He had taken up residence in the upstairs library, the one along the hall from his room – he had been spending more time in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to boil water and put things in pots, but he’d abandoned this plan after burning something on the kitchen range so badly that the room had reeked of smoke for days. He had brought supplies up – he’d gotten through most of the bread and cakes in the pantry already, and wasn’t yet desperate enough for most of the raw vegetables, except the odd carrot. He had managed to light the fire magically in here, so it was a few degrees warmer than the rest of the place. Which had been left draughty and quiet, some of the furniture covered up as if he and his parents had closed up the place for a trip across Europe or something. He assumed that was where they were – they must have dismissed the staff for the time being and forgotten that he could come home for Christmas, because there had been no one here to let him in. (Connor had had to clamber up and break a window at the back to get in, a few days ago.)
And he had written to them, but hadn’t got an answer yet. Maybe they were somewhere remote, like Sweden or Norway, and hadn’t gotten his owl yet? Connor didn’t know. He had mostly amused himself by flicking through his old favourite novels and bringing his bedcovers into the library, because it felt more enclosed and cosier than his room.
Only – he had sworn he heard the door open, and someone on the stairs. (Connor had read a lot of horror penny-dreadfuls, in his time – he felt sure someone had come to kidnap him, or to hold him over the fire until he gave up all the house’s treasures. Something like that. )
So he had taken the poker from the hearth, brandishing it like a sword or a club, and crept along the landing. Whoever it was was coming up the stairs – only they knew his name and had come in through the door, so –?
Connor leapt out from behind the corner, resisting the urge to yell a battle-cry but still holding the poker aloft in front of him. There was a woman there, with brown hair. He didn’t recognise her. “How’d you get in?” he accused.
And he had written to them, but hadn’t got an answer yet. Maybe they were somewhere remote, like Sweden or Norway, and hadn’t gotten his owl yet? Connor didn’t know. He had mostly amused himself by flicking through his old favourite novels and bringing his bedcovers into the library, because it felt more enclosed and cosier than his room.
Only – he had sworn he heard the door open, and someone on the stairs. (Connor had read a lot of horror penny-dreadfuls, in his time – he felt sure someone had come to kidnap him, or to hold him over the fire until he gave up all the house’s treasures. Something like that. )
So he had taken the poker from the hearth, brandishing it like a sword or a club, and crept along the landing. Whoever it was was coming up the stairs – only they knew his name and had come in through the door, so –?
Connor leapt out from behind the corner, resisting the urge to yell a battle-cry but still holding the poker aloft in front of him. There was a woman there, with brown hair. He didn’t recognise her. “How’d you get in?” he accused.