"The latch is broken," David tells me, and I fold my arms, giving myself a big, encouraging hug. I do not like hearing those words!

"Not recently," he adds when he glances over his shoulder and sees me standing behind him, probably looking as bewildered and unnerved as I'm feeling. "It's easy to bump open from outside."

I utter a muffled shriek, dramatically jumping to the side, when something soft and furry weaves its way between my legs, rubbing against me, and I nervously look down to find the big grey-striped cat sitting on my foot.

This cat is going to be the death of me!

Feeling like an idiot, I stoop and gingerly pick him up, surprised when he purrs, nestling into my arms as if he belongs there. Picking him up was a reflex, and the second I started to do it, I remembered the droplets of blood streaking along David's arm, trickling from the claw marks.

He was right, though; the cat is rather sweet when he is not wet and terrified. His body is warm and comforting near my heart while I watch David, bent over the sideboard, half buried under curtains, inspecting the window.

"I think it's been broken for ages. It doesn't catch properly. The wind must've finally worked it loose last night or this morning, and the cat used it to come in. When the wind began to pick up now, it started banging."

I watch him working the latch into place with some effort until he rises and turns to look at me again.

"I'll use some tools to fix it properly. It's okay, Belle." Reaching out, he rubs his hands over my arms, stopping to scratch the cat's ears when the animal playfully swipes at him.

"Do you see paw prints there?" I ask, and David nods, pulling me closer to see a couple of muddy smears on the window sill that could possibly have been made by a cat scrambling through the window. There is at least one clear print in the mix that definitely belongs to the animal lying in my arms, which causes me to feel a measure of relief, but it is a very small measure.

Satisfied, I turn to go back to the kitchen, my eyes scanning the floor for prints, but it is mostly carpet, with only small sections of parquet floor visible in the gaps where the carpet is non-existent. The rug is threadbare and moth-eaten; if I were David, I would throw it out and give the beautiful patterned wooden floor beneath it some TLC and keep it bare.

My eyes run over the fishbone pattern as I walk to the door leading into the kitchen, and when they catch on a large wet area on the wood, I stop, turning to look at David. The tension seeps out of my shoulders when he drapes an arm around them while he studies the wet mark on the floor with all the interest it deserves. He finally shrugs, nodding at the cat in my arms.

"Might be where Professor Cat-Ass-Trophy sat to lick his butt. He is rather fond of doing that, as you've probably noticed already."

I turn my eyes away from the large teardrop-shaped print to glare at David.

"We're not calling the cat that," I tell him with a chuckle, shaking my head.

"Why not?!" David demands to know, looking shocked by my lack of enthusiasm for his creativity. He folds his arms over his chest, giving me a cheeky, challenging look. "He certainly thinks his ass is a trophy."

"Stop it!" I laugh, holding the cat closer to my chest, and turning away, I carry on with my journey to the kitchen, where our lovely meal is getting cold. If we don't eat it soon, the eggs will congeal unpleasantly, and the bread will turn from warm and crispy to cold and chewy.

"Come on! It's perfect!" David insists, his eyes filled with mirth when I give him what I hope is a withering look, but it only makes him laugh happily.

"At least drop the professor," I finally giggle.

"You don't think there's something very professor-like about him?" he asks, and when I stop in the kitchen, about to put the cat down, he places a finger under the feline's chin and tilts its head up so I can look at its cute round face.

Looking into the huge yellow eyes and the perpetually puzzled expression, I can see the word professor superimposed on the cat's forehead. Not really, but I get it, especially with the darker markings around his eyes, giving the illusion that he is wearing glasses... or is part raccoon.

"Yes, there is," I agree. "Let's drop the Cat-Ass-Trophy part, then, and just call him Professor."

"It's a package deal, Belle," David assures me, taking his place at the table and grinning at me when I lower the cat on the storage bench and move to join him at the table. Shaking my head, smiling at the weirdo tucking into his food, I'm about to sit when my eyes lock onto a suspicious wet spot on the kitchen floor. Looking around, I spot more of them, and they seem to be leading to the cellar.

Cat butt prints or not, they all look too similar, like the front part of tapered shoe prints. They are not spaced according to any pattern one would expect when they are prints made by a person walking across the kitchen and into the cellar, but I've made up my mind. I hurry to the key cabinet on the wall next to the door and extract the cellar key from it.  After waking up on the beach, David realised that it was pointless to hide the key from me if he was just going to use it in his sleep instead.

