Free Nocturne by Syrie James Page B

down in the valley at the back side of my hill. I have to feed them twice a day, snowstorm or no snowstorm.”
    Michael stood up and started past her toward the open doorway. Nicole cast about for a way to engage him further. “You must be freezing. Can I make you a cup of coffee? All I could find was instant, but with a couple of dozen sugar cubes, a sprinkle of verve, and a dash of imagination, it actually tasted pretty decent.”
    Michael paused and looked back at her, a smile tugging at his lips which he seemed to be struggling to contain. “No thank you. I don’t drink coffee. I keep the instant for my cleaning lady.”
    “I could make tea, if you tell me where you hide it.”
    “I think I’m out of tea.”
    “An Englishman without tea. Now there’s a contradiction in terms. How will you survive?”
    “In difficult times, we all must learn to make do.”
    “Indeed. I had oatmeal for breakfast—not that you asked—and I’ve never much liked oatmeal. But that’s all there was.”
    As if despite himself, his smile now broke out full force. “They say, never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
    She shook her head, grinning back at him. “What does that even mean?”
    “It’s a warning not to question the quality or use of a lucky chance or gift, but to appreciate the spirit behind it.”
    “But what does it have to do with a horse?”
    “A horse’s value is determined by its age, which can be roughly determined by examining its teeth. St. Jerome first said it in AD 400 in reply to his literary critics. I believe his exact words were, ‘Never inspect the teeth of a gift horse.’”
    “How on earth do you know that?”
    Michael shrugged. “I have no idea. But let it be a lesson to you.”
    “Aye-aye, captain.” Nicole gave him a mock salute, pleased that he was talking to her again. “I will eat oatmeal every morning and be grateful for it. But what else do you eat? There’s no food in this house!”
    “There’s food—I expect we’ll get by—I’ve just been preoccupied with writing lately, and didn’t plan for the storm. Had I known you were coming to visit, I would have given the matter more serious thought, I assure you.”
    Nicole followed him into the hall, dying to ask about the journals in the study, but she decided not to mention them. Instead, she gestured toward one of the photographs on the wall—the one of the old bearded man beside a cabin. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: who’s the man in this old photo? Is he the guy who homesteaded this property?”
    “Yes. He was the first Tyler to set foot in America.” Michael paused, then added, “Three generations of Tylers lived in that old cabin before I got here. I found those pictures in my grandfather’s trunk.”
    “Who are the people and horses in the other pictures?”
    “I’m not sure,” he replied quickly. “Probably some of the animals my grandfather and great grandfather trained over the years, and the clients he sold them to. I thought they were interesting, so I kept them.”
    “They are interesting,” Nicole agreed. She wanted to study the pictures more closely, but Michael moved on to the mysterious door she’d been unable to open, and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.
    “I hope you’ll find some pleasant way to occupy yourself today,” he said, glancing her way with another brief smile.
    Nicole sensed that he expected some equally polite response and that she’d be on her way. Instead, she blurted abruptly, “Why do you keep that room locked?”
    “To keep my cleaning lady out.”
    “Why? What do you keep in there? The skeletons of all your ex-wives?”
    “Not all of them,” he replied, without missing a beat. “Just the last six or seven.”
    “Six or seven?”
    “I’ve lost count.”
    “I’d love to see them. I’ve always had a deep interest in osteology.”
    A smile took over his face. He jingled the keys in his hand, and she saw his mind working on the problem, the way he’d