brandviolet

Another time Aimee and I sneaked into the Blake's huge summer house in the dead of winter through one of the basement windowss. A two storey, darkened and ice cold palace with dust-sheeted furniture and echoes of mouldering leather, velvet and oak.

Our breath formed excited clouds as we crept around the deafening creaking floorboards and into the attic. Up the stairs glowering predeccessors scowled their outrage at our transgression. "It's going to get worse, grandad." I remember thinking smugly to myself.

The attic had a matched pair of leaded glass skylights, frosted with ice and snow but letting enough blue-gray light through to see vague forms of chests, boxes, stacks of books and magazines, a mattress, a rack of clothes. It was still vaguely dark enough that as my eyes adjusted I could see phantoms receding into their domains.

Aimee sat on the mattress clapping her mittened hands together, then scooching up so her back was to the wall. She was wearing one of those wool hats with the two dangly balls at the end of the ear flaps and looked adorable, the perfect teeth and big smile and deepest blue eyes laughing at the world.

I walked up to her, boots sinking into the squeaky mattress springs.