The Widow's Son: 3. The Heat in the Hollow

The storm outside had softened into something almost intimate. No longer the furious hammering of rain against the roof or the violent rattle of branches against glass, but a steady patter—gentle, persistent, like a confession whispered and never meant to be heard. The kind of rain that lingered long after the thunder had gone, draping the land in silence heavy as a funeral shroud.

Inside the house, though, there was no silence. Not really.

Caroline sat in the sitting room where the fire had been burning since dusk. She had stoked it herself, though her hands had trembled with the effort. The flames now leapt and cracked in the hearth, throwing golden light that stretched into the corners of the old room, chasing away the chill but not the unease. A glass of wine sat on the small table beside her, untouched, the deep red catching the firelight like a pool of spilled blood.

She had not seen Nathaniel since dinner. He had disappeared without a word, as he so often did, movi