Widow's Welcome

"They stop one's fingers from getting greasy," she explained, carving off a generous piece of breast meat. It hit his plate with a palpable slap, followed by servings of roast vegetables and potatoes. She offered him the gravy boat, and he drizzled his meal with it, watching the brown liquid pool on the fine china.

"You sure you weren't expecting guests?" he asked, watching as Moira filled her own plate.

"Your arrival took me completely by surprise," she replied.

Freddy wanted to tell her that he hadn't asked if she had been expecting him personally, but decided against it, starting on his meal. It tasted just as good as it looked, the meat soft and succulent, the crispy skin crackling as it peeled away. The potatoes had the perfect consistency -- fluffy on the inside but crunchy on the outside.

"You weren't kidding," he chuckled, his prior uncertainty quickly forgotten. "You're not just proficient -- you're a master chef."

"You flatter me, Freddy," she cooed as she popped a forkful of turkey into her mouth. He noted that she finished chewing before continuing, never forgetting her impeccable manners. "I've had to learn to feed myself in the absence of any kitchen staff."

"This is probably the best meal I've had since that wedding I mentioned," he added, Moira smiling in quiet amusement as he cut into another potato to release a wisp of steam. He glanced around the room, once again feeling a tug of vertigo as he marveled at its sheer size. The pair of candelabras cast dancing shadows on the walls, their light not even reaching halfway down the length of the table, leaving Freddy and Moira sitting in an isolated island of illumination. Like the rest of the manor, the rafters above were joined together by blankets of old cobwebs, and there was a fine layer of dust on every surface. The near end of the table was clean, at least. Still, it did little to detract from the sight, Freddy craning his neck as he ate another gravy-soaked potato.

"I can see why you don't like to eat alone," he added as he glanced down the length of the table. It was so long that they could probably have set up some pins at the far end and used it as a bowling lane. "There's being alone, then there's being alone...in here."

"It does make one feel rather small," she replied, following his gaze. "When several generations of my family still lived under this roof, and there was an army of servants tending to an equal number of rowdy dinner guests, I can assure you that it felt far more homely. So many parties have been thrown in this hall, so many feasts enjoyed, so many birthdays and holidays celebrated. It shames me to see it so empty and neglected. Then again, that describes everything in this house," she added with a sigh.

"It's not too hard to imagine all these candles lit and all these seats filled," Freddy said, and that seemed to cheer her up a little.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth as her expression suddenly changed to one of surprise. "Where are my manners? I haven't offered you anything to drink!"

"Don't worry about it," Freddy replied, amused by her sudden outburst. "You've laid out a feast for me, I'm not gonna complain about the lack of wine. Really, you don't need to trouble yourself," he protested as she rose to her feet.

"I insist," she said with a smile that he couldn't help but return. "I'll only be a moment."

She glided out of the dining hall, Freddy turning in his seat to watch her vanish, her dark gown seeming to melt into the darkness. Truth be told, he'd done his fair share of wine tours, and the prospect of sampling a bottle from what must be a well-stocked cellar was an attractive one. He resumed his meal, and before very long, Moira had returned. She was carrying a bottle of red wine, along with a pair of crystal glasses, setting them down on the table beside him with a clink.

"I think a mature Bordeaux should pair nicely with white meat," she said, practically humming to herself as she filled one of the glasses with crimson liquid. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Judging by the dust that caked the bottle, it had probably been sitting in the wine cellar for a long time, languishing while Moira awaited an opportunity to break it out. She really was treating his unannounced visit as an occasion.

She passed him one of the glasses, and he took a conservative sip, nodding in approval. It was great -- exquisite, even. As she had said, its savory flavor perfectly complemented their meal. As she sat back down, he reached for the bottle, wiping some of the dust from its label. As his eyes played over the text, he narrowly avoided a spit-take, Moira glancing at him curiously.

"Why, whatever's the matter, Freddy?"

"This...this is a Château Pétrus!" he sputtered. "It's dated nineteen-eighteen! Moira, this bottle is worth more than my car!"

