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artistic ability, could tell the painter had considerable talent. The portraits were detailed and the subjects artfully posed, and many of the paintings were so realistic that she could feel eyes on her back as she moved along the hallway and peeked into rooms.
    The first two doors she tried opened into storage areas full of cardboard boxes, shrouded furniture, and musty crates. The third was an office of sorts, and Adrienne entered it to get a closer look at the ornately carved desk below the window. The view looked over the wood-clothed hill that ran towards town. Thin fog wove among the trees and over Ipson’s streets, lending them an otherworldly quality. The view was spectacular.
    This would be a great place to write. She ran her fingertips along the dark-wood surface. It would be okay, wouldn’t it? I don’t want to be disrespectful by using Edith’s private room and favourite desk.
    She wiped a finger over the table. It was slightly dusty but not enough to assume it had been neglected. Despite that, the room had the feeling of a space infrequently used. The bookcase was too neatly stacked and the desk too clear for Adrienne to imagine the room had been touched except for cleaning within the last few years. Maybe it belonged to Edith’s husband.
    Adrienne backed away from the desk and tried not to scrunch her face up. For some reason, the idea of Edith being married felt wrong. She still knew almost nothing about her benefactor, but something told her Edith Ashburn had stayed single.
    She left the office and passed the next door. She remembered its carved designs from the night before. She wasn’t eager to examine the indent on Edith’s bed or the rows of ornate black dresses again.
    To her delight, the door past Edith’s opened into a spacious and relatively clean bathroom. Unlike the rest of the house, which was predominately decorated in old-fashioned rose patterns, the bathroom was clean white with subtle sea-green accents. It looked modern, too, as though it had been installed within the past decade. A bathtub was set into the back wall with a showerhead poised above it and a spacious sink at its side.
    Adrienne turned on the shower’s water. Pipes rattled through the house, grinding and clanging for what felt like an eternity before the liquid spat out of the showerhead. While she waited for the hot water to flow through, Adrienne brushed her teeth and stared at the empty space above the sink where a mirror would normally sit. She wasn’t surprised to see her reflection replaced by the now-familiar phrase, NO MIRRORS.
    Looks like she’s removed every mirror in the house. That’s a pain; I didn’t bring any with me. I’ll probably look like a fright when I turn up in town today. No makeup, sweaty from the climb, probably twigs sticking out of my matted hair… it’ll give them something to talk about.
    She gave a wry grin then undressed and showered. The water was beautifully hot, but the room didn’t have a fan, and condensation glistened on every surface by the time she turned the taps off. She searched for some way to aerate the room, but the only option was the large frosted window behind the shower. She never would have dared open it in the city, but kilometres from town and with no neighbours, she felt remote enough to unlock the clasp and crack one of the panes open.
    Icy outside air rushed through the opening. Adrienne spluttered and raced to dry and dress herself before she froze. She was still pulling her jeans on when the sound of a motor disturbed her. She hesitated, one leg in its pant and the other one raised awkwardly in the air, and listened. I didn’t think I was close enough to the main road to hear any traffic.
    The motor grew in volume, and soon the crunch of small rocks being ground under tyres confirmed her suspicion. Someone had come to visit.
    She pulled the jeans on the rest of the way, stuck her feet into the sneakers, and crossed to the bathroom window. A tidy sedan was