16
Just beyond my knees, the fire pops and snaps like old bones under pressure. I watch it the way other people watch sunsets or water caustics, searching for patterns that might make the world feel less than what it is.
But this isn’t peace. This is my reckoning.
The logs hiss as they’re eaten down. Each flame forks and curls, bright enough to comfort, hungry enough to warn.
And I wonder – is this what hell really looks like? This domesticated, contained madness that one pulls up a chair to at the end of the day and calls comfort?
Terrible things exist beyond the walls. There should be some semblance of safety indoors.
There isn’t.
Not with him inside.
‘Add two logs.’ His voice carries a timbre that feels as though it came straight out of the hearth. The steady tak-tak-tak of a blade on a chopping board punctuates his words. The smell of onions wafts from the kitchen.
Even after half an hour wrapped in blankets by the fire, my fingers still feel as if they’ve been flayed and held over a flame. But I shift anyway, dragging two pine logs closer. The bark scrapes against the hearthstone as I feed them to the fire’s open maw.
It snarls.
It swells.
Grateful. But more ferocious for it.
Grabbing the iron poker, I start teasing the embers, watching sparks jump like startled insects. The flames bend towards the new wood, devouring it with a hunger that feels all too familiar.
‘I’m going to get the hens and the cockerel tomorrow,’ Elias says quietly, warmth carrying through his voice that feels almost misplaced after everything that came before.
A series of plops sounds as he drops the chopped carrots and onions into the bubbling pot.
My fingers twitch beneath the blanket.
Tomorrow, as if he owns the day too.
‘Shovel the snow from the path so the door can open fully. Ice collects near the threshold. There’s an ice chopper beside the shovel against the back wall.’
A shaky, rhythmic sound spreads. I glance over my shoulder to see him salting whatever’s in the pot.
The jumper stretches across the breadth of his back as if it cannot contain the force beneath. The defined planes of his forearm flex beneath the fabric with each slow turn of his wrist.
My gaze slips lower despite myself, following the taper of his waist to the grey joggers stretched indecently over the full curve of his bottom.
Then his arm reaches for a kitchen towel, and – while he gathers it effortlessly into one fist – my fingers knot into the blanket’s edge at the pure strength that outlines the swell of muscle.
‘Burying a body beneath twelve feet of snow and frozen earth is a hassle.’
His words echo between my ears.
‘Use the other entrance to the shed. The one closer to the slope. That’s where the straw bales are.’ He pauses to stir. ‘Layer it thick across the floor. Keep it dry. It keeps the cold from creeping up through the floor and into the chickens’ feet.’
I stare at the black hair curling at his neck as he weaves survival into instruction. No requests or questions, just a list of things I will do if I want warmth, food, and peace.
Neither of us mentions what happened; what is going to happen. He keeps his attention on the pot. I keep mine on him.
Taking a deep breath, he hooks the kitchen towel into the waistband of his grey joggers as he reaches for another jar of spice.
‘The wooden crates need to be packed with straw too. That’s for nesting. Dark corners work best.’ His voice lowers slightly as he turns the lid over the pot. ‘They’ll want somewhere quiet to lay. Somewhere they won’t be watched. Boxes need checking twice a day while it’s cold. Eggs might crack.’
When he finally looks at me, his mouth parts as if more instructions have piled up, but he presses his lips together instead.
At this stage, though, I know better than to trust what I want to see on Elias Crane.
He breaks eye contact first, dark lashes falling over marble cheeks.
‘The crates should go to the left of the heater. Turn it on first thing in the morning.’ His hand taps absently against the range handle. ‘Check the solar battery while you’re at it. We’d want to know how much power it’s feeding the shed before the generator takes over.’
Stillness. Just the fire cracking and pregnant silence between us.
Suddenly, the pot lid rattles. Foam spits over the edge and hisses violently on contact with the hotplate. Elias turns with a snap of the towel, grabs the pot with it, shifts it aside and wipes the ring down with quick strokes.
I stand. Exhale hard, the weight of the blanket falling off me like armour shed after surrender. My legs feel stiff and slow, my toes still ablaze, as if the heat hadn’t quite thawed me after all.
I make my way to the wood-fired range, eyeing the pile of split logs still stacked near the back door. A hatchet lies atop it.
My attention keeps to it a breath too long, and when a darker kind of chill passes through me, I wrench my gaze away.