"Belle?" David asks, watching my actions with a worried frown when I lock the cellar door and return the key to the cabinet.

"I'm just..."

What can I say?

Somebody dragged me down the stairs. I was awake, and it was too real to have been a hallucination; most of my scrapes and bruises confirmed it. Yes, the guy being hung by angry people was probably not an incident which happened while I was lying on the floor, but somebody definitely knocked me down and dragged me.

Someone blocked the door so that David couldn't reach me. That was not imagination either, nor the wind or a coincidence. David is pretty strong.

"Hey," he soothes, taking my closest hand when I finally sit in my spot at the table. "If there were someone here, there would be many physical signs. The cat's probably been all over the place until he stumbled into the bathroom, but I'll take a look around after I've eaten, okay?"

"Yes, thank you," I say, offering him a weak smile.

We quietly eat our food, enjoying the rare sunlight flooding through the windows. There's a strong wind blowing outside, rattling the glass in the panes and screaming through every narrow gap it finds, but the sky isn't overcast for a change, and we have some hope of the weather lasting at least a few hours longer.

"I'll do as much gardening as I can while I can," David tells me while I wash the dishes and he sips the last of his coffee. "Who knows how long this sun will last."

"The wind might blow you away," I remark. The little bit I felt of it while David was trying to close the window wasn't balmy, but it also didn't have a bite. It's just your everyday garden variety wind that is trying to blow the house down.

"It will keep me cool," he says, joining me at the basin to wash his cup.

"Thanks for the food," I tell him. "It was lovely as usual."

When he wraps his arms around me as if it is the most natural thing in the world, I step into his embrace with the same ease, resting my head on his chest and winding my arms around his waist. I love listening to the steady beat of his heart. He seems so alive, so real, so vibrant. I don't ever want to let him go. Never in my life have I felt this attached to another human being this quickly.

Sometimes, it feels as if I've known David all my life, as if he'd been a part of it from the very start. I want to hold onto this closeness for as long as I can.

"I'll do a quick run-through and make sure there are no lurkers," he says after a few minutes, letting me go and digging through the utensils in the drawers and cabinets until he finds a long, strong steel roast skewer. I watch him take it from a cupboard and twirl it with one hand before he rests it against his shoulder, the sharp end pointing at the ceiling in a pose that warns anybody seeing him that he means business.

I wouldn't mess with him and his skewer!

"Wow!" I grin. "Impressive! Very sexy! I can totally picture you with a katana."

"I always wanted to be a Samurai," he chuckles, and when he moves towards the door leading to the hallway, I hurry to find my own weapon and grab his free hand, making it clear that he's not going alone. My weapon, as it turns out, is the spatula I just washed, and seeing it, David cocks an eyebrow, grinning.

"You're going to scramble the enemy?" he chuckles.

"If I have to."

"It's always good when the enemy is confused."

We slowly travel from room to room while I check for prints and splotches on the floor, and David looks for real-life monsters ready to pounce on us. We find plenty of dark shadows and creepily flickering lights dying in their sockets, but we don't find many prints, and no monsters come at us.

"David," I gasp when we finally decide that we've had enough of dust and cobwebs, and we're standing on the landing, rethinking our strategy. "Do you hear that?"

Being as quiet as possible, we both listen to the occasional howl of the wind and rattle of closed doors and windows, and after a couple of minutes, David shrugs, turning his head to look at me, holding onto his arm.

"The wind?"

"No... the other thing... the quiet."

"What?"

"No clocks. The grandfather and the one in the study are no longer ticking." I noticed it, but I also didn't notice it. It's like that thing that's always been there, and you've grown used to it to a point where you no longer notice it and then, when it's suddenly gone, it takes you a while to realise what is missing.

David cocks his head, his expression turning into surprise. "You're right. They used to be pretty loud. I haven't heard them ring even once in ages, either."

Neither of us knows what that could possibly mean, and we're not all that keen on speculating about it... at least, I know I'm not.

