Rennold could not remember when he had gone to sleep, convinced that he would not find it all night. But at some point, he closed his eyes and opened them to a sunrise. He checked his watch and began to dress and headed downstairs. He had a meeting with a few colleagues, gently easing out of the busy work field.
Catherine was already in the parlor with a cup of coffee. Her eyes were softly closed; her face looked 10 years younger. When she noticed Rennold she straightened up in her chair.
"I'll be home for dinner," he said and she nodded, giving him a warm smile to send him off.
Rennold got into the private carriage and the horses began their trot down the dirt road. He looked out the window, still not used to the quiet landscape. He expected some satisfaction in returning to the city, but he found himself wishing he could stay at home and watch his wife sip coffee.
The road curved over the hills and he went past Alysia Field's estate, Rennold peering out through the carriage window. It was as black up close as it was in the distance. Organized tiles covered the slanted roofs, and dark colors blended to make pieces hard to piece apart. The walls were composed of black bricks, the front porch of dark wood carved in intricate detail. All the windows were covered by curtains, and no light showed behind. There were bunches of plants with deep purple leaves growing around the perimeter of the house. Other than the shrubbed border, no life grew along Alysia Field's estate—the grass yellow and wilted, and the trees already bare of leaves. In the sunlight, he could see reflections of spiderwebs strung along the groves and corners of the house, the early morning light casting rays through the silk and revealing the house to be covered in thin webs. Rennold thought he could even see the large arachnids crawling along the threads before the house rolled out of sight.
¤ ¤ ¤
When Rennold returned, Catherine was not at home. He walked through the dining room to the kitchen and saw the basket on the counter that had been brought by Alysia. He looked at the items—muffins, tarts, biscuits—perfectly baked and colored with fresh fruit. He picked up one of the biscuits, the texture flakey beneath his fingers. His stomach growled. He sighed and took a bite.
When his teeth hit something crunchy his jaw stopped. Rennold absorbed the taste in his mouth and realized it was not right. He could feel something moving behind his teeth and when he pulled the biscuits away he saw fresh pink worms wiggling in the center.
He spat out the biscuit, pink worm splatting on the floor as he raked his tongue with his hand, trying to erase the vile dirt/worm flavor persisting in his mouth. He grabbed the basket and walked out of the house and tossed the rest of the baked treats to the dirt, then began stamping on them with his boots. He saw small black specs race from the food and into the earth and his gut twisted at the thought of having that in his house.
"Roger! What are you doing?"
He turned around and saw Catherine standing in a thin coat. "Why are you ruining the food? I didn't even have a chance to try any of it—"
"Trust me, you don't want to." He kicked the basket and turned towards his wife, taking her arm to lead her inside. "Where have you been?"
"I was in town at the market. Then I stopped by at Alysia Field's place."
Rennold looked at his wife with eyes growing into a bulge. "Why?"
"I wanted to thank her for the food. Had some tea with her on her porch. She's a nice woman. Educated too. I don't know why you have a problem with her."
Rennold wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood what he still didn't.
He swallowed his frustration. "I'm sorry I made a mess."
They entered the house and Catherine smiled at him. She went to the kitchen and Rennold looked slowly throughout the house for any pests that had escaped into his home. After finding nothing he settled in the parlor.
Catherine was still adding items to the rooms, bringing in the art pieces that covered almost every vacant wall space. She introduced color and depth to the spaces. There was a piece in the parlor 7 feet wide depicting a ship lost at sea, waves of white and blue curdling along the bottom of the canvas. Large white sales were open, catching the ride of the unseen wind that wrinkled the synthetic fibers. A strike of lightning cracked across the top of the painting, the quick and faint light highlighting the ship. It was a piece that used to hang in Catherine's mother's drawing room, an image she grew up looking at, which had been passed down to Catherine after the passing of her mother. It had been pushed to the side during their time living in the city. She felt there was no good spot for it, but in the new estate, she felt it belonged on the wall. Now, after she hung the artwork, looking at its position by the parlor window, it did not feel the same. Catherine tracked back and realized it had been 11 years since she took a look at the painting. At first, it reminded her too much of her mother. Then it reminded her of her old life, growing up with dreams that were smashed quickly as she reached adulthood. There had been joy and wonderment, then sorrow, and regret. The new emotion was boredom. She had never experienced such a lack of effect from the artwork. It worried her at first, that she was losing her adoration for art. But when she looked at her husband's work she felt something—delight, admiration, jealousy, hope. It was a loss of her attachment to her past. Who she once was did not matter anymore. She existed in the present and accepted things as they were. She decided to leave the painting on the wall, if not for her than for her passed mother, who was flawed in many ways but had always loved her children.