I am not that person.
‘Would you mind getting more logs from outside?’ I ask in a small voice. ‘I… don’t want to go out again.’
The words hang in the space between us.
I keep my focus on the hotplate, take the cloth from his hands and wipe away the rest of the broth.
When he makes no move to leave, I take a deep breath. ‘My nan had one like this,’ I note, trying to get my mind off everything.
‘When you make soup,’ I start, easing the pot further from the hot ring until the boil lessens, ‘you want it to simmer, not rage.’
Reaching for a ladle hanging over the range, I drag it once through the soup. Steam rises in gentle tendrils, curling like breath through frost. It carries vegetables, pepper and herbs across the open space. The seasoning warms enough to make my stomach tighten despite everything.
‘Small bubbles. Not an uprising.’
Tipping the lid, I let it rest askew. The steam sighs through the gap, no longer battering the metal in protest. I wait a moment until it eases.
The skin at my neck and collarbone prickles from his gaze. My fingers hesitate on the handle, though he hasn’t moved.
Then, slowly, I shift the pot over the ring.
‘If you leave only a little space,’ I whisper, ‘it can breathe.’
There’s a pause. My throat closes around the next words before I force them out. ‘If you trap everything in, it’ll fight back. Boil over. Make a mess.’
At the edge of my vision, he is still, his attention still trained on my face. The quiet grows heavy.
‘It’s easier to keep it steady,’ I say finally, quieter. ‘Than to clean up every time it goes over.’
I risk a glance.
His eyes are on mine.
‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘I’ll remember that.’
For a moment he just stands there looking at me, as though he’s letting the moment exist rather than controlling it for a change. His mouth gives nothing away, his brow is smooth; nothing in his face is quite tight or soft.
Then, without another word, he turns away and walks towards the shadowed end of the house.
I hear the rustle of his jacket and the sound of the back door unlatching. A rush of wind whistles through the cabin like a living thing. Cold air spills across the floor and brushes past my ankles like a ghost trying to coax me into a run.
Several minutes later, I leave the soup to simmer. In this small pocket of privacy, I allow myself a breath to take in the space.
Despite the writhing bitterness inside me, my gaze travels over the rough lines of the sitting room.
It’s nothing short of a rustic dream – if rustic dreams came with slow drips of madness.
Heavy timber beams stretch overhead, their knots and grain darkened by age. The stone fireplace is so intricate it looks more like an altar to permanence than a source of warmth.
Above the hearth, a crossbow is mounted on the wall with a neat row of bolts beside it, displayed too plainly to be decoration and too carefully to be an afterthought.
A shudder courses through me at the sight.
I avert my gaze, glancing instead at reindeer and bear pelts.
Alongside a handwoven wool throw, they lie draped over furniture that doesn’t quite match, but still feels like a deliberate choice, as if each item was bartered for or hunted rather than produced in a grand factory.
My attention snags on an iron ring recessed into the floorboards. I pull, and a square hatch lifts with a groan as it releases a breath of colder, earthier air. The narrow steps that disappear beneath it are crude and I consider them carefully before I eventually dip inside.
The shelves in the root cellar are stocked with more sense than mercy.
A row of sealed jars comes into view first. One catches my eye. Dried porcini caps curl brown against its glass.
As I pick it up, my eyes trace over every detail of the cellar and something starts itching at the back of my mind.
The stocked shelves. The fresh food. My luggage.
‘No roads. Nature’s perfection,’ he said.
How did he get us all the way out here? How did he carry me, unconscious, along with two bags? Did someone help him?
God, are there more people here?
The thought that someone nearby might have helped him move a person without question turns the cellar colder than the ice crusting the windows upstairs.
Why does every shelf, every storage space scream preparation as though he’s been at it all summer, when I know he was locked up?
Before I let myself spiral, I reroute my mind away from the horrors I’ve endured this morning. Because panic won’t feed me. Rage won’t warm me.
If I am going to get through this, I need to own the small territories he hasn’t taken from me: the range. The knife. Small choices – like what goes into the pot.
Anna flashes through my head – her voice, her fussing, the way she used to get absurdly excited over things.
I glance at the jar in my hand.
She loved foraged things especially. I never thought I’d be grateful for that book she’d bought me as a joke – about preparing mushrooms. The joke is on her, because I read it. My brain reaches for names and methods, holding on to something that isn’t tied to Elias.