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near the bed,
she found another quilt, and though it smelled slightly of
mothballs and dust, it was dry. She put it over his shoulders and
began rubbing his cold fingers.
    At her touch, he looked up. She
found herself staring into those strange gray eyes, and she felt
suddenly breathless. Then she noticed that she was no longer
rubbing his hands, but he was softly stroking the back of hers.
Hastily, she dropped his hand and stood up. She cleared her throat,
“I'll just see if there are any tea things, shall I? I think you
could use something hot.”
    She spent several minutes rummaging
through the cupboards without really seeing anything. A warmth was
spreading itself throughout her body, starting low and moving
steadily lower. She closed her eyes to steady herself and saw grey
eyes behind her closed lids. She heard a cough behind and whipped
around, knocking a tin cup to floor with a loud clang.
    “You startled me,” she said, putting
a hand to her fast-beating heart.
    “I want to show you why I brought
you here.” He was looking at her intently and holding out his
hand.
    She nodded her consent but tactfully
pretended not to see his hand.
    “This way.” He led her to the door
she had noticed on first arriving in the cottage. He opened it to
reveal another room, slightly larger than the living quarters and
smelling strongly of woods shavings and varnish. She stepped into
the room and waited while George brought a light.
    He walked through the work space,
past benches and tools towards the back of the room. Following,
Harriet suddenly realized that they must be in Mr. Hudson's cabin,
the carpenter. But where is Mr. Hudson? she wondered. George had
stopped next to some kind of chair, but Harriet could not make it
out right away in the dim light.
    It was definitely a chair of some
kind, made of a deep, rich-colored wood Harriet could not identify.
The workmanship was incredible; she could tell even in the dimness
that it was of impeccable quality. It had slender, curving arms and
a foot rest in the front, but what held Harriet's attention were
the two large wheels affixed to the sides.
    “It's for your father,” George was
saying.
    Stunned, Harriet turned to him. “I
don't understand.”
    George looked down, and Harriet had
the horrifying thought that he was embarrassed, but she did not
know what to say.
    “You mentioned that he has some
trouble moving about,” he began. This was a vast understatement,
since he knew that her father could not move at all, but she
ignored it and let him continue his explanation. “I thought that
this way he could be moved more easily, perhaps someone could even
push him around outside on occasion. I'm sorry, it is quite heavy,
but I'm going to try again to make a lighter one that you could
easily push. I hope this will work in the meantime.”
    Harriet was speechless. The chair
was beautiful, and from what he had been saying, George seemed to
have made it himself. “I don't know what to say.”
    “You don't have to say
anything.”
    Harriet placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
    Her hand lingered on his forearm,
and without quite knowing it was happening, she found herself
moving her hand down and linking her fingers into his. He turned to
her in surprise, and they ended up facing each other. The space
where they stood was small and cramped, and their bodies were
almost touching, a narrow, highly charged space all that remained
between them.
    In the dim light, she saw him
hesitate, then tentatively, he placed his hand on the small of her
back and pulled her towards him, closing the space and holding her
softly against him. He leaned down and lightly touched her lips
with his. He tasted of smoke and something sweet she thought must
be wine, and he was delicious. She parted her lips, encouraging him
to give her more.
    The kiss deepened, becoming
increasingly passionate as he pulled her against him. His tongue
slid into her mouth, and her eyes opened wide. He