Free The Whispering House by Rebecca Wade Page A

to move, she felt the old, familiar wash of creativity surrounding her, deepening, like warm, sweet water. And then she was afloat.
    She worked for perhaps twenty minutes, occasionally correcting a line here, a curve there. But for the most part, the likeness flowed surprisingly easily. Once the face was complete, Hannah added the rest of the figure. Then she sat back and observed what she had done.
    It was good. Very good, in fact. She sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. She was used to the sudden release of tension after drawing something that had absorbed her thoroughly. But this was slightly different, though she couldn’t quite analyze why.
    She opened her eyes and looked again at the face she’d drawn. It looked back at her. Why did she find that gaze disconcerting, suddenly?

Chapter Twelve
    Sunday
    S HE WOKE THE NEXT morning to a bright, sunny day, with just a faint haze in the distance promising heat to come. As it was Sunday, there was no need to hurry over getting up, so she had a long, lazy bath, during which she had time to observe that several of the tiles were coming unstuck from the bathroom wall. She didn’t remember noticing that before but supposed it must be the damp, steamy atmosphere that had loosened them. Or maybe they hadn’t been stuck down well enough in the first place. Never mind. That was the real estate agent’s problem. After soaking for a further ten minutes, she dried herself, got dressed, and went downstairs feeling relaxed and well rested.
    â€œMorning!” she said cheerfully.
    Her mother was standing over the toaster, waiting. “Morning. Sleep well?”
    â€œGreat! You?”
    â€œMmm. Can you get the butter out?”
    As Hannah opened the refrigerator, she dislodged two or three of the magnetic letters stuck to the door and bent down to put them back. “Are you all right, Mom? You sound tired.”
    â€œI’m okay.” She sighed. “I miss Dad, that’s all.”
    â€œMe too.” Hannah took out the butter and shut the door. Looking at her mother’s pale face, she felt a stab of guilt. Lately she’d been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she’d hardly spared a thought for how Mom might be coping. Now was a good time to put that right. “Why don’t we have lunch out today?” she suggested. “There’s that nice pub near the cathedral—the Black Bear. I’m sure they do food on a Sunday.”
    â€œBut I bought a chicken. I was going to roast it.”
    â€œWe can have it tomorrow, can’t we? Come on, Mom, it’ll do us both good to get out of the house for a while.”
    At last her mother smiled. “All right. Why not?”
    Hannah divided the morning between her geography textbook and a list of chemical equations that needed learning. Yesterday’s jitteriness had quite disappeared; her concentration was so much restored that by midday she had covered a satisfying amount of ground and felt she had earned a break.
    At twelve thirty she and her mother set off, strolling unhurriedly through the quiet streets, enjoying the warm sunshine. The Black Bear was an old coaching inn on the south side of the cathedral square, popular with tourists because of its dark oak beams, crooked windows, and general air of comfortable dilapidation. Hannah and her mother had a leisurely lunch, then walked for a while by the river, watching children throwing bread to the swans.
    It was nearly three o’clock by the time they got back to Cowleigh Lodge. Mom switched on the TV, and Hannah settled down to learn some history notes. After an hour or so, she noticed that a familiar shape was missing from the hearth rug.
    â€œMom, where’s Toby?”
    â€œWhat?” Her mother glanced around vaguely. “Not sure. Outside, probably.”
    Hannah frowned. The cat was almost always there when they were watching TV. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him all day. “Has