The Face in the House

35

Looking out the window in the upstairs bedroom, Malcolm watched the dreary morning sky. Through the glass, which was blurry with chilly condensation, the world outside Thornewood House was overcast, grey, and threatening rain. He shivered, despite the warmth of his sweatshirt and the steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He could tell by the stiff look of the grass that the world had frozen over in the dead of night, not enough for ice or snow, but just enough to make the grass feel hard and crunchy underfoot. No one would be stepping on the grass here, though.

The scene was proof of the passage of time. Despite his logical mind, the sight came as a shock to him. When he and Owen had set off on this strange adventure, it was hot out. The rain had come down with the warm passion of late summer. Now, as the clouds darkened before his eyes, rain came down with the apathy of autumn, with a hint of the hesitation of a looming winter.

Had it really been so many weeks, he wondered, since they had left their parents' house? He recalled the way his stomach had clenched with excited, nervous anticipation for the trip, for what they might find. He recalled the way he had read the letters with Owen, and how he would often re-read them later when he was alone and couldn't sleep. How the mysterious Edward Poole had words for feelings he had never known how to describe. He had been so afraid, he realized. He had always been afraid. Afraid of failure, afraid of embarrassment, afraid of wanting more from the world and being let down.

He saw his reflection, faint and blurry in the frosty glass. He looked into his own eyes, searching. He didn't see that fear in himself anymore. He didn't feel afraid anymore. Malcolm closed the curtain, blocking out the cold and the light.

To Malcolm, it seemed that the stranger things got at Thornewood House, the less fear he felt in his heart. The phenomenon was much like sinking into a hot bath. At first, the water felt like it would burn your skin, but after a while, it felt almost lukewarm. The air outside, which might've been comfortable before, was now as unappealing as strapping on a cold, wet bathing suit.

Now, all he wanted was hotter water to pour into his tub. He tried not to think about what would happen if it ever came to a boil.

He took his mug to the kitchen to refill. As was now his habit, he was on his way to the laboratory when a thought struck him. He pulled another mug from a cupboard and put the kettle on the stove. When it was ready, he took both mugs with him down the stairs.

Poole greeted him with a nod when he entered, which, for the butler, was akin to a double-cheek kiss. He was working behind the desk, with a grim expression. When Malcolm set the cup of tea down on the table, Poole sighed thankfully and picked it up, smelling the herby steam coming off the top. Malcolm's stomach fluttered at the sight, he so rarely saw Poole's shoulders relax while they were in the laboratory.

"Thank you," Poole said. "Though I suppose you may regret the gesture."

Malcolm laughed. "And why is that?"

Poole took a sip, and Malcolm found himself wondering if a soul could burn its tongue.

"The . . . events that have transpired . . ." Poole started, and Malcolm wondered if he was intentionally avoiding the word 'haunting.' "Well, they've compromised an important substance required to complete the procedure. I'm afraid the substance isn't easily recreated, as it requires time to ferment, among other chemical changes."

Malcolm's heart sank. They had been so close.

"How long do you think it'll take?" Malcolm asked.

Poole sighed and flipped through the leather-bound journal. "I would say, perhaps, three weeks?"

He posed it as a question, Malcolm noticed. And there was something in his tone that said, "Can you hold on that long?"