Setting the glass of shiraz on the end table, she settled herself comfortably into the overstuffed wingback chair. A warm fire would have been nice, but the fireplace never seemed to produce enough heat to throw off the damp chill that perpetually hung in the air.

She clicked the reading light on, put her feet up and picked up the book she was labouring through, a book of dry, technical material, a book that she invariably held up to her eyes until the words began to swim of their own accord on the page. She took a sip of her wine and began to read.

A disquieting creak above her signaled the shifting of the hardwood on the second floor as it expanded in the changing humidity. Moments later, a sharp bang marked the flexing of the heating ducts in the cellar as they warmed or cooled. The house never seemed to be still, like there was always someone besides her.

What does she now?

She reads.

God’s wounds! What must we do?

In sooth, keep trying.

There was another series of bangs from the ductwork.