**Hey, hey. Before you read: Here be dragons. Trigger warnings: abduction, dubious (like, super dubious) consent, gaslighting. Not a whole lotta actual sex in Part 1, but I promise it’ll have a pay off.**
He calls it the cottage, but I can’t imagine why. Manse, maybe. Estate, more appropriate. I can’t remember how long we’ve been here. He says only weeks, but I’ve counted more than sixty days, when I remember to count. He tells me the date, but I forget. I can ask him again, but then he smiles and his eyes are sad, and I’m afraid again.
Before the world moved on, we had moved in together. More or less. And more often than not, I spent the nights in his apartment in Windsor. When the fires started, he took me. A precaution, he’d said. It won’t last forever, he’d said.
The house is too dark. I putter from room to room, turning on table lamps in pushing back the heavy drapery. I peek through the windows, afraid. I look for signs of fire, for smoke. I exhale, relieved, at the mist and graying sky. Rain again, rain on redwoods as far as I can see. The coast is there, blending into the sky. I shiver, wrapping the ivory cardigan tighter around my middle.
*Where is he?*
More rooms to illuminate. I descend from the second floor and tiptoe past the kitchen. My stomach growls. It’s possible, probable, really, that Nina would make me a cold plate if I were to ask her, but it must be nearly dinnertime. He’d be so disappointed. My stomach clenches. His disappointment can be a violent thing. I hear the comforting clang of her pots and the hum of her little radio.
A huge oak fire crackles in the vast library. The light flickers and I brighten this one, too. I could read, I think. Read and wait, sit in the window seat against the cold. That would be a normal thing to do. A reasonable thing to do. I pick up one of the books he’s approved for me and thumb the pages. I put it back down.
The alarm beeps when he opens the front door and I run to find him in the foyer, my grey-haired giant with bright blue eyes. My cheeks are wet.
“Where did you go?” I cry. I relax into his arms, smelling pipe smoke and rain. He looks ruddy, happy.
“Oh, darling. It’s ok,” he says. He pulls me back so that I have to look at him. “Remember I told you I was going to town?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I couldn’t find you.” I look down, swallow. “Was it… bad? Were there any people? Are the stores open? What did you get?”
“You’re hysterical, Kate,” he quiets me with hard hands on my arms, leading me back through the house. He talks softly as we walk. “We aren’t going to talk about what’s out there. You’re safe. Right here.”
He sits me on the couch. I wring my hands in my lap. It must be terrible. It must be unspeakable. I had seen an *American Affairs*, back before he’d thought to take away all the newspapers and magazines and the Internet and the television. So long ago, it seems. The panic diffused the pages. Mobs and riots, foot shortages and fires with no one to fight them, roaming bands of men in the suburbs. Oh, God.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
He nods. “But you’re safe here.”
“Do you think that someday I can go out there with you? Maybe ride to the city?”
“Someday, maybe you can,” he says, and he pulls me in close. My ribs ache, and his fingers wind through my hair, hurting me. I breathe, relieved.