"You know your wines," she replied with an impressed smile, not even addressing the situation.

"Moira, I can't drink this!" he continued as he sat there with his mouth agape.

"I would be quite offended if you didn't," she said, though her expression never lost its warmth. "It's rare that I have an excuse to raid the cellar, and that bottle would probably have spent another hundred years collecting dust if you hadn't arrived at my door. My late husband used to scold me for bending the spines of his books," she added with a chuckle. "I would tell him that books wish to be read, and I also believe that wines wish to be drunk. Besides, we can't very well put it back on the rack now, can we?" She took a sip from her own glass, watching him expectantly until he followed suit. "There's a good boy," she purred.

Freddy took a moment to consider whether she was old enough to call him that without it being weird, but the allure of the absurdly expensive wine distracted him from his doubts. Somehow, knowing how much it was worth made it taste even better, despite the nagging doubt in the back of his mind warning him that he was drinking liquid gold.

"I'm so glad you're enjoying the meal," Moira said, watching as he sliced off another piece of turkey. "It's nice to be able to cook for someone else. Living here alone can be so dreary."

"Yeah, my compliments to the chef," he replied. "You know, you could probably turn this place into a mean bed and breakfast," he added as he gestured to the cavernous dining hall. "You have tons of empty rooms, and your cooking is restaurant-grade. Maybe it'd give you something to occupy your time with and get you a little more company. Who knows, perhaps the income would be enough to do some renovations. You could return the manor to its glory days."

"That's a nice idea," she replied, spearing another potato on her fork. "I'm not sure I'd want so many strangers wandering my halls at all hours, though. I'd prefer some more...intimate company, someone I can really get to know."

"What, like remarrying?" Freddy asked.

"Something like that," she replied with a smile.

***

They chatted for a while as they ate, Moira asking him questions about his work and his life, seeming remarkably interested in his mundane replies. Nothing that he did was especially unusual or noteworthy, but he didn't get the impression that she was just being polite or that she was humoring him.

Eventually, they finished their feast, Freddy setting down his cutlery as he patted his full stomach. She'd fed him so well that he hadn't even been able to clean his plate. Moira had eaten conspicuously less than he had, but she had drunk an equal amount of wine, the bottle now sitting all but empty on the table beside him.

"It looks like the storm is showing no signs of letting up," she remarked, another crack of thunder shaking the rafters above them. "The hour grows late," she added with a sigh, turning her blue eyes back to him. "You must be getting awfully tired, Freddy. Why don't I show you to your room?"

"That would be great," he replied, suppressing a yawn. "Between walking in the rain for hours and the meal you just fed me, I'm about ready to keel over. Let me help you with the dishes first, though."

"No need," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "They'll be here in the morning."

She rose from her throne at the head of the table and picked up her candlestick, Freddy following behind her as she led him out of the dining hall. They arrived at yet another spiral staircase, this one leading up to the higher levels from the servant quarters, the old steps creaking as they climbed. It was still hard to get a sense of direction in the manor, but the left/right divide between the servant quarters and the family's living area gave him some idea of where he was. They headed right, walking across a long landing, passing by rows of doors. One of them was open a crack, giving Freddy a scant view inside. It looked like an old private study. There was a desk in the middle of the room, the lumps in the sheet that covered it suggesting that there was stationary and maybe a lamp beneath it, the wall behind it covered in shelves that were stacked end to end with dusty old books.

They returned to the left wing of the house, Moira eventually stopping in front of a long, straight staircase that led to the next floor. It was steep and narrow, clearly very old, and there was another closed door at the end of it.

"This guest bedroom is probably in the best shape of all of them," she explained, turning to glance back at him. Something about the way that Freddy had to lift his chin to look up at her pale face made butterflies swarm in his stomach. Maybe it was the wine -- he'd drunk at least half of the bottle, not wanting to waste the opportunity. He was feeling a little fuzzier than usual as a result. "I keep it maintained in case a family member calls to tell me they're visiting."

"Makes sense," Freddy replied.

