Into the Woods by Kim Harrison

not of a mind to soil your rugs.”
    “So stomp your feet,” I said, taking his arm and pulling him in. “Shut the door before you let all the heat out.”
    The shadow of the closing door prompted me to flick on the hallway light, and Pierce squinted at it. I hated the green color my mom had painted the hallway and living room. Pictures covered the passage to the kitchen: pictures of me and Robbie, slices of our lives.
    I glanced back at Pierce, who was still staring at the light but clearly making an effort to not say anything. I hid a smile and wondered how much longer his efforts to not look impressed would win out over his curiosity.
    “You have so many rugs,” he finally said, following suit as I stomped my feet.
    “Thanks,” I said, and I shuffled out of my coat.
    His eyes finally hit the walls, and he reached out. “And photographs. In color.”
    “You’ve seen pictures?” I asked, surprised, and he nodded.
    “I’ve had my picture taken,” he said proudly, then reached out. “This is you? It’s beautiful,” he said in awe. “The expression the artist captured is breathtaking. None of God’s landscapes has ever looked so beautiful.”
    I gazed at the picture he was touching in reverence and then away with mixed feelings. It was a close-up of my face among the fall leaves, my eyes as green and vivid as all creation, my hair bringing out all the shades of autumn clustered about. I had just come back from a stint at the hospital and you could see that I was ill by my pale complexion and thin face. But my smile made it truly beautiful, my smile I had given to my dad as the shutter snapped, thanking him for the joy we had found in the simple pleasure of the day.
    “My dad took it,” I said, looking away. “Come in the kitchen,” I said, wiping my eye when I noticed it was damp. I was supposed to die before him, not the other way around.
    “I don’t know how long my mom will be out,” I said loudly, hearing his steps behind mine. “But if we can get what we need and leave, it will be all the better. Forgiveness being easier to get than permission . . .”
    Pierce entered slowly, hesitating by the laminated table and taking in the ticking clock, the cold stove, and the double-pan sink as I dropped my coat and bag onto my chair. “You and your mother are alone?” he asked.
    Surprised at the amount of wonder in his voice, I hesitated. “Yes. Robbie is visiting from the West Coast, but he goes back next week.”
    His deep blue eyes came back from the ceiling. “California?”
    “Oregon.”
    Pierce looked again at the cold stove, undoubtedly guessing its use from the pot of solstice cranberry tea on it, now scrummed over and cold. “Your mother should be commended for raising you alone.”
    If he only knew how often it was the other way around. “She should, shouldn’t she,” I said, going to the coffeemaker and peeking into the filter to find unused grounds. “You want some coffee?”
    Taking off his coat, Pierce draped it carefully over a chair. He checked his nonexistent tie, then moved his arms experimentally as if taking in how warm it was. “I’m of a mind, yes, but does our limited time allow for it?”
    I flipped a switch and the coffeemaker started. I kind of liked his extra words. It made him sound classy. “Yup. You want to help me with the attic?”
    Without waiting for an answer, I went down the other hallway to the rest of the house, Pierce right behind me. “That’s the bathroom there,” I said as we passed it. “My room is at the end of the hallway, and my mom’s is across from it. Robbie has the front room, though it’s more of a storage room, now.”
    “And the servants are in the attic?” he asked as I halted under the pull-down stairs.
    “Servants?” I asked, gaping at him. “We don’t have any servants.”
    Pierce looked as surprised as I felt. “But the rugs, the photos, the warmth of your home and its furnishings . . .”
    His words trailed off as his hands