One moment I'm standing safe and snug under David's protective arm, and the next, I'm standing alone, surprised to see him grab the loudly ticking nautical clock by two of the steering wheel's protruding spokes at the end closest to the wall.

Grunting, he wrestles the heavy clock from the ground, pushing the end up until it is standing on its side, leaning against the Bannister. It doesn't look very steady; it is in danger of toppling over and falling on top of him.

I'm about to offer him my help to get the unwieldy clock to wherever it is he plans on taking it when he suddenly takes a step back and gives it a hard kick, the sole of his shoe smashing into it near the top of the clock, shattering some of the calcareous coral skeletons. It's the kind of kick that would make any kickboxing professional green with envy, and I wonder if David ever had some martial arts training.

No clock on this planet stands a chance against his skills.

I'm not wondering that out loud because I'm watching in shock, horror and amazement as he jumps back, getting out of the way as the bottom rises and with a gut-tearing grinding shriek, the clock flips over the railing unhindered.

"David!" I shout, rushing to the railing. "What if it... breaks... the... floor...?"

I reach the bannister in time to witness the old ship's wheel's impact with the floor near the bathroom door downstairs; shells, coral and hardened sea weed scatter spectacularly in all directions, some disappearing under the neatly sorted furniture near the crash site. What's left of the clock mechanism has come apart and scattered too, but I can still hear the clock ticking overly loud, undeterred by the fact that it is now only a broken ship's wheel with shattered decorations and not a clock at all.

I take a few steps back when David turns to look at me, breathing hard from the exertion and the emotions behind it. Until the moment I saw him smashing the clock with a hammer, I did not think that he was capable of violence. After seeing what he'd just done, I now know that he is, and I'm afraid.

I remember the broiling rage I felt this morning. The kind of anger I've never experienced in my entire life, and I wonder if David is caught in that rage now. Can he snap out of it? Can he control it?

Is he going to hurt me?

The ticking is growing louder and louder, rather than dying down, and it is not only the nautical clock I'm hearing; it is also the grandfather clock and the clock in the study. All of them are ticking to their own time and rhythm, and my heart is beating frantically, trying to keep pace with them. The only clock not adding its voice to the noise is the cuckoo David disposed of.

I warily look at him when he takes a step in my direction. Is he going to pitch me over the bannister too?

"I love this house!" he yells, his voice thick with anger and frustration. "I have always loved it! I want to restore it and build a home here!"

I know that. I'm not the one stopping him. Is he blaming me for all the garbage that's been going on here?

He stops walking towards me, his face twisted in the kind of anger I've never seen there before, and I involuntarily back away from that anger, fear curling like fingers in my gut.

"But I swear!" he growls in a voice very unlike his usual warm, soothing tones. "I will burn this whole bloody place to the ground if I have to, just to save you, Belle!"

My name echoes in the deathly silence that follows his passionate words, and I can see the anger leave David's face, the gentleness returning, spurring me to close the gap between us and wrap my arms around him.

For a long time, we just stand on the landing, holding onto each other, while the echo fades and the unnatural silence seeps away as the sounds of rain and thunder once again return. Nothing is ticking anymore now. My heart is still beating fast, but David's embrace is warm and gentle, chasing away my fear.

He finally ends the hug when a tremor runs through my body, reminding me that I'm wearing a T-shirt and that the house is not all that warm with the storm going nuts outside. I hope Craig is somewhere safe and warm. In my own turmoil, I'd not even thought of him and what kind of situations he might be getting himself into. As soon as we have a signal, I'm going to give him a call and beg him to go home.

"Come on, let's get you warm and... shit!" David was about to steer me to the bedroom when the extent of the damage he'd done finally hits him as he gazes around. I follow him to the bannister and inspect the scrapes and gouges in the wooden railing caused by the falling clock. It is not pretty, but nothing that cannot be fixed with some wood filler, sandpaper and varnish.

Leaning over the railing, we can see that the planks of the floor, fortunately, did not give way under the assault, though there are definitely going to be marks there too.

"What's that?" I ask David when we turn away from the bannister, and I trip over a piece of broken shell, accidentally kicking it out of my way, and something falls out of it, thudding on the threadbare carpet.

It is... yup... of course...

"A friggin' key!"

David picks up the key and grabs the shell too. It is the fat body part of the type of shells mermaids use to call to each other... well, they do in the book I recently illustrated for a writer of children's books.

"Is there a letter with this one too?" I ask David, taking the shell when he hands it to me. It was pretty once, many years ago, now it's brittle, and all its colour has faded away.

"Not what I can see. Unless it landed downstairs," he is inspecting the key. It is not giving off any clear clues as to what it is supposed to lock or unlock; it is non-descript, rusted and lacks character, really disappointing after all that drama. He shows it to me and drops it into the pocket of his pants to hang it in the cabinet with all the other keys, when I just shrug, fresh out of ideas as well.

"Come, let's get you settled before your fever starts to build again; I'll go fetch you some soup."

"I need to use the bathroom first."

I feel better when I emerge from the bathroom. I've washed away most of my fever sweat, and I brushed my teeth too. I know I'm going to have soup, but only the first couple of sips will be gross, and I had to get rid of the taste left by the fever I had. I almost feel refreshed. Almost human.

I'm touched to find David patiently waiting for me. He'd gathered the larger pieces of debris together and put them against the wall to dispose of later. There is no longer anything lying around that could cut my sock-covered feet.

I obediently let him lead me to my room and get back into the bed, smiling when he spreads the duvet over me.

"Thank you for taking care of me," I tell him, and he answers my smile with one of his own, bending over to give me a gentle kiss before leaving me alone again.

Lying in bed, I close my eyes and do what has always come naturally to me. I pray for David and for myself and for Craig, my mother, the flood victims and the house and everything and anything that comes to mind, laying it all out there for God to sort out. I am so immersed in this long, long conversation that I'm startled when David enters the room with a tray.

My nose is mostly completely blocked, but the flavours that do make it up my nostrils are filled with the fragrance of well-being, and my mouth is watering. The only thing I've eaten after our bath was some ice cream. David called it my favourite breakfast food and gave me a full bowl of it to cheer me up.

Right now, I'm ravenous despite the fact that I am bone tired and feel like I've been wrestling a pretty big calf. No, I'm not in the habit of wrestling animals, but I have a lot of imagination. As mentioned before, my stomach and appetite operate in a completely different reality from mine.

Overjoyed to see him, I scoot to sit up against the pillows, and David lowers the tray to my lap.

"I like this hotel," I tell him. "It comes with room service and a hot chef."

Shaking his head, David chuckles and sits down on the edge of the bed. He lifts one of the two big soup mugs from the tray. I watch him stir the mixture, and then, just when I'm about to take the other mug, he holds a spoonful of the brothy mixture to my lips. I almost blow the liquid off the spoon when I burst into surprised laughter.

"Why are you feeding me?" I ask, giggling too much to sip the soup from the spoon, and after a few seconds of waiting for me to open my mouth, David grins, lowering the spoon back into the mug.

"I've always wanted to feed someone," he tells me. "It's like practising to be a dad..."

"Well," I inform him, in case he hadn't noticed it yet. "I'm the perfect toddler for you to practice on."

"Yup, can't argue with that."

"Hey!" I click my tongue, giving his non-soup-carrying shoulder a light punch and making him laugh.

"Well, you said it, and I agree. You climb into closets, play on the beach in your PJs, shout at clocks and make art when you're supposed to be sleeping... and," his grin is growing while my eyes are narrowing, apparently not causing him to feel threatened at all. "You made me play Marco Polo!"

"I don't think toddlers play Marco Polo," I scoff, grinning at him. "Fine, go ahead, feed me."

He does, and he really seems to enjoy it.

"Oh, my word, David," I tell him after the fifth spoonful when the taste really starts to break through the toothpaste and the blocked nose issues. "This is so good. You know, if this whole farming thing doesn't work out for you, you could start your own restaurant."

"Hunger is the best cook," he tells me, being stupidly modest again. The man is a genius. I can feel the warmth of the soup chasing the cold from my body, all the germs fleeing from the perfect flavour and the joy it is bringing me. If it tastes this good when I can barely taste anything, imagine how awesome it would be when my nose is open and my taste is back to normal. 

"Or a convalescence clinic where you can spoon-feed patients all day long. You're really good at this dad thing." Yeah, I know that the staff in convalescence clinics are not generally called Dad; I don't care.

He is pulling a face at me now, trying to figure out if I'm joking or not. I'm not. I think loads of people will pay lots of money to be fed by a hot nurse like him, and I tell him so. He laughs, setting the big mug back on the tray and feeling my face for new signs of fever.

"I'm not delirious," I inform him.

"You're the only one I want to feed," he shrugs, lifting the other soup mug from the tray and grabbing a piece of the buttered bread.

"Are you done feeding me now?" I pout, and now he is chuckling again.

"Yes, I'm hungry, and you're cured."

I resign myself to doing my own feeding, relishing each spoonful, and when I dip a piece of bread in it, I giggle happily, sloshing soup juice down my chin when I stuff it in my mouth. It is so good. There are too many flavours in this soup to all be from my stash. I only brought a bag of frozen vegetables, a few onions, some potatoes, salt, pepper and a couple of meat spices; that's it, the only things aside from meat that could go into a soup. There are some really old-looking bunches of herbs in the kitchen, and the idea of them being in this soup is not exactly appetising.

"How did you get it to taste like this?" I ask him while he cleans my chin with one of the many serviettes he'd wisely added to the tray's contents. The man has seen me eat before; he knows that I make sure during each meal that I'll be wearing at least some of my food afterwards.

"It's my grandmother's recipe; she used to make this for me whenever I was sick. There's some chicken breast in it, and I used garlic, ginger, rosemary, thyme and yarrow from the herb patch and added some kale and other stuff from the vegetable garden."

"You have a herb and vegetable garden?" I had no idea he had wonderful things like that. "Does it have tomatoes and cucumbers?" Those are my favourite things that fall in the healthy category. No, I'm lying. Cocoa and sugar are my favourite vegetables.

I've been told that neither of them is a vegetable, that cocoa is made from seeds and sugar cane is a grass and that when you combine them with milk and put them together in a nicely wrapped bar form, you are not eating a balanced meal based on items from all the important food groups, even if you lace it with nuts. I disagree, and I stand by my theory.

I don't mention this to David; I am still marvelling about the fact that this man will not let us starve to death even when my food stash runs out.

"Yes, it does. I've been growing some things for my grandfather and me to use. It's in a section of the greenhouse." I stare at him blankly, and he tilts his head, nodding towards the side of the house where the study is located. "Big building over there?"

"Oh!" I exclaim, finally remembering. "The one with the pretty roof?"

"Yes, I've been working on getting it functional again. For now, there's just a small section that doesn't look like it was hit by the apocalypse. I'll show you when the rain lets up."

"Bundu bashing," I mutter, remembering how overgrown the path leading to it is. I don't like fighting my way through branches and thorns.

"No, it's pretty easy to get to from the back. The tangle of vines and shrubs was not so bad in that area, so I cleared a path there for now. I've started to clean up the section between the house and the greenhouse too. Driving over some of it with my truck helped a bit."

For a while, we eat our soup in companionable silence. Stealing glances at David, I can feel the familiar, comfortable feelings settling back in their places between us. His face is relaxed, and when he looks at me, his eyes are gentle, and his smile is warm.

There are no traces left of the angry man on the landing, and his rage has never once been directed at me. In fact, it had been directed at the house in my defence. I have no idea what happened, and neither of us has dared to bring up the subject. We are both fully aware of the fact that something responded to his threat, backing off. Talking about it will make it all simply too creepy, real and strange, so we eat our soup and enjoy each other's presence.

David tells me that since he cannot work outside while the storm is raging, he is going to start moving furniture around and put them to use. He wants to create a couple of extra bedrooms and furnish the others according to the furniture he wants to keep.

We share ideas, dreaming up rooms and changes that will be nice, and when the soup is finished, and all our bread is gone, he gathers everything on the tray and gets to his feet with it.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you," I smile at him, watching him move to the door, where he stops and turns to look at me again.

"Just so you know, I feel robbed too," he says, his words and the tone in which he spoke them making my heart beat faster. "It wouldn't have been my first time, but it would still have been precious to me too." And with that, he leaves the room, softly closing the door behind him.

I lie back against the pillows, a contented smile finding my lips.

☼☼☼