A Book of Dust and Breath

Chapter Twelve

Lily stood on the rough garage tiles until the growling rumble faded into the distance. The scent of motorcycle exhaust grew pale and thin, overwhelmed by the fragrance of spring. She stepped back into the house, seeking refuge from the chill that lingered in the air.

The gorgeous old house paired charming rustic pioneer sturdiness with sleek modern comfort and convenience. In every room, light streamed through enormous windows. Trees, heavy with red buds, stretched their limbs heavenward. Earth, laid bare and ready to be sown stretched in every direction beyond them. A blanket of birds spread across the field, flapping up into the air in gentle waves and settling, only to rise up once more.

She stepped up to the mantel to examine the framed photographs--familiar Ansel Adams prints she had seen in a book on her mother's coffee table. A stunning oil portrait of an extraordinary beauty taking refuge by standing on a rumpled bed while water poured into the room through the window captured her attention. The light danced off the water with ghostly tendrils that seemed to be pulling at the girl. Her face gave the impression of one weary from refusing the advances of a lover her heart longed to be with. It was easy to imagine the girl embracing the rising flood, her hair floating in an ethereal crown like that of poor, drowned Ophelia's.

A shadow fell, darkening the room.

Lily shivered, laughing a little at the goosebumps that had burst out all over her body. "Way to creep yourself out." She said it aloud to dispel the sense of unease that had settled on her, but the strange, flat sound of the words in the high-ceilinged room had the opposite effect. Her nakedness suddenly seemed far too vulnerable and she rushed to pull her jeans and t-shirt on, glancing repeatedly at the window that showed the road and the river on the other side.

As far as she knew, no one had passed the entire time she'd been in the house. It would be just her luck some hunter would pop out from between the trees now and see her nude.

The wind kicked up outdoors and strange, thick shadows with oddly humanoid forms slid across the polished wooden floors.

She pulled her shoes on and tied them. "There. You're dressed now. Stop being such a baby." Her voice was louder this time; a defiance of her irrational fear. "You live here now. You just have to get used to being in the country."

One door led to the dining room and on to the kitchen, where she had already been. The other stood open, revealing a glimpse of a small, comfortable library. She strolled the circumference of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books: Chaucer, Evanovich, King, Shakespeare, Euclid, Bronte, Poe, Verne, Brown, Rowling. There wasn't a well-known author of this century or any other she could think of who wasn't represented on the shelves that covered every inch of the walls. A copy of Tolstoy's, "A Confession," with a battered and worn cover in hideous green and gold brought a smile to her face. In the center of the room, facing the small marble fireplace was an overstuffed chair and a massive ottoman. A wooden side-table held a pipe stand and a lamp.

She lifted one of the pipes. A Pegasus flying through an elaborate forest of intricate leaves decorated the ivory bowl. No tobacco fell out. Max wasn't the smoking type.

Something hissed in the room she'd come from.

The pipe fell from her fingers and hit the table. "Crap!" She tucked it back into its place, giving thanks it hadn't broken. Three deep breaths slowed her pulse and stilled her trembling hands. Moving slowly, arms held relaxed and slightly out from her body, she stepped through the door.

Sunlight shone through the window, the strange shadows having lifted. Dust motes danced in the air, tiny fairies ready to bestow their blessing on this new life if only she could accept their existence.