Chapter 4: The Blizzard's Grip
The temperature inside the mansion dropped precipitously by midnight. The ancient boiler in the basement gave a metallic groan and sputtered out, leaving the radiators ticking as they cooled into iron bars of ice. The blizzard had transformed from a heavy snowfall into a blinding whiteout, burying the ground-floor windows and howling down the massive stone chimney.
I hauled two heavy canvas logs from the basement woodpile up the grand staircase, my arms aching with every step. When I reached the living room, Vance was already there, kneeling before the hearth with soot smeared across his jaw, trying to coax life back into the dying embers. His black suit jacket was discarded over a leather armchair, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, corded forearms.
"The pilot light is frozen," Vance said, not looking up as I dropped the logs with a dull thud onto the hearth rug. "If we don't keep this fire fed manually every twenty minutes, the room will drop below freezing before dawn."
In the corner, wrapped in his brown blanket, the elderly man stirred in his wheelchair. His breathing sounded ragged in the silent, freezing room, each exhalation puffing a small cloud of white vapor into the frigid air.
"He needs more than fire," I said, kneeling beside the old man to check his pulse. His skin felt like cold marble beneath my fingers. "His circulation is failing. If we don't get him upstairs to the heated loft, the cold will finish what the board started."
"The elevator is tied to the main grid," Vance said, tossing a splinter of pine onto the struggling embers. "The power lines snapped an hour ago. The backup generator is flooded."
"Then we carry him," I said.
Vance paused, looking down at his father's frail frame, then up at me. "The stairs are steep. With his wheelchair—"
"Leave the chair," I interrupted, sliding my hands beneath the old man's shoulders while Vance instinctively moved to support his legs. "We take him together."
May you like
There was no time for corporate titles or class divides as we lifted him. The old man let out a low, raspy groan, his head resting against my shoulder. For a terrifying minute, his breathing hitched, and my heart hammered against my ribs. I caught Vance’s eyes across his father's body; in the warm, flickering orange glow of the hearth, the cold distance between us vanished entirely. We were just two people fighting to keep a spark alive in the dark.
We hauled him up the sweeping staircase inch by agonizing inch, the wind screaming against the stained-glass windows overhead like a living thing. By the time we reached the small, insulated sitting room off the master suite, both of us were breathless, our shirts damp with exertion against the biting chill.
