After a long day of negotiations, Fran tables her cocoa and clears the property briefs from her desk in the dim library. She’s still electrified from cementing a difficult deal, now in the hands of the testy sellers agent for final initials. She tries to decompress as she opens her laptop and selects her unfinished manuscript, hungry for fresh, eloquent words. Focus, however, proves elusive late at night.

A cold draft nails her from the nearby window and she wraps herself in a mohair throw. She scowls at the empty corner fireplace, one of many in the old manor house. Unsafe to use, the landlord, Dexter, had warned when she signed the lease. 

“Blocked off by the last owners. Some religious cult,” Dexter said in a clipped tone. “Turned the south wing into a daycare. One heck of a time evicting them. They’d all put money into it, but the leader was a swindler.”

That was six months ago, when historic Haven Hall had been mustier. Since moving in as the exclusive tenant and steward—a loose arrangement that had qualified Dexter for cheaper insurance—countless strangers had trespassed onto the isolated grounds. Vandalism was the biggest concern, but most would flee when hollered at from the balcony. The authorities dealt with the rest, including last night’s arrival who’d insisted on her right to entry, pounding on the door while shouting threats. 

Fran savours her cocoa and glances about, still humbled by her luck. She soaks in the lofty ceiling and carved wood effects of an otherwise anomalous writing space. Two bright beams suddenly bounce over the mahogany walls. She spins round to the window. Headlights lance the darkness, blueing trees and banked snow on the circular driveway. She sucks a breath and assumes an erect posture at the window, hand on canted hip.

…Or so it often strikes her whenever her husband, Evan, is away at school. 

A dark SUV slows and circles past the main entrance. Security lights flare, making visible a hooded driver with the deliberate head motions of someone casing the joint. Or so it often strikes her whenever her husband, Evan, is away at school. As tires crunch snow into the gravel, she exits the library to test the foyer door lock. 

“Tudorbethan garbage,” Evan had called it, readjusting its pins. 

She veers left and sprints through the frigid north wing side hall, stopping once she reaches the mudroom exit. Locked. Its glass panes are not ideal protection, but intruders would first have to crash through the garage bays to access it. 

She rushes to the great hall, infamous for a past family hanging. Likely a false rumour, protracted by fellow realtors who envied her luck in acquiring such a residence, but the image still spooked her. Beneath a brooding oak balcony, two stuffy chairs face a walk-in stone hearth. Her orange tabby, Pirate, snuggles his toy lion in one. 

He gazes at her with sleepy affection as she strides past him en route to a bank of four patio doors which, despite strong locks and dowel-barred bases, still wobble at her touch. She scrutinizes powdery fields beyond the hedge, then zeroes in on recent, snow-dusted boot tracks. Fairly small prints. Someone has exited from the great hall, backtracked in, and secured the door afterwards. Her stomach tightens.

It could have been Dexter, she thinks, though she’s unsure about the size of his feet. He’s not known for giving proper notice, always showing up with potential buyers who never seem to be enthused over the estimated cost to update 15,000 square feet of neglected space. 

Fran pays $800 in rent plus utilities, and likes that the property is run-down. But it can also be scary. Especially at night without Evan next to her.

She turns to collect the cat, her laptop, briefcase, hurries upstairs to the safety of her bedroom. On the top tread she hears a crash coming from the master suite. She freezes. Pirate raises his hackles, staring with wild green eyes.

Her motherly instinct responds and she impulsively decides to confront the burglar without calling the police. She releases Pirate and tiptoes right, crossing brittle carpeting to test the doorknob. Locked! Not good. If she uses her key, she’ll alert whoever is there to her presence.

She distracts Pirate from scratching at the door as she backs away from it. She slips off her boots to silently descend the bare oak stairs and combs her blazer pockets for her cellphone. Not there. Must be in her coat. At the bottom step she turns left to creep back to the library, where she now stashes her laptop and briefcase behind a tall bookcase. She slides on her stockinged feet through the north hallway, again to the mudroom. 

Pirate, thinking that it’s snack time, lopes in the lead until he veers into the kitchen. The dining room door suddenly creaks, spilling light into the kitchen. Fran swallows a shriek and presses herself against the mudroom wall. She wonders how she might grab her cellphone undetected, then, astounded, notices the damp grey parka on a far corner hook. 

Her fears crumble, turning into self-reproach and laughter. She looks around the corner into the kitchen to find Pirate staring up at Evan, whose head pokes out from the fridge with a grin.

“Hello, darling. Were you just in the library? I saw the lights but no budding writer. No laptop or cat, either.”

“Oh my god! Are you playing hooky? Where the hell’s your car?”

“Got a ride with Bill, my biology professor. He lives in town. We all got a snow day after the campus power failure.”

“You scared the crap out of me.”

He moves to give Pirate a clump of chicken. “I’m flattered. But why?”

She shakes her head and rushes for him as he pulls her in tight. Pirate rubs at their legs and stomps across Evan’s small feet to complain that he was cheated out of more treats. They indulge Pirate with another piece of chicken, and close in on each other again.