“Spirit. Singular,” he said. “It’s a local still. Very nice. I recommend it.” As he spoke, he stepped off his platform, moved over to the back of the bar once more and picked up a bottle so old the glass was milky white. No label was attached to it. He stepped back onto the platform, drew another glass off the overhead racks, flipped the heavy base over, then tugged the cork out of the bottle he was holding.

  He poured what I had to assume was a shot’s worth of liquid, although he did not measure it.

  He stuffed the cork back in the bottle with a slap of his hand and pushed the bottle aside. “That’ll be twelve dollars.”

  I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

  “That’s the price. Four for the pop, eight for the spirits.” He crossed his arms and I noticed only now the tattoos winding around his very thick wrists and the massive muscles in the forearms. “You’re not going to stiff me, are you?”

  Indignation warred with my outrage. I told myself that Johnny Walker Blue sold for fifty a shot in the bars in L.A. I’d watched too many investors drink themselves blind on the stuff. Just because this liquor came out of an unlabeled, unsealed, ancient bottle didn’t make it any less luxurious. Maybe artisanal spirits were the newest rage now. It had been a long time since I’d had the money or the time to drink in a bar.

  “You were going to tell me which house was Benedict Marcus’ house?” I said as I pulled my wallet out of my bag.

  “I said I’d have to find out,” the barman agreed. He kept his arms crossed, as he drew in a breath. Then he bellowed at the table of men, behind us. “Hey, Ben! Which house is yours, over there?”

  I whirled. Outrage won, this time. I could feel my anger licking inside my chest, building the heat. I could barely focus on the table, as one of the men stood up. There were four of them at the table now. The fourth must have returned to the table while the barman was getting our drinks. I thought it was the man who was standing, now.

  I put his age at anywhere between mid thirties and mid-fifties. He had a youthful face but his expression and posture, as he glanced at me and Ghaliya, told me he wasn’t as young as he appeared. His hair was black, with tinges of brown in the longer ends. It was naturally wavy and long enough that he had brushed it to one side where it lifted up in a thick body. The rest of his hair had been brushed back behind his ears, but I could see a curl lifting back there, too.

  His beard was severely trimmed, so that he could mistakenly be accused of failing to shave, and it was completely pitch black. So were his eyes, beneath straight brows that were as black as his beard.

  He wore simple trousers that looked dark grey and a button-up shirt that was black. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows.

  His gaze was on me. “Anna?”

  I nodded.

  Benedict Marcus shook his head and moved around the table, heading for the bar and me. “How much is Hirom trying to stiff you for?” He nodded toward my wallet.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t concentrate. My insides were having the most peculiar reaction to Benedict Marcus standing this close to me.

  Up close like this, he was just as attractive as he appeared to be from a distance. There was warmth in his black eyes, and his skin had a very mild olive cast to it that made it look smooth and soft.

  But close, like this, I could almost feel the heat of his body, which made me feel cold. Up close, I could see for myself that his shoulders were nice and wide and his hips weren’t.

  Get a grip, I told myself firmly. And I remembered, with a sinking feeling, having a reaction like this to Jasper, the first time I’d met him, outside the adult education center where I had been taking a receptionist course.

  I’d wallowed in that pit-of-the-belly swooping feeling, that time. And look where it had got me.

  So I clamped down hard on the sensation, shook myself off mentally, then ran through my mind the question Benedict Marcus had just asked me.

  How much is Hirom trying to stiff you for?

  “Twelve dollars,” I answered. “It must be extraordinary liquor.”

  “It’s pretty damn good, but that’s the tourist price.” Benedict Marcus looked at the barman with a pained expression. “You shouldn’t be charging her at all, Hirom.”

  “Drinks gotta be paid for,” Hirom said flatly. “I like my job.”

  Benedict shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re robbing Peter to pay Paul, you idiot. This is Anna Crackstone, Thamina’s daughter, and your new employer.”

