The quiet in the Winter Wing wasn't just a lack of sound, it felt heavy, like a weight, It pressed against my ears, made stronger by how huge the rooms were. The air here was thin and sharp, cold enough to bite through my coat.
Grey finally turned away from the window, he moved and stirred up the dust, the only thing moving in this dead place.
"Well," he said, his voice echoing too loud, bouncing off the high ceiling, "Welcome to happy home life, Williams style."
He walked to the middle of the room where a huge stone fireplace took up most of the wall, it was cold and dark, empty except for old ash. He crouched down, checking it carefully, like a man looking for something to keep him busy.
"There's wood in the bucket," I said, pointing to a brass bin near the fire "And matches on the shelf."
"I see them," he snapped, not looking up, he began to stack wood carefully but angrily, his movements jerky.
