Page 42 of Widow’s Walk

He flexed his shoulders, rolling out the stiffness that had crept back in. The warmth Amy had coaxed into his muscles still lingered there like an ember. The heat of her hand on his skin, the careful pressure of her fingers.

It was just part of her work. But his errant thoughts had other ideas. Each stroke of the plane brought it back—her hands steady on him, her breath close, the scent of oil and lavender. Of her.

Sully set the blade to the wood again, carving the curve of the new banister for the mansion’s grand staircase. The design mirrored the original, but with his own signature. It was a challenging, one-piece rarity. The carved mahogany would polish to a soft umber sheen once it was stained and varnished. The balusters beneath would spiral in alternating patterns. Acanthus leaves would curl at their bases, rosettes tucked into the wood’s dark grain. This would be the first installment of his art in practical form. A staircase adornment.

The rhythm of the work pulled him under. Shavings curled like ribbons across his boots, and the sharp hiss of steel against grain kept time with his breath.

He didn’t know how long he’d been at it when a flicker passed the corner of his vision—a pale shape moving slowly and deliberately beyond the barn window.

Sully straightened, pushing hair from his forehead. The wind had stilled outside; no branches swayed, no mansion lights burned. A cold tightness gathered at the back of his neck. Something told him it wasn’t one of the island deer.

Thinking of intruders, he grabbed his flashlight from the bench and stepped into the night. The air carried a low, wet chill that tasted of salt and fog. His boots sank slightly into damp grass as he scanned the slope between the barn and the mansion. At first, nothing. Only the white blur of mist rolling low over the ground. Then movement again, ghostlike through the haze.

Someone crossed the lawn, bare feet silent on the dew-dark grass.

Amy.

For a heartbeat, relief hit him, then confusion. Ollie was nowhere in sight. She was in her nightgown, thin cotton caught by the breeze, the fabric clinging to her legs and chest with each step. Her hair streamed dark down her back, glinting faintly in the moonlight. She walked slowly, unseeing, straight toward the mansion.

Sully’s pulse jumped. “Amy?”

No answer.

He started forward. “Amy!” Louder now. “Are you all right?”

Still nothing. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of his boots squelching through the grass. Her gait was unsteady and uneven, with the trance-like, eerie calm of someone walking inside a dream.

When he caught her arm, her skin was cold and clammy, slick with mist. “Amy!” His voice came out rougher than intended.

She blinked once, slowly. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, pupils reflecting the sweep of moonlight. The world around them held its breath. The distant waves dulled, even the crickets were silenced.

Then she shivered. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“Christ,” Sully muttered. “You’re sleepwalking.”

He remembered the old warnings his grandmother used to mumble: Never wake a sleepwalker—it steals a piece of their soul.

The thought tightened his throat. Amy stood barefoot on cold ground; the mist wrapped her like something alive, and the cliffs a mere seventy yards away were difficult even for him to see in this fog. He couldn’t leave her.

“Hey, hey—it’s all right.” He spoke softly, like coaxing one of his nieces. Sliding an arm around her waist, he guided her gently back toward her cottage. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

She stumbled once, half resisting his hold. So, he lifted her off the ground. Her body was cold against the heat of him, and a tremor ran through her as she tipped her head against his chest, hair damp against his jaw. The nightgown clung to her figure, the thin fabric translucent with moisture.

He looked away quickly, guilt blooming hot in his chest.

Don’t think about that.

Her breath brushed his neck in shallow sighs, and her fingers twitched against his shoulder as if still half caught in the dream.

The walk back to her cottage felt longer than ever, the fog closing behind them like a curtain. Each step landed too loudly in the quiet.

On the porch, he shifted her carefully to push the door open with his shoulder. Ollie padded from the shadows with an anxious, low whine and tucked tail. The little dog circled once, then sat, gaze fixed on Amy.

She shivered again. She needed real warmth—the small knitted afghan on the couch wouldn’t do. In a last-minute decision, he carried her up the narrow stairs to the larger bedroom that was unmistakably hers.

Sully laid her on the bed and tucked the blankets snug around her shoulders. She stirred and fluttered her lashes open for a brief, confused moment.

“… Sully?” Her voice was a whisper, hoarse with sleep.