Free Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) by Elizabeth Alix

few feet away. Who was there? The player felt more sad than angry. Marianne’s heart beat hollowly, and she felt suddenly vulnerable and very alone. Oscar’s sleepy warm weight lay next to her, and she touched his fur like a talisman. She took comfort from the realization that Oscar wasn’t upset.
    The piece ended, and the pianist didn’t resume. The silence afterward was very deep. She didn’t dare open her eyes for fear of what she might see. After a while she wondered if she’d dreamt or imagined it. Oscar shifted slightly in his sleep, turning his chin upward and stretching out his front paws. Her heart slowed into a gentle rhythm, and she wove in and out of sleep again.

    Playing was the only thing that kept the fear at bay. It had been so long since she’d played. Drained but exhilarated from her encounter with the piano, the smoky wisp drifted away quietly.

Chapter 7
    Marianne woke early when the sun came in the front windows. She felt groggy and tired. Her nighttime encounter seemed very far away, and she seriously wondered if she’d dreamt the whole interlude. The piano was perfectly normal looking with the key cover down. The piano books on the pull out music rest above the keyboard were open where she’d left them. She sighed with relief and was sure she’d dreamt it.  
    It was really hard to get a full night’s sleep in this house, she thought as she made tea and ate some cereal. It’s like I have another whole day after I go to bed. I hope this doesn’t go on indefinitely, or I’m going to be a zombie.
    She was just getting ready to paint her own bedroom a summery periwinkle blue when the door chime sounded. Curious, she went to the front and opened the door. Mr. Cavarelli, a woman about ten years older than Marianne, and a boy of about twelve stood on the front step. The woman held a paper plate of cookies under plastic wrap.
    “Oh, hello!” Marianne said as she opened the outer door. “Please come in! Sorry about the mess.”
    John Cavarelli introduced his wife, Maria, and their son, Mikey.  
    Maria, with glossy black hair and strong Italian features, handed her the plate with a huge smile showing gorgeous white teeth and said, “Welcome to the neighborhood! John said you stopped by on Friday. You just moved in?” Her speech was a charming mix of Italian and Brooklynese and made Marianne like her at once.
    “Thank you, they look delicious! Yes, I just moved here on Thursday from the city. “
    “How’s the ladder working out?” John asked. His somewhat gruff speech had a slight Italian lilt to it as it reflected off his wife’s voice.
    “Great! Thank you for the loan. I hope you don’t mind my getting a little paint on it? I’ll show you what I’ve been doing, if you want to see.” She led them through the kitchen, depositing the cookies on the counter, and then through the dining room to the back bedrooms. They admired her work.
    “This place really needed a coat of new paint. It was pretty… old fashioned looking,” Maria said tactfully. “I’m impressed you’re doing all your own work.”
    “Well, it’s not perfect…” Marianne said modestly.
    “No, no, honey,” she assured her, “it’s a good way to get to know a new place and make it your own. If you hire out, you never know your house as well.” She waved her hand dismissively for emphasis.
    They made their way to the front door again. Mikey had been silent the whole time, a shadow trailing behind his parents. He was wearing a shirt with a basketball player making a jumpshot on the front and looked like he couldn’t wait to be elsewhere.  
    Mr. Cavarelli said, “We talked the other day about mowing your lawn, and Mikey here could do it.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. Mikey had the resigned expression of a kid who’s been asked to do the new neighbor a favor by his father.
    Marianne smiled sympathetically and said, “Mikey, would you be interested in earning a little extra cash by mowing my lawn? As