We've been all over the house except for the cellar and the solarium. Neither of which I'm feeling inspired to visit. The cellar is locked, and so are the back and front doors. I know it won't keep an intruder out. If I've locked someone in the cellar, they could use the tunnel and climb in through the dodgy dining room window, but at least we might see or hear them coming... I hope.

We've also not checked the locked room between the bathroom and the room where the dead crow attacked me since we don't have a key for it.

We both turn our attention to the stairs leading to the sunroom, and after a while, David takes one look at my face, frees himself from my grasp, and runs, taking the stairs two at a time to the top. I'm anxious about being left alone on the landing, but I stay put since we've checked every closet and under every bed up here. David even removed tarps to un-ghost the furniture waiting to be sorted.

I watch him open the door at the top of the stairs, the skewer ready in his hand, and this time, when Professor Whatchamacallit suddenly rubs against my legs, I'm prepared for it and find comfort in the gesture rather than making a puddle on the floor, while I jump out of my skin.

The cat has been following us through the house, often distracted by things he sees as potential toys, and then he'd go off on his own mission for a while. We had our work cut out to ensure we were not accidentally closing him up somewhere.

"All clear," David tells me, and I hurry up the stairs to join him when he steps over the threshold.

The solarium is exactly how I left it.

Registering that fact, I heave a sigh of relief. My works in progress are on a couple of the easels along the wall of windows, and they are unmolested. I'm a little sorry about that, I would've loved it if they were completed. There are no new drawings on the floor or any of the tables. All is well in the room of shadows and silhouettes.

This is the sunniest room in the house on any given occasion (except nighttime), but the many gossamer-draped windows looking out at the orchard and the greenhouse tend to cast shadows, playing within other shadows along the walls and surfaces furthest away from them. The wall section, with smaller windows pointing to the front of the house and the corner area, where storage shelves are built into the walls, are always filled with secrets and moving shadows.

When I started to use the room, I opened the thin curtains covering most of the large windows, hoarding them to the side of the wall as best as possible, but one or two panels still float along the edges of the windows at irregular intervals.

David and I are in the shadowy corner near the shelves, moving canvasses and boxes, trying to expose possible hiding places, but all we've found so far are old artwork, discarded canvasses and drawings, dried paint and paintbrush skeletons.

"What do artists need this for?" David asks, sounding puzzled, and I join him next to the bookshelves to look at what he found. An iron ring, mounted at the base of the wall, with a short section of rusted, broken chain attached to it.

"Uhm..." I say, sharing a grimace with him. "Perhaps, long ago, someone liked painting and drawing animals and had to keep them from wandering off during a session."

"Okay," David nods, happy to accept my ridiculous explanation and I'm glad because we already have enough things in life to question. We don't need an ancient, rusted iron ring and its attachment added to the list.

Sifting through the items with David is rather fun. We admire some of the old paintings we find, wondering why the artists left them behind, laughing at some of the others. When David becomes enraptured by a couple of female nude studies, I grab the spatula from where I'd dumped it on a table and wack him on the bum with it, making him laugh.

"Jealous?"

"Shush!"

We're progressing nicely, among the debris, our original goal clearly forgotten during our impromptu treasure hunt. I doubt that David is going to be working in the garden today; the sun is not going to last much longer. I'm certainly not going to remind him; I love spending time with him like this.

Whenever I was painting in the warm light at the windows, fully focused on my creations, I was occasionally startled when I suddenly glimpsed movement from the corner of my eye. It was always caused by the silky drapes shivering in unpredictable draughts or a shadow jumping as the light shifted across the room with the sun's progress.

I've become somewhat used to it while up here, which is why I don't react too strongly when I see something stir in my peripheral vision. I calmly turn my head, sure I'll once again catch a piece of curtain disturbed by a breeze or a shadow creeping along, announcing that time is passing.

It's late in the day, and the sun is not all that bright, causing even more shadows than usual. The wind having fun outside sporadically finds its way into even more crevices than when it's less violent; all of it is quite expected.

What I don't expect to see is the woman standing in front of a section of the large windows, not far from where my easels are set up. She has her back to me; all I can see is a black silhouette against the bright backdrop provided by the windows.

My breath catches in my throat, unable to pass over my lips or back into my lungs. I stand as still as a statue, staring at her. Waiting and hoping that the light or the breeze would shift and it would all make sense again.