"I'm afraid it may still be a little dusty," she continued apologetically, mounting the first step. "I don't get many visitors."

Freddy waited a moment, then followed after her. The way that her gown accentuated her hourglass figure drew his eye, her wide hips swaying with each step, that long skirt trailing behind her. She was dressed so modestly, almost matronly, yet the master seamstress had tailored an outfit that clung to her like a second skin. More than that, it seemed to guide his gaze in a way that felt very deliberate, and there was nowhere else to look on this narrow staircase. There was that fluttery feeling again -- probably the wine...

She reached the top and opened the door, ushering him in, her candle illuminating the guest bedroom. As he had anticipated, it was suitably lavish, with enough floor space that he could probably have fit his entire apartment inside it almost twice over. A massive king-sized canopy bed sat in the middle of the carpet, the billowing drapery that cascaded down to the floor making it resemble a giant tent. There was a writing desk beneath a large window that looked out over the grounds, the glass just as grimy as he had come to expect, and there was a table equipped with a tilting mirror that would presumably be used by female guests to apply makeup. As well as cupboards and dressers for storing belongings, there was a chest at the foot of the bed, certainly an archaic touch.

"You should be able to find everything that you need in here," Moira said, using her candle to light a candelabra that was mounted on the wall. She gestured to a door at the other end of the room. "There's an en-suite bathroom, so there should be no need for you to go wandering the halls in the dark."

The implication that he should stay in the room once she left wasn't lost on him, and it was perfectly understandable. Having no belongings to unpack, there wasn't much for him to do other than take his phone from his pocket and set it on a convenient bedside table. He gave the bed a once-over, finding that the sheets and pillows looked clean. More than that -- they looked fresh, as though they had been laid out specially for him. Unless she changed the bedding every day, the odds of her happening to make the bed in time for his arrival were pretty slim.

"Your clothes will be dry by the morning," Moira added. "I'll come and wake you at sunrise."

"I know I keep thanking you, but I'm going to repeat myself," Freddy said as he turned to face her. "I really appreciate you taking me in out of the rain, offering me food and a place to sleep. If I hadn't seen the lights through the fog, I could still be out there in the storm trying to find a gas station."

There was another crack of thunder as if to punctuate his statement, sheets of rain hammering on the window with renewed ferocity.

"I consider it my duty," she replied, tipping her head in a subtle bow. "After all that wine, you must be tired," she added with a gesture to the bed. "Please, get some rest. I'm sorry that it's a little drafty -- it's unavoidable in such an old house -- but closing the drapes should help keep the cold out."

"Thanks, I'll do that," he replied as he watched her walk over to the door.

"Goodnight, Freddy," she cooed as she closed it behind her. He waited for the sound of a key turning, but it seemed that she trusted him enough not to lock him in.

Freddy sat down on the edge of the mattress, finding it springy and plush, taking a moment to reflect on the strange events of the day. The crash, his miserable walk through the forest, finding the manor through the choking fog. Moira had invited him in, she had clothed him, fed him -- seemingly without any fear or suspicion. Under different circumstances, he might have wondered if she had an ulterior motive, but maybe she really did embody some outdated sense of civic duty and hospitality.

Still, some of what she'd said didn't add up. Why did she have a set of clothes on hand that fit him so well that they felt tailored for him? Why had she been preparing a meal so large when she had barely eaten any of it herself? The story about her living in isolation in this remote manor seemed fishy, too. Moira was like a woman frozen in time. He hadn't spotted a single television or computer in the house, there was no WiFi, and he hadn't seen her whip out a cellphone. There were no appliances in the kitchen, no blenders or toasters, and even the rooms that he would expect to see regular use looked all but abandoned. Moira was clearly hiding something from him, but that said, she didn't owe any explanations to a stranger who had turned up on her doorstep uninvited.

He began to take off the clothes that she had given him, folding them carefully before setting them atop a nearby dresser. The draft was more apparent when he had stripped down to his shorts, but it was a damn sight better than being outside. The storm was still hammering against the window like it was trying to find a way to get at him. He walked over and tried to see through the glass, but found that it was too dirty to pick out much more than vague shadows.

