Anthony
The kitchen was still cold enough to see your breath, but the stove was beginning to wake up, the iron complaining with low, metallic groans as it expanded. I struck a few more matches, lighting the stubs of candles I’d found in the junk drawer. The flickering amber light filled the room, making the old floral wallpaper look like something out of a dream rather than a relic of my grandfather’s stubbornness.
I turned back from the drawer and almost forgot how to breathe.
Myra was standing by the stove, her city clothes in a damp heap at her feet. She was huddled there in just her blouse and a pair of black lace things that looked like they belonged in a boutique window, not on a Vermont mountain. The firelight played across her skin, turning her into something golden and fragile—
