Chapter TwelveThe knocking began again the moment Annabelle and Gavin settled into their bed. This time, no oppressive heat tortured them. The growing sensation of autumn had cooled the evening, so they felt comfortable, in their stuffy attic, to lie in each other's arms under a blanket.
Annabelle shuddered. “I wish I could believe it was actually someone at the door,” she said. “Can you imagine how refreshing that would be? To open to a knock and find, not some invading evil, but a woman on the verge of delivery, a sick child who needed medicine, or a drifter looking for a place to sleep?”
“We ignore the mundane until we're deprived of it,” Gavin agreed, “but we definitely won't be opening to any knocks until tomorrow. Even if Father Vincent hadn't urged us to stay in our newly-blessed