His next stop was the en-suite bathroom, Freddy finding that it was furnished similarly to the previous one he'd visited. There was an ornate toilet and a marble washbasin, along with a cast-iron bathtub that looked heavy enough that he wondered how they'd even got it up here. After ridding himself of all the wine and giving his face a brief wash in the basin, he stepped back outside. In the flickering light of the candles, he noticed a golden glint, drawing his attention to a dresser beside the door. It was a large, old key.

After a moment of hesitation, he made his way over to it, lifting it off the varnished wood. Would it be rude to lock the door? Moira had said that she'd return in the morning, and he didn't want to keep her out, but something about the strangeness of the whole situation made him feel distinctly uneasy. If nothing else, he would sleep more soundly knowing that his host couldn't get in without announcing herself first. She had shown him nothing but kindness, but he didn't really know anything about her yet. Better safe than sorry.

He turned the key in the lock with a mechanical clunk, then headed for bed, climbing up onto the mattress. The four bedposts towered over him as he wriggled beneath the sheets, and he leaned over to close the drapes, the heavy fabric keeping out the chill. Even the bed was about as large as the bathroom in his apartment. As his head sank into the pile of soft pillows, he remarked that the sheets even smelled fresh. There wasn't a hint of mustiness about them. Could Moira have slipped away to change the linens when she had gone in search of clothes or when she had left to fetch the wine?

At this point, he was too tired and too tipsy to care. Freddy let himself settle into the comfortable sheets, fatigue quickly carrying him off to sleep.

CHAPTER 2: BLACK WIDOW

Freddy was awoken by a noise like fingernails scraping on glass.

He sat up in the bed, finding himself momentarily confused by his unfamiliar surroundings, his brain soon catching up with his body. The storm was raging outside, he could practically feel the strength of the wind as it crashed against the side of the manor like waves against a sea wall. It whistled through every crack and gap that it could find, but the drapes kept his bed isolated from the cold. Another rumble of thunder startled him, a flash of light illuminating the dark room. The candles must have gone out by now.

Wary of leaving his warm pocket of air, he slid out from beneath the covers, braving the chill to pull open one of the curtains. It was dark, but not so much that he was blind. Enough light from the full moon made it through the clouds and the dirty glass to let him see the vague outlines of the furniture. He spared a wary glance at the window, but couldn't see much through it other than shadows. As his racing heart slowed, he surmised that it was probably a tree branch scraping against the other side of the glass, or perhaps some airborne debris carried by the storm.

Realizing that his bladder was once again full, he slipped off the mattress, hopping along on the frigid carpet barefooted like he was walking on ice. He fumbled for his phone, finding it where he had left it on the bedside table, then turned on the flashlight function. As the bright beam swept across the room, he considered how much more welcoming it had looked under the warmer light of the candles. Far from cozy, it seemed downright hostile now, the pale light and inky shadows playing tricks on his eyes.

He made his way across the room, the distance between the bed and the bathroom seeming excessive, opening the heavy door with an audible creak. After setting his phone on the edge of the washbasin, he relieved himself, glancing at the mirror above the toilet as he whistled to himself idly.              

A shadow suddenly passed through the room behind him, noticeable enough that it caught his attention, Freddy narrowing his eyes.

That wasn't a branch swaying in the wind -- that was a large object with mass enough to blot out the moonlight. He slowly picked up his phone, then crept out into the dark bedroom, sweeping the narrow beam across the old furniture. It was only the camera LED, so it was barely bright enough to cut through the gloom, motes of dust dancing in its cold light. Freddy approached the windows, their sudden rattling startling him as he neared, but it was just the wind. They were old and loose, barely up to the challenge of keeping out the gale.

He reached across the desk that was sat beneath them, giving the knob a twist to ensure that they were as securely closed as possible. Rainwater was seeping in through the gap between the frames and the sill -- not enough to be an issue, but he should probably inform Moira the next morning. Then again, it was probably a proverbial drop in the bucket compared to the work the manor needed.