to touch. The wood felt cool, but the fire produced enough heat that it spread over me in delicious waves.
Brando helped me out of the leather jacket, keeping it tucked underneath his arm while he retrieved our bags. “We’ll talk soon, about all of this.” He waved a hand around. “First—”
The urge to say anything, anything at all, burst forth. Small and soft but with a touch of impatience. “But first—”
“But first,” he cut me off, “we see the rest of the house.” He picked up our bags, one in each hand, and then offered me his arm.
My heels hardly made a sound as we traveled down a darkened hallway, Brando guiding me. He knew every step, whereas I felt like I still had the blindfold on.
Shock slowly turned into awe, and I thrilled at every footfall, knowing we were one breath closer to doors that would reveal new rooms. I had never ventured this far in. Brain muttered, rush, rush, while heart responded, savor, savor.
I went with heart.
We came to a room tucked away from the rest. Setting one bag down, Brando opened the door, and then he motioned for me to enter. I took a few steps in, waiting for him to wave his magic candle to bring the room to life. When he did, my hand came to my heart.
The master bedroom, complete with new walls and unfinished floors—in all its limbo—caused me to whisper, home. Our shadows stretched up an antique brick wall, trembling in the flittering light as though we were underwater, a subtle current causing us to undulate.
Brando took the candle and lit another fireplace. This one had a mantle that matched the bed frame that sat in the center of the room. Chipped whites and a blue so creamy it could only be described as heavenly brightened the darkness. The furniture, the entire look of the space, reminded me of vintage France.
“How—” I turned in a circle, taking it all in again. “Brando—”
“Let’s see the rest.”
I smiled. “All right,” I whispered, and one of the candles fluttered with my breath.
From there, the tour revealed five other bedrooms, four baths, a washroom, the kitchen with its many windows, and a vast yard. Rows and rows of dead roses haunted the outside with shadows of their ghosts. An old vegetable garden stood as a testament to what had been and what could still be. It was even complete with a rickety gate that stood ajar.
There was so much potential here.
In the kitchen, I flipped a switch and electrical bulbs blasted awake, almost blinding me. Blinking back the brightness, I flipped it off, preferring the candlelit darkness. All of the subtle details could be admired tomorrow, in the sunlight.
During the grand tour, I noticed that we had passed one room without stopping, but before brain caught up to mouth, Brando had shifted my concentration by taking a quilt from the plastic covered sofa and spreading it out before the fire.
He instructed me to take a seat and then disappeared, leaving me to my own thoughts. Not long after, too short of a time for me to even consider what all of this meant, he was back, a box wrapped in gold paper in his hands. It shimmered against the firelight.
Placing the package between us, he took a seat across from me. I had settled in, leaning to the left, the gown fanning out around me. In reflection to the raging heat, the silk reminded me of a melting rose petal.
Brando removed his jacket, mimicking my stance, and when he looked toward the fire, I was gifted with his profile. Regal. Angular. Perfect. I wondered just what kind of day God was having when he created Brando Fausti.
I reached out and touched him, my fingertips gentle, my strokes light, barely there. My fingers were as cold as ice, his skin like the heat of a flame. He didn’t smile or turn to me, but his eyes reflected the peace he seemed to have found. He pressed his face closer, kissed my wrist, and then whispered, “Open it.”
I nodded, not offering a word.
After a bit of staring at the wrapped box, I did as told, lifting the gift closer to the fire so I could see all of the intricate details better.
A beautiful music box.
The top was covered by a square piece of crystal that seemed to be dotted with small pieces of “snow.” A ballerina—who looked an awful lot like me—stood in the center, her pose frozen