have to be a stunning and compelling woman? Why not a bumbling old man who I wouldn’t feel remotely attracted to?
Before I could think twice about it, and knowing I’d never get anywhere with the house if I didn’t consult her, I picked up
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