  Hirom’s arms unfolded. His mouth popped open, as he looked from Benedict Marcus to me, and back.

  “Well, I don’t know about the employer part,” I protested. “That’s—”

  Hirom looked at me with a pained expression. “You shoulda told me up front.”

  “And maybe she’s flying under the radar to measure your worth, Hirom,” Benedict said.

  “I’m not,” I said quickly. “Really, this is…can I go out and come back in again?”

  Hirom crossed his arms again, making the muscles bulge. “Cat’s out, now.”

  I sighed and put away my wallet. I hadn’t touched the drink yet, anyway. “Seriously, I was just trying to find Mr. Marcus, here.”

  “And now you have,” Benedict Marcus said. “Hirom, it was a joke, and you should know better. When was the last time two women tourists travelling on their own came in here?”

  Hirom gave an almighty sniff. “Can’t remember it ever happening,” he said gruffly. “Doesn’t mean it can’t, though.”

  “Tourists asking for me by name?” Benedict responded. “Put the rot gut away and pour some of the good stuff, huh?”

  The drink he’d been about to charge me eight dollars for wasn’t the good stuff? I absorbed that while Hirom carefully poured the drink back into the bottle, then reached under the bar and brought out a dark brown bottle, this one also without a label, that he uncorked and poured a thick finger’s worth of the clear liquid into a fresh glass. He moved it across the bar and presented it to me with a little flourish of his thick fingers. “Enjoy.”

  I nodded and picked up the glass and sipped. It felt polite to do so. And I wanted to walk back some of the resentment I’d unintentionally stirred in Hirom.

  I savored the small mouthful of liquid. I wasn’t anywhere close to a liquor connoisseur. I can tell between a good Scotch and a bad one, but beyond that, I did not get excited about the after taste and I didn’t leave it sitting on my tongue while I inhaled fumes. I just drank.

  But this was a very good…something. I had no idea what it was. Gin? I’d have to find out later. For now, I enjoyed the mellowness of the flavor on my tongue. The subtleness of it. Then I swallowed. “That is amazingly good,” I admitted, putting the glass back on the bar.

  “One of Hirom’s best,” Benedict Marcus said.

  “You made it?” I asked Hirom.

  “That and the beer,” Hirom said. His tone was gruff, but he looked pleased. He waved to one side, and I glanced at the short end of the bar, six feet away. Four actual barrels, each about two feet across, sat on their sides on the counter, with taps emerging from them.

  That was why there were no beer pulls. The containers holding the beer weren’t in the basement. They were right here on the bar. From barrel to mug in one step.

  It was…quaint. But it fit with the olde worlde feeling the entire building imparted.

  I turned to Benedict Marcus. “If it is possible, I would like to see my mother now.”

  The tiny uptick in the corner of his mouth faded. “Yes, of course. Come with me.” And he waved toward the door we’d just come through.

  Chapter Five

  Benedict Marcus moved just ahead of us and I realized he wasn’t leading us, but getting ahead so he could hold the curtain aside. No man has held a door open for me, or held something aside for me in decades. I tried hard to not let it impress me now. I’m capable of opening my own doors. I’ve been doing it for years.

  But it did feel kinda nice in a squishy, weak way. I tried to nod my appreciation and not look impressed as I moved through the doorway, back into the hall where the stairs began.

  “Was your flight smooth?” Marcus asked, heading for the stairs.

  “Smooth enough,” I replied. My heart was thudding again. “Just far too long.” It had seemed to take a small ice age.

  “And your employer clearly gave you time off despite the short notice. That’s excellent,” Marcus replied, heading up the stairs.

  I didn’t reply.

  Ghaliya cleared her throat, embarrassed. She was too young to be able to keep a straight face.

  Marcus looked over his shoulder, then clutched the banister and looked at me properly. “You were fired?” he breathed, then glanced over my shoulder for eavesdroppers.

