The Woodworker
Chapter One
Breaking into homes in Old Pining was easy. The houses in this neighbourhood were large, ancient structures that splayed out across the suburbs, each bordered by a high fence and so many trees, it felt like I was in the woods. This meant that visibility wasn't good, so no one would notice a small figure in pale jeans and a hoodie sneak hoist herself over a brick wall.
This house was especially intriguing. I had picked it because of the crumbling stonework and wild garden, with its waist-high weeds and thick snarl of blackberry bushes. I wasn't trespassing. No. I was rediscovering a slumbering world-- sneaking into an abandoned fairy tale.
But there was life here. The footpath was clear; where a rake leaned against a shed, there was a tidy pile of debris someone had scraped to one side. Plus, there was a light on upstairs.
Skeevy Steve, Ben, and I were out scouting spots for urban "exploration" when I first noticed the house. Skeevy Steve was a punk, so he stole from the rich as a way to redistribute wealth. Ben had a thing going with a girl who ran a pawn shop on the other side of the city and was always in need of a quick buck, so he was in it for cold, hard cash. But me, I did it for the thrill. My friends often scolded me for leaving empty-handed. Skeevy Steve didn't dare call me privileged, which was his go-to. Instead, he said I was too caught up in fantasy. That my head was in the clouds. Ben said it was a shame I was so good at being quiet, but so bad at being a thief. The boys wrote off this house as soon as they saw it. They'd taken some things from a place up the road and we had a rule that we didn't hit up the same borough in a month. Nevertheless, the quietness of this house was like a held breath. I had to get inside.
I tugged on the vines to see if they held. They seemed solid, so I anchored one foot against the wall, and began to climb. Twilight painted the house in its velvet glow, which made the window I wanted to get into easier to see. It was open, the fading sun glimmering on the glass. A shiver ran down my spine. The open window felt like an invitation. In no time at all, I'd clambered up to the ledge, and pulled myself over. Skeevy Steve likes to say I'm as nimble as deer in the wood. I may not be good at math or cooking, but I do move with grace.
I took a moment to orient myself. My eyes didn't have to adjust because the lights were off. Although the room was full of stuff, it felt like no one lived here. Sure, there was a bed and some furniture. I drew my finger across the surface of a chest, drawing up a cloud of dust. In a mirror opposite, my reflection stared back at me, a slender, blonde-haired ghost in baggy clothes.
There was a funny smell I couldn't quite place. A woodsy, green smell, like someone had fermented grass into alcohol. Time to investigate. My bare feet were silent as I slunk toward the door, then into the hallway. I'd done this enough times that I could tell when a board was going to squeak, could stifle the scream in its wooden throat before it told on me. I almost wanted it to--it was fun being an expert but not as fun as being an apprentice.
I passed room after room, and marvelled at how large the house was. My mother's apartment, where I shared a room with my sister, could fit in one of these rooms. And these chambers were dead--only the one at the top of the staircase, whose door was ajar, showed signs of life: a book on the bedside table, a half-drunk mug of tea, crumpled bedsheets. I touched the duvet; it didn't feel grimy like old bedding left out for ages. It was clean.
A humming noise echoed from below. Curious, I took the steps two at a time, gliding into a long corridor, past a living room, dining room, and then a kitchen. The lights were on in here, but there was no one. The tiled floor was cold. I inspected the plain wooden table, the crusts of a sandwich, evidence of human activity. There was a wallet on the table. I thumbed the warm leather, then decided not to take it. I was here for adventure, not theft. Not today, anyway. I wrinkled my nose. The smell was stronger here.
There was a loud, sharp sound again. I tiptoed toward a door at the back of the kitchen.
A man. Sweat glimmered on the bare skin as he worked, pulling the saw back and forth across the piece of wood. His back was to me. There was an open bottle of brown liquid--some kind of varnish--which explained the astringent smell. The room was fascinating; there were hammers and forceps and pieces of machinery on shelves all over the workshop. Some looked like medieval torture devices and others, modern monsters in cold steel.
The man was bathed bronze-red in the light. His muscles contracted from the effort of moving the blade. His torso was a chiselled as a sculpture. What would it feel like to touch? Would it be soft against my hand? Warm?
