“Well, okay, maybe you did seem just a little heartbroken.” So embarrassing. Now, I’m totally fishing. A part of me is chastising me for being such a dork. The rest of me is listening carefully for a reaction.

The orange and red flames grow larger and warmer. The crackling and popping is rhythmic and hypnotic. The heat is exquisite.

“You’re shivering,” he says. He sounds reluctant. Maybe even sad. “Take a shower. Maybe we’ll be lucky and there will be hot water.”

He hesitates while I hold my breath.

Then he turns away from me.

He stands and heads into the darkness of the house.

As soon as he moves the shelter of his wings, the cold seeps back in. I watch him fade into the shadows. His dark wings and bowed head disappear first, then the broad shoulders and arms.

Then nothing.

63

I SIT THERE, watching him go, wanting to say something but not knowing what.

I reluctantly get up and move away from the fireplace. The house feels colder now as I head upstairs to find a bathroom.

There are plush towels there, folded in a way that suggests they haven’t been used since they were washed. That was probably months ago.

I shower by candlelight. The water is lukewarm, but compared to the ocean, it feels good on my still frozen skin. I don’t linger, though. Just long enough to rinse off the sand, soap up, and shampoo as fast as I can. I’m still shivering from the cold seeping into my bones and I can’t wait to be dry and warm again.

There’s a thick robe hanging on the bathroom door that I wish I could snuggle up in. But those kinds of luxuries are for people in the World Before, not for people who might be chased out of here any minute by monsters or marauders.

I quickly rummage through the closets and drawers for clothes. The best I can find is a sweater dress that’s probably meant to be just a sweater. Everything else is about four sizes too big. I cinch the sweater around my waist with a scarf and throw on a pair of stretchy pants. The legs fit comfortably down to my ankles even though they’re probably meant to be capris.

I’m sure I could have found something better but I don’t want to linger with my candle lighting the upstairs window. The fog should keep the tiny light from traveling far but why invite trouble?

Downstairs, the living room is warmly lit by the glow from the fireplace. Raffe stands on a chair, duct-taping blankets over the picture windows. He must have had the same thought as I did about the candle glow being visible.

There’s something about him standing on a chair to reach the top of the windows that puts me at ease. It’s such a normal thing to do.