(Isobel's Point Of View)
I woke up to the smell of something burning.
Not just burning—actively cremating itself.
"Oh my God, what are you doing?" I stumbled out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but Etienne's shirt from yesterday, to find the kitchen filled with smoke.
Etienne was standing at the stove, shirtless and scowling at a pan like it had personally offended him.
"I'm making breakfast."
"You're making a fire hazard."
"It's just a little smoke."
"A little?" I rushed to open the window. The air that came in was wet and cold, the rain-slicked world outside smelling like stone and the faint green of hedges. The smoke inside curled and clung to the ceiling, a grainy gray that tasted of burnt sugar and old oil at the back of my throat. "The smoke detector is going to go off. We'll have the fire department showing up, and then the press will find us because someone will tweet about the mysterious cottage fire, and—"
"The smoke detector doesn't work. I checked."
