Letters Beneath the Winter Glass

How it begins

The letter appeared when the glass began to thaw.

Alice had expected bubbles, perhaps the faint ripple of an old repair. Instead, five lines of ink emerged beneath her warm cloth. She stopped rubbing and waited while a drop of water traveled slowly down the pane.

Do not come to the front door.

The handwriting belonged to someone accustomed to being obeyed. That was her first impression, and she distrusted it immediately. Thirty-eight years had taught her how frequently fear disguised itself as certainty.

Behind her, the conservatory door scraped over the tiles.

"I told the office you would need a heater," the gardener said.

He carried one in each hand. His coat was wet at the shoulders, and a narrow cut crossed the knuckle of his thumb. Alice had watched him pruning roses that morning with the patient attention other people gave to difficult children.

"Thomas, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Have you seen anything like this before?"

She stepped aside. He looked first at the glass, then at the bucket beneath it. Neither heater touched the floor.

"Where did that pane come from?"

"The east wall. The corner near the old fig tree."

"It wasn't on the repair list."

"It was loose."

Rain tapped the roof with small, impatient fingers. Alice could hear the sea beyond the garden wall, although the mist had swallowed every trace of it. The estate agent had called the view uninterrupted. Apparently that included the interruption of being unable to see anything.

Thomas set down the heaters.

"Can you put it back?"

"Not safely. The putty has failed."

"I don't mean in the frame."

She looked at him properly then. Not angry, she decided. Not even surprised. He was calculating something, and whatever answer he reached frightened him.

Alice lifted the cloth away from the final line.

Someone will leave the kitchen window unlatched.

Underneath it, in a different hand, a single word had been added.

Again.