Another flash.

“Shoot. One . . . two—”

CRASH.

“Also, I’ll not covet ever. No more coveting! Seriously, God. I’ll just never even think about coveting anything!”

Nothing but the sheets of rain to answer me.

But then . . .

There in the distance, I see it. The house, there it is, beyond the bend. A glowing light within.

I can make it!

I can make it, God.

Thank you.

It’s the last thought I have before I spill myself onto the front porch just as a bolt of lightning hits the oak tree fifty feet from the house.

CRASH!

It shakes the ground. It shakes me.

In a daze, I can barely hear the sound. . . .

“Come in, come in! Get inside, dear!”

Why is there an English accent talking to me right now? Did I die? Did I go to heaven? Or, worse, hell? I mean . . . an English accent? I always imagined everyone in heaven speaks Italian. Or at least Latin.

A pale hand reaches out to me and before I can process what is happening, I’m smack-dab in the middle of the entryway, soaking wet, shivering there like a traumatized rat.

Penelope looks down at me.

“Should I put the kettle on?”

Chapter 33

“My goodness, listen to that thunder!” But Penelope doesn’t have to say it.

There’s no way not to listen to it.

The entire house shakes after each bolt.

I’m sitting in a wingback chair in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea and staring into the fire in the fireplace. Penelope is, apparently, good at lighting fires and keeping the fire aflame. Sounds easy, I know. But it’s harder than you think. First, you have to put in the crumpled-up newspaper, then the kindling, then the log . . . then you have to keep sort of tending to it, with the bellows and all these other medieval-looking tools kept next to the fireplace. A wrought-iron menu of fire-tending delights.

But there is something about staring into the fire—it’s hypnotic. Something makes you lose yourself in it, lose yourself in thought. Like staring out at the sea.

I don’t want to ask Penelope directly why she is even here in the first place, because it’s rude. And, quite frankly, I am grateful for her presence. Grateful for the tea. Grateful for the fire. Grateful for the unnecessary exclamations after each lightning strike. But, still, I do kind of want to know. I mean, is she just going to keep on popping up all the time?

And my lucid dream from the other night? The one where sweet Miss Pricklepants turned into a murderous crone? That is right there, lurking in a corner of my mind.

She seems to read my thoughts. “I apologize for intruding, my dear girl. You see, I got swept up in the storm, as well! I was just down the road, there.”

Ah.

“Don’t worry, dear, I won’t make a habit of it.” She smiles a knowing, slightly apologetic smile.