CHAPTER 4: OF RAVENS & WRITING DESKS

The helicopter touched down gracefully in a large field, sending a herd of frightened sheep scattering and bleating in all directions. James jumped out first, circled around to the other side, and offered Brigid a hand. He was still yammering into his Bluetooth and seemed to take no notice of the fact that Brigid was unsteady on her feet. She nearly collapsed onto the grass, lightheaded from a combination of being in the air so long and not having eaten since dinner the night before. She grasped the door of the helicopter and looked about, squinting through the mist. There was nothing around them but the sheep and a few scattered trees. A low hedge ran to their right, in the direction of a small structure about a mile off.

"Where are we?" She asked.

"Home," James answered shortly, before returning to his conversation. He began to walk along the hedge, and Brigid felt a sharp prod in her back.

"Ouch!" she exclaimed, rubbing at the spot angrily and turning to confront the offender. The words died in her throat when she realized it was Sebastian, and the source of the prod was a gun.

"Right. Walking," she said, quickly turning back around and hurrying after James. He had finally pocketed the Bluetooth and was trudging along at a brisk pace. Brigid was panting by the time she caught up with him; mobility wasn't exactly her strong suit.

"Listen," she panted, "are the gun and the – um—henchman—strictly necessary? This doesn't seem very –"

James waved his hand dismissively. "It's all for your protection, you've got nothing to worry about, Sebastian is under strict orders not to harm you. Unless you break the rules, of course."

"The rules?"

"Yes, the rules, haven't we been over this? You work for me now. You write when and what I ask you to. No contact with the outside world. All of that."

"Right, yes, I remember, but what do I need protection for? I'm hardly –"

"Ah, silly me, I've forgotten the most important rule, sorry love. No questions!"

"No questions?"

"Well, some questions, I suppose, but not about anything important."

"And how am I supposed to know what's important?"

James stopped for a moment and turned to face Brigid directly. She froze. His eyes were very dark, and very shiny. He reached up a hand and caressed her cheek gently, almost lovingly.

"Oh, you'll figure it out, love. In time."

With that, he abruptly turned away and continued on towards the house. Brigid and Sebastian followed in silence the rest of the way.

The house loomed ominously out of the fog; it was all dull gray stone and dark windows. As if this weren't enough, a cluster of chattering ravens huddled along the eaves, giving the house the distinct impression of being haunted. Brigid was in love.

"It's wonderful," she breathed as she stepped over the threshold. James grinned and threw his arms out theatrically, walking backwards through the foyer.

"I thought you'd like it. Convenient location for dreaming up murder mysteries, don't you think?"

"Yes, I think even Poe would have been happy here," Brigid nodded, taking in the dusty walls and creaking floorboards. "So is that what I'm going to be writing, then? Murder mysteries?"

"Obviously, that's your specialty, isn't it? If I'd wanted romance I certainly wouldn't have hired you," he said, looking her up and down.

Brigid wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered by this.

"Oh, don't be offended, that was a compliment. Romance is for boring people. We're not boring, love, you and I," he said with a wink.

"Right, um, thanks, I guess…" she trailed off and wandered into the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean, full of large, gleaming wooden cabinets with brass handles. She opened one and found it was fully stocked with more varieties of food than she had eaten over the course of her lifetime.

"You didn't need to do all this," she said as James strode into the kitchen, "I don't eat much, I'm really more of a tea-and-ramen kind of girl –"

"Yes, and whisky, I know, but as you can't have that I figured you might want to expand your boundaries a little bit."

She shot him a look.

"Oh, don't give me that," he rolled his eyes. "It's just a little experiment. If you're good, we'll give the whisky a chance."

"What about cigarettes?"

"Come on, really?"

"Be decent. I've got to have something. I'll go mad if I don't. I'll throw myself off the roof and damn your stories."

"Bit morbid, aren't you?"

"It's my job to be morbid."

"Point taken. Bottom drawer to your right."

She opened the drawer and found enough cigarettes to last her two months.

"Brilliant," she said, snatching up a pack and pocketing it for later.

"If you're quite finished, I've got more to show you," he said, pivoting on his heel and heading towards the stairs. Brigid followed him up two flights until they stood under what appeared to be an attic entrance: a large wooden door cut into the ceiling of the landing, frayed rope hanging down limply. James grasped the rope and yanked; the door gave a massive groan and swung downwards to reveal a set of steps that looked as though they hadn't been tread in decades.

"After you, love."

Brigid glanced nervously at the precarious steps and then back at James. He smiled.

"It's perfectly safe. We had Sebastian test them earlier just in case – he's about three times your size, and he was fine. Except for the second and fourth steps. Watch out for those."

Not comforted by this reassurance, Brigid grasped both sides of the staircase and hesitated. Suddenly, she felt a pair of hands grip her waist from both sides. She breathed in sharply as James leaned close.

"Up you go, love," he whispered, lifting her into the air. She ignored the swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach and swung her legs up to the first step. He released her and she scrambled up the rest of the way, making sure to skip the second and fourth steps. She emerged in a long room with a high, slanted ceiling. To her left was a massive canopy bed hung with deep blue curtains. To her right was a triangular window that stretched uninhibited from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. Directly in front of the window, facing outwards, was an ancient wooden writing desk; it was bare save for an old-fashioned typewriter and a stack of cream-colored paper. She pushed these aside and climbed up onto the desk, gazing out over the dreary meadow. Sebastian was loitering by the doorway below, spinning his gun around one finger and looking thoroughly bored. Farther off, nearly obscured by the mist, the helicopter crouched, waiting for its master to return. The sheep were nowhere to be seen. Brigid pulled a cigarette from her pocket and fished around in her jacket for a light.

"Damn," she muttered, coming up short.

"Here you go, love."

Brigid whirled around on the desk; she had been so distracted, she hadn't noticed James come up behind her. He was standing very close, and he was holding up a light. Grinning, she stuck the cigarette in her mouth and leaned towards him, inhaling deeply.

"What do you think?" He asked solemnly.

Brigid released a curl of smoke into the air and looked at him dead on.

"I think I'm going to like it here."