He stands listening to his own breathing, above the waves of gale-driven water that continue to lash the cottage. He can hear himself calming a little, easing back to a more even rhythm and gaining a measure of self-control. He reaches out his hands like a blind man. Once he’s found the frame of the door, he gains confidence, and grabs his way down the wall and back into the kitchen. He puts his foot out ahead of him and gives a wide sweep, conscious that he’s left items on the floor. A bucket is sent spinning, and it makes him jump. He becomes aware of how agitated he is, how such little things send a frisson of fear up his spine. At the far end of the kitchen, he looks out of the window. He’s afraid to go too near the glass, in case someone – somehow – leaps into his vision. He has no idea where that fear comes from, but it’s there, and it’s very real. The dying embers of the fire in the living room give a feeble glow, so as he enters the room he’s able to define shapes and. ‘Spirita!’ she recognised the voice, so she ignored the call. ‘Celeste!’ the same voice called again, with a different, brighter tone. Now, she did respond. ‘Would you like to join me by the fire-place? I have some mulled wine and something I’d like you to read. Care for some late night discussion?’ and he put on the most charming smile on his face. What’s happened to her Thomas? The Thomas she knew was her physicist, her chemist, forever logical and a little clumsy. Has he been abducted by aliens and replaced by a look-alike? For a second, she looked at Thomas, studying every inch of him: his hair was dark, wavy and unkempt, with waves covering his forehead and neck. He had, what she thought to be the dreamiest eyes she had ever seen, the amber green pigment of the iris patterned with wondrous ornaments. From what she could deduce from looking at his robe and pyjamas-covered figure, the rest of him had even more to offer. She smiled at that thought, but felt momentarily sick at.
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