There’s only one problem.

It’s freezing cold in my room.

Even wearing all the layers of clothes I brought with me, I’m still shivering. They just don’t make winter clothes for Houston. We’d only use them two days out of the year anyway. When I was moving around, making food for Paige or cleaning after her, I was warm enough.

It’s only when I’m in my room at night that I turn into a block of ice.

I could ask Mr. Rochester for an extra blanket tomorrow.

But I’m freezing cold now.

I’m shivering in the bed, unable to sleep. For hours.

At this rate I’m going to be a zombie tomorrow.

My nightgown is a pale gray shift that does little against the chill. I pad into the hallway. Everything’s dark. Quiet. I know better than to wake anyone up.

This is a wealthy house, though. A well-stocked house. There ought to be a linen closet somewhere with an extra blanket. Maybe even a fluffy pair of socks, though that might be wishful thinking.

Though there wasn’t one downstairs when I was searching for the washing machine. Nothing that I can remember in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the garage, or even the basement.

That leaves this second floor to search.

I open the door next to mine. It reveals a room that’s much larger, with a massive bed in the middle. It feels like I walked into the middle of someone’s room—not another guest room like mine. There’s a man’s watch on the nightstand. So maybe this is Mr. Rochester’s room? But there’s a teacup on the other side of the bed, as if a woman also lives here.

A jacket is slung over an armchair. It’s very casual. The way someone would leave their room if they intended to be back soon, but there’s a staleness to the air. The blanket on the bed—no one’s using that. Shadows from clothes peek out of the closet, but it feels wrong to touch anything here, a little bit like walking on a grave.

I creep back out quietly and close the door.

The next room is clearly someone’s study. There’s a large wooden desk engraved with scrolls, tall built-in bookshelves, and a large window. It draws me close until I’m gazing out at the most gorgeous view. It’s a clear view of the cliff—the land around the house, the growth of rock, and the spread of water. There’s a plate with leftover lasagna. I’m guessing this is Mr. Rochester’s office. He must have eaten here after we were done. How sad.

Why doesn’t he join us?