  I paused two steps down from him and shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of time off lately. This was just the last straw.” And I was lying through my teeth. I hadn’t asked for time off in over six months. I’d taken every shitty shift they’d assigned me. I’d even taken the double shifts on Sundays so Ashwin Osis didn’t have to bring in Clarence, the other cook, for four short hours.

  But I didn’t want to talk about getting fired. Not now. It wasn’t just the bad taste it left in my mouth. When I’d had to tell Ghaliya what had happened, my heart had not just palpitated, I had been able to feel it squeezing. It had hurt.

  I didn’t want to feel that again. I didn’t want to be as scared as I had been, feeling that pain. And I didn’t want to pick up the mental load of which being fired was just the top of the heap.

  Flying here had felt as though I was leaving all those issues behind, just for a little while. And here in the North Country, everything was so different, there were no reminders of any of it. Except for conversational landmines like this one.

  So I lied and shrugged.

  Benedict Marcus didn’t look convinced, or even shocked by my blasé response. He considered me for a moment. His black eyes seemed to reach into me.

  “Is my grandmother really here…in the hotel, still?” Ghaliya asked.

  I almost jumped. Almost.

  Benedict Marcus gave Ghaliya an easy smile, full of warmth. “Haigton Crossing isn’t big enough for a morgue. Or even a police station.”

  “There’s need for a police station?” I asked sharply.

  He turned that warm, honeyed smile on me. “Let me take you to see your mother. Then we can talk.”

  Because that didn’t worry me at all.

  I glanced at Ghaliya. She was chewing her bottom lip. She looked at me and I could see the concern in her gaze. She hadn’t liked his answer, either.

  We silently followed Benedict Marcus up the stairs. They turned at the back of the building and moved up to the second floor. The landing at the top was wide and pleasant. A runner stretched along the six-foot-wide passages, which arrowed down the middle of each side. A round rug filled up the landing. White doors with numbers lined the corridors, and two doors faced the stairs.

  “This is also a guest hotel?” I asked, surprised. “Mom never said…” I halted. There was a lot Mom had never said. She’d never talked about the hotel, only that it paid enough profit to keep her whole and relatively happy. She had spoken of friends, but never a doctor called Benedict Marcus who lived right across the street.

  “A guest hotel, a bar, and a dining room,” Benedict said.

  “There are enough people in the town to support an establishment like this?” I looked once more up and down the two corridors. There were no windows along the corridors to shed light, although each corridor ended with a window. The window to the right would have been one of those I had stared at a short while ago, from out in the parking lot. Small wall lights illuminated the deep shadows along the corridors that the windows didn’t reach.

  “The Crossing gets a lot of through-traffic in the milder months,” Benedict replied. “Up here, this way,” he added, pointing toward another flight of steps. This flight was narrower, and didn’t turn at the top. Instead, a closed door sealed off the stairs, bearing a sign I could read from the foot of the stairs.

  Private.

  We moved up the stairs. They had a runner on them, too, which muffled our steps, and I was suddenly glad that we weren’t making a lot of noise and drawing attention to ourselves. Although who would care, I couldn’t say.

  The door at the top was not locked. Benedict twisted the old-fashioned round handle and pushed the door open. Dim light showed beyond. Windows, but north-facing, so the late afternoon sunlight was already fading.

  The room was utterly charming. Ghaliya drew in a deep breath, smiling, as she turned on one foot, staring at the place.

  It was located at the back of the inn, right under the steep roof, so the ceiling sloped down to just above the mullioned windows. There were four windows along the length of the narrow room, none of them with curtains. Through them, I could see the roofs of perhaps seven houses, then the tops of trees. So many trees that between them was nothing but blank light. A strip of sky showed at the top of the windows.

  At first glance, the room seemed to be stuffed full of furniture, but it was a deception created by the narrow length of it. On either side of the doorway we stood in were a pair of red velvet wing chairs. The velvet was old and worn, with deep tucks and pleats on the back of the chairs creating diamond patterns in the thick pile. The chairs weren’t bright red, but a deeper ruby that the fading daylight made glow.

