Chapter 7 - Northern Stone and Solitude
The drive north took nearly two hours through winding county roads lined with dense stands of pine and stubborn patches of late-autumn frost. In the back seat of the town car, Helen—Nicholas's mother—dozed peacefully against a stack of wool blankets, her arthritic fingers resting softly inside the folds of her white sweater. The frantic energy of the city had faded the moment we passed the county line, replaced by the steady thrum of the engine and the soft rustle of dry leaves against the asphalt.
When we pulled up to the cottage, the air smelled of damp earth, cedar wood, and woodsmoke from a nearby chimney. It was a modest, single-story stone structure with deep-set windows and a heavy oak front door that looked as though it had stood against decades of harsh northern winters. Nicholas climbed out first, walking around to open the back door and offer his mother a steady, gentle arm.
"It's cold, Nicholas," Helen murmured, blinking sleepily as she stepped out onto the gravel drive.
"I know, Mother," he said, adjusting the collar of her sweater with careful, practiced fingers. "I'll light the hearth inside within five minutes. Just lean on me."
I walked behind them, carrying a small leather valise containing Helen's medications and my own modest belongings. The interior of the cottage was remarkably warm and inviting, smelling of aged oak and beeswax. Exposed wooden beams crossed the low ceiling of the sitting room, where a massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall. While Nicholas settled his mother into a deep, plush armchair by the unlit hearth, I set to work building a fire, stacking dry logs and touching a match to the kindling.
Within minutes, bright orange flames danced against the dark stones, casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. Helen sighed with pleasure, stretching her stiff fingers toward the heat. Nicholas stood watching her from across the hearth, his shadow stretching tall against the timbered wall. He looked over at me as I knelt beside his mother's chair, adjusting her wool blanket.
"You didn't have to come, you know," Nicholas said quietly, his voice low enough not to disturb his mother. "I could have hired a local agency for this property."
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"You know as well as I do that a local agency wouldn't know how she takes her tea, or when her joints ache worse than usual," I replied, standing up to meet his gaze. "She needs someone who actually sees her, Nicholas. Not just a chart."
Nicholas held my gaze for a long, silent moment, the fire crackling softly between us. The gold chain of his tie clip—which he had loosened earlier in the car—caught the amber light of the flames. "I'm beginning to think," he whispered, "that you see everyone quite clearly."
