"When a person is lucky enough to live inside a story, to live inside an imaginary world, the pains of this world disappear. For as long as the story goes on, reality no longer exists." – Paul Auster, The Brooklyn Follies: A Novel
The autumnal nights weren't crisp, they were freezing and the master cabin's fireplace wasn't enough for the room's thin-boned mistress. Mrs. Muir's teeth chattered as the north wind roared into the house, sending drafts of Canadian air whooshing through ancient caulking around the windows.
"Blast," the Captain grumbled, casting a wary eye at the bedroom closet where she changed into long underwear and heavy nightgown each evening at 10. There would be no feminine frippery until at least April. This was his first winter voyage with a human onboard. How could he have overlooked the portholes? The little white curtains flapped stiffly in the freezing air. With a swivel of his index finger the Captain sent Mrs. Muir's house shoes scuttling from the hearth to the closet door, then focused his attention on the fireplace. The flames jumped at the spectral command. Their warmth would soon envelop the couch. Next were the bricks warming on the hearth, which he lifted with his own hands and laid carefully underneath the comforter at the foot of the bed.
Mrs. Muir shot out of the closet, belting her robe tightly around her tiny waist. She stepped right over the fleece house shoes he'd left at the door for her. Her toes curled in immediate protest on the freezing planks. She hopped back to the closet, sliding her feet gratefully into their fleecy warmth.
"What is this madness, Captain Gregg? A cursed clock and Claymore? Gull Cottage may be a haunted house, but this silly affair with your ancestor's clock was just a little much for me."
"Madness, Mrs. Muir?" She sank gratefully onto the warm leather sofa, finally, tucking his great aunt's quilt around her. Her nightly cold-weather cognac rose by itself from the little rosewood serving table and settled easily into her outstretched hand. He seated himself at the far end, a double-malt Scotch at his side.
"Point taken, Captain. I suppose the supernatural's not madness if it involves my comfort and our lovely fireside chats. If I had to hop into bed just to stay warm, it would ruin the first bit of peace and quiet we've had all day!"
She sipped her drink, and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"For what? I admit the curse may seem a little daft by standards of your day, and Claymore on any occasion, can always be counted upon to –"
"No, Captain. For everything you do, for all I seem to take for granted by the standards of any century." She stretched, her feet inches from his thigh. Another blast of wind shook the house and she startled, briefly. He tugged the comforter back over her feet. She reached to grab his hand. Panicked, he tried to pull away.
"Claymore, blast it," he sputtered. "You saw."
"Indeed, Captain. I saw and now I see wholly different kind of madness. The insanity of a spirit who would take the hand of a nincompoop but not the heart of the woman who shares his quarters."
She released him, briefly, measuring her palm against his before intertwining their fingers. She was so incredibly warm, this human burning her way through his afterlife. Stirred, he placed her hand to his chest, drawing her toward him, her lips now inches from his.
"Take my hand, Daniel," Carolyn whispered. "Keep my hand and show me our future."