Archive of Our Own ^beta

September

The stiletto points of Billie’s nails click out an unruly staccato against the surface of Constance’s kitchen table. A lighter sparks in her hand, the end of a cigarette begins to burn, and she has been unable to take her eyes off of this photograph. There is not enough detail; she has questions that supersede her affinity for the paranormal. Her interest has been piqued indefinitely, and she narrows her gaze on the woman’s face, as if studious intimidation will help her to understand, will bring this woman in the picture to life so Billie can fully experience her.

“Would you knock it off?” Constance complains, waving an annoyed hand in the direction of Billie’s tapping fingernails. Billie ceases, flattens her palm on the tabletop. “And quit trying to contact the spirit realm in my kitchen.”

On an exhale of smoke, Billie asks, “What’s her name?”

Constance scoffs, fluffs her hair.

“Nora Montgomery,” she preens, as if she must take on the character of the woman just to speak her name. Billie’s lips twitch into a satisfied smile at the corners, and Constance takes a swig of Scotch from her glass. “Aristocrat type, airhead, loveless marriage.” Constance flutters out a breath of laughter. “The whole shebang.”

The way Constance describes Nora rubs at her the wrong way, and she frowns. When her fingertips graze over this photograph in front of her, she is filled with loss and dread. There is more to her story, Billie wants to argue. There is always more.

“Have you met her?” Billie asks, curiosity peeking out from behind her words, and it must be obvious because Constance shoots her a look that is almost scolding in nature.

“No one’s met her,” Constance reveals, and, well.

“I’d like to,” she says determinedly.

That does it, pushes Constance out of her complacency.

“Christ, Billie Dean,” Constance mutters, makes distressed eye contact with Billie, raises her brows as if Billie just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t. She would like for Constance to explain. She would like to know this woman; she would like to know Nora Montgomery. “The woman blew her goddamn brains out. She’s a lost cause.”

Interesting, Billie thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Constance is already fed up with her pestering, and Billie doesn’t need a lecture.

Don’t go playing with the ghosts in that house, Constance would berate. They’ll turn you into one.

“Just one conversation,” Billie tries, and Constance shakes her head in disappointment. When it is not beneficial to Constance, then Constance disapproves. That is how it goes. So, it’s a good thing that Billie always gets what she wants. “I’d like to meet her,” she presses. “The house is vacant, Constance, just let me borrow your key.”

Constance huffs out a high-pitched breath, places a nervous hand against her cheek.

“And what will you do, Little Miss Medium,” Constance asks tauntingly, “when all of those evil, bloodthirsty spirits decide they’d like to meet you, too?”

Billie smirks at the challenge, doesn’t tell Constance that she is protected, doesn’t tell her that light is powerful, too, and that it is sometimes more powerful than the darkness. She will shroud herself in it. She will ground herself in the white light before she steps foot into that specific layer of hell, and she knows, she knows it is a hell. But this, Nora Montgomery, flanking her husband and cradling a young child in her arms, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders and the cynicism swimming behind her gaze. This is worth it, Billie thinks. Nora