  On the wall beneath the windows was a long row of small tables, low bureaus, and a high, old-fashioned kitchenette. Between the two center windows, opposite the door, was a black, cast-iron stove, oblong, old, and massive.

  And on every horizontal surface was…stuff. Kitsch, it would be called in the city. Here, it was simply the belongings of someone leading a busy and interesting life. There were photos in frames, books standing on end and held upright with vases holding flowers that were now wilting, pots holding what I thought might be herbs, and more books stacked to make bookends. There were even more pots of growing things, adding a dark green hue to the room, which seemed to be glowing with orange light.

  An old-fashioned hurricane lamp sat on the side table beside the wing chair to my right, and more of the reproduction lamps were mounted on the wall opposite the windows.

  “Wow!” Ghaliya breathed. “Nana really embraced minimalism, didn’t she?”

  I turned to take in the wall opposite the windows. The central door we had come through was one of three. The other two each had a pair of steps to reach them. Both doors were closed.

  At the far end, to my right, as I studied the wall, there was a very old sofa with a curved and button-pleated velvet back, and a gilt frame. The single seat cushion was flat with age, but smaller cushions were sitting up against the back, making me twitch to find a good book and lie down to read, with a pillow under my head. An old, crocheted cream-colored afghan had been hung carelessly over one arm, as if the previous user had tossed it there as she got up.

  At the far left end of the room, a narrow, black-painted desk was pushed up against the wall. There were more books on it, and three shallow drawers along the front. Curved, clawed legs held it up.

  An upright chair, which looked as though it belonged to the dining room, downstairs, stood beside the desk. It had been left pushed partway out. The cushion on the seat was red, matching the wing chairs.

  The wall was filled with frames and shelves. Every spare inch of space had something mounted upon it. The frames weren’t anywhere close to matching. There were gilt frames, black frames that I thought might be plaster beneath the paint, and writhing with grapevines, leaves and bunches of fruit. Wooden frames, also carved with flourishes. None of the frames were modern, plain black or white plastic.

  Short shelves interspersed the frames. The longest was barely three feet. All the shelves were smooth old wood, and all held up rows of books. Each book spine was old, glinting with gold text, or with leather raised over the hand binding stitches beneath.

  I twitched to lift down some of those books and revel in them.

  What was in the frames was…everything. There were photos—I spotted one of me, Jasper and the kids, which made my heart thud a little. Photos of the kids growing up, graduating high school, grinning in their prom finery. More frames were filled with images of people I didn’t know, that I thought might be residents of this town, friends of my mother’s. But none of them showed an image of my mother. Not even grouped with her friends.

  This was her life, here on the wall.

  “Your mother liked to spend time alone in here,” Benedict Marcus said, his voice low. “Especially now, in winter.”

  I glanced at the doors, then at him.

  “Yes,” Benedict said, pointing to the lefthand door.

  “Ghaliya, do you want to stay here?” I asked her.

  She pressed her lips together, glancing from Benedict to me. “Nanna’s in there?” Her voice was strained.

  “Yes,” Benedict said. “It is okay if you don’t want to see her, although your mother must.”

  Ghaliya glanced at me. “If you can, so can I.”

  I nodded.

  Benedict Marcus moved over to the two tall steps, stepped on the first and opened the door, then stepped up through it.

  I followed, with Ghaliya on my heels.

  There was a broad shelf beyond the door, then three more steps, with wood panels on either side. Benedict stepped up, then turned left.

  I moved up into the room itself. The light was better here, but not by much. It came through a small window on the left wall. The window had no curtains or decorations, but the shelf beneath it held pots of plants and some of them had delicate small flowers in blue and purple and yellow. I had no idea what the flowers were. Only that they were pretty.

  A bed sat beneath the window, with the headboard pushed up against the wall that was common with the sitting room we’d just been in. Big, old-fashioned shelves were mounted on the wall over the head of the bed, and there were more books and photo frames on the shelves.