The house had an unpleasant way of shortening the corridor.
Mara Bell first noticed while carrying a box of books, hardly an ideal moment for revelations. She had the box under her chin, a knee against the banister, and her brother behind her swearing because the movers had left the bed base at the foot of the stairs instead of taking it up. On the landing, Mara turned left, took two steps, and struck the guest-room frame with her shoulder.
“You’ll last two days here,” Ben said.
She set the box on the floor before answering. Her sleeve had ridden up, exposing the small white star-shaped mark inside her right wrist.
“I just bought the house.”
“That doesn’t answer what I said.”
“It’s literally the most expensive answer I’ve ever given.”
He smiled despite himself. Ben was six years younger and had their mother’s mouth whenever he thought a joke should not absolve someone of their debts. He looked at the corridor, then at the angle of her shoulder.
“You missed a doorway.”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Obviously.”
He picked up the box. Mara let him pass and stood for a second in the middle of the landing. An old cast-iron radiator ticked behind her, four uneven knocks, then silence. Despite herself, she noted the rhythm as one notes a construction defect to check later.
The Harlow Road house had been built early in the previous century and extended at least twice, and it showed. The ground floor retained the old logic of rooms arranged around a central axis; upstairs had been corrected by successive owners who never had the courtesy to consult their predecessors. One bedroom was deeper than it seemed it ought to be. Another lost an entire triangle beneath the roof slope. After the staircase, the corridor bent slightly right before returning to the east facade.
It was that bend her body refused.
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