“Through that door is the east guest suite,” Arthur continued. “There is a four-poster cherry bed, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub, heated towels, and three bars of clean almond soap. Inside the wardrobe are flannel robes that belonged to my wife, Caroline. They are clean, they are warm, and they have been waiting for someone to wear them for three years.”
He walked to the hearth, picked up an iron poker, and stirred the embers until a glorious, crackling blaze of golden flame leaped toward the chimney throat, filling the vast hall with light and intoxicating heat.
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He turned back to the mother and daughter standing on his floorboards.
“You take Chloe,” Arthur smiled, his weathered face softening into an expression of pure, unreserved grace. “Give her a hot bath. Eat the steak and the apple pie on the table in that room. And then you sleep until the sun comes over the ridge.”
