Free Empty Nest by Marty Wingate Page B

time—“a couple of hours. But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be free by midmorning.”
    I smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So you texted the woodpeckers your filming schedule, did you, so they’d know when to show up?” Michael gave me a squeeze. “Be sure to switch your phone off—otherwise, just as you’re about to hit the ‘record’ button on the camera, your phone will ring, and off will go the birds.”
    “Will do.”
    —
    I turned into the yard at the Hall at three o’clock, and the late hour seemed to magnify the sound of my tires crunching on the gravel. I tiptoed round to the back corner, breathing in a scent of wood smoke and breathing out a cloud of fog in the chill air, past the dark café, past the kitchen, and round to the back corner.
    A heavy stone urn sat at the service door. Thorne had told me about the key underneath—it had been there forever and rarely used, he said. Carefully, I tipped the urn toward the wall, my arm just long enough for my hand to grope below until I located the key. It slipped in the lock and turned with little trouble. I replaced the key and crept in, making sure to lock up behind me. Down the stone stairs, past the laundry, up the inside stairs and I came out just near the kitchen, no one the wiser to my late-night/early-morning arrival.
    The light over the sink gave me a warm welcome, and cocoa, saucepan, and a mug waited for me on the counter. I set down my bag, shed my coat, and had just opened the fridge for milk when Thorne walked in, silk dressing gown tied firmly around his thin frame and covering his paisley pajamas. He blinked at me, eyes shifting from my bag to the carton of milk in my hand.
    “Oh no,” I whispered, “I woke you.”
    “No, Ms. Lanchester,” he said, drawing his glasses from a pocket and putting them on. “You didn’t wake me. My sleep comes in short increments these days—I’ve been reading in bed.” He frowned. “Have you only just arrived?”
    “Yes, walked in this minute,” I said. With Thorne’s acute hearing, who needed an alarm system? “You weren’t waiting, were you?”
    “No, it’s only I thought…” He stared past me. “I must’ve dozed off and had a dream.”
    “Well, I’m sorry to be so late and to bring you up from your rooms. You don’t think I woke Mrs. Bugg, do you?” Thorne’s quarters were belowstairs at the opposite corner of the Hall, but Mrs. Bugg’s were only down the corridor.
    “In my many years of knowing Mrs. Bugg, I have found that she is nothing if not a sound sleeper.”
    I cut my eyes at Thorne. His face gave nothing away, but, fresh from Michael’s bed, I could see the romance in any situation. Thorne and Mrs. Bugg had worked together at the Hall for donkey’s years—who’s to say it had never gone further than that? I wondered if I might be so bold as to pry. “I thought I’d make some cocoa,” I said. “Would you care to join me?”
    We sat at the table over our mugs, but Thorne must’ve sensed an impending inquisition and steered the conversation toward his penchant for police thrillers set in Italy, giving me no opportunity to ask about intimate relationships, past or present. I might try to get it out of Mrs. Bugg instead. At last, a yawn overtook me.
    “Right, well, we both best be off to bed,” I said, taking our mugs and washing up. “Good night.”
    Thorne retreated down the hall to his room, and I walked to the entry, the lit sconces on either side of the door creating a pool of light and setting the crystal chandelier twinkling. I hesitated at the bottom of the staircase as a pricking like tiny needles crept up my arms. I listened, but heard nothing beyond the normal creaking noises of an old building. I’d been up and down these stairs in the near-dark many times, but tonight, the vast emptiness pressed in on me. I looked over my shoulder and back toward the kitchen, and saw the light in the far corridor go out, a signal that Thorne had made it