It's happened before, quite a few times; I'd see what appeared to be a figure, usually here in the shadowy parts of the room, but as soon as my eyes adjusted, it would no longer be a person; it always became a cluster of canvasses or a couple of stacked boxes.

I keep my eye on the figure, watching and waiting, but it is distinctly etched this time, with no ambiguity of shadows and lighting. No items could cast that shadow against the filmy drapes; besides, it is too solid and three-dimensional.

And it moves without the help of a breeze.

As if aware of me staring at her, she finally turns to look at me. Shadows and silhouettes don't usually have features, do they? This one does, covered in a drape as wispy as the ones shielding the windows behind her.

Even through the veil, I can see that her face is twisted with a mixture of despair and anger, and then she speaks, her voice, a hoarse whisper trembling in the air, echoing inside me, heard by my heart rather than my ears.

"He... killed... me..."

"Belle, I just remembered something," David speaks near my elbow, causing me to start. Doesn't he see her? Doesn't he hear her?

"That key that came from the nautical clock. I think it belongs to the room next to the bathroom. I forgot about it in all the... well... stuff that's been going on."

I cannot move; my eyes are glued to the woman at the window. I can feel her sorrow and her fear and hear her sobs. Dread curls its cold talons into my gut, causing the lovely late brunch I had to curdle and boil, turning my stomach sour.

"You killed her?" I mutter, using my voice snapping me out of my stupor.

"What?" David asks, and I automatically turn my head to look at him. He is standing beside me, his muscles straining in the sleeves of Craig's t-shirt. He is the picture of vibrant health and power, and suddenly, instead of feeling the familiar warmth and security, I am afraid.

My eyes flit to the skewer he left on the table next to my spatula, and I swallow nervously, jerking my head around to look at the windows again.

The woman is gone, and I am not surprised. Nothing in this house sticks around long enough to properly explain anything. I'm getting fairly sick of it! My fear is changing into despair of my own. Her emotions were so strong, so real.

Who killed her? He who?!

I don't want to be afraid of David! I don't want to doubt him! I've done it too many times already, and he has been nothing but kind to me.

I know he is capable of violence, and I've seen the dexterous way he'd handled the skewer, but every time he'd used that violence and dexterity, it had been to save, help or protect me. Never to threaten or harm me.

I don't want to fear him. I don't want to fear him. Please! I don't want to fear him!

"What did she mean?!" I sob, and when David takes my upper arms in his strong hands, gazing anxiously into my eyes, I realise with a sinking feeling that I asked the question out loud.

"Belle? Uhm... Luna, are you with me?" he asks, his eyes searching mine to see if I'm lucid.

"Yes," I whimper, stepping closer to hug him, and when he slides his hands from my arms to my back, his embrace is as sweet and warm and safe as ever. Please let this not be what it seems to be. Please let that woman be a random stranger from hundreds of years ago and not who I think she is.

"Are you okay?" David asks, sounding truly worried about me.

"Yes, I whisper, clinging to him with more force, willing the horrible thoughts and feelings out of my mind. David is sweet and warm and kind. There is no way that he murdered the woman at the window.

Shivering involuntarily, I turn my head, snuggling into his chest and open my eyes, startled to see the woman again, looking forlorn, gazing out the window. She's no longer wearing the veil. Her long, black hair is tangled and matted with something sticky, and when she turns around to face me, I'm horrified to see that her face is riddled with wounds, and black bruises are etched starkly against the white skin of her neck.

"He... killed... me..." she says again, the words searing through my brain as she raises a hand, pointing a finger towards us.

Gasping, I pull out of David's embrace and run to the door, half-expecting the woman to intercept me, perhaps stab me or knock me down to drag me down the stairs, but when I hurriedly scan my environment, there is no sign of her. There is only David, staring at me, his hand slowly reaching for the skewer on the table near him as I run through the door and flee down the stairs.

My breathing is uneven, rasping harshly through my lungs, which are already burning from the violence as I run down the stairs and over the landing. My flight or fight instinct has kicked in, leaning in only one clear direction. I need to get out of here and as far away as I possibly can!

Two questions keep on screaming through my mind, fighting for dominance and the ultimate achievement of breaking my heart.

Was the woman I saw Iris Stirling? Did David kill his wife?

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