“Why, yes,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed it till now, but I think it is hurting me. I’d better go up, take some of those painkillers, and lie down.”

She smiled happily.

I glanced into the living room. Spike and Tinkerbell were curled up in front of the hearth, where a much larger than usual fire was blazing merrily—no doubt to impress the sewing circle attendees if they wandered into the living room. If Michael and I had to chop and split our own wood, I’d have protested the extravagance of the huge fire, but since I knew every log was helping put food on the family dinner table for one of Randall’s poorer cousins, I just pulled out my notebook and jotted down a reminder to check the level of firewood in the barn and call for a new supply if necessary. Tinkerbell raised her head and thumped her tail on the floor in greeting. Spike opened one eye, sniffed vigorously for a few moments, and then, having detected no trace odors of anything edible, went back to sleep.

“I don’t think those two have left the fireplace in days,” I said. “What did Mother do, glue them to the cushions?”

“She might as well have,” Rose Noire said. “They’re heated cushions.”

She sailed off toward the library, carrying the huge coffee urn.

Okay, now it made sense. I cast an envious glance at the cushions before trudging upstairs. Maybe it was time to break down and buy an electric blanket. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping under a tangle of wires, but if the weather kept on being this cold …

I’d worry about it later. I fell onto the bed. In a few minutes I’d gather enough energy to crawl under the covers, I told myself.

Then I realized that I felt grungy. I hadn’t had time for a shower before racing off this morning, and I’d been spending a lot of time in close proximity to duck poop.

I had plenty of time to take a shower before my nap. In fact—I felt a twinge of deliciously guilty pleasure at the thought—I had enough time to take a good, hot, soaking bath.

I ran down into the basement, because while I’d done a lot of laundry over the last several days, none of it had yet traveled upstairs from the enormous folding table I’d installed. “Getting dressed in the basement” was my own private shorthand for being woefully behind not just on niceties but on essential household chores. I needed to tackle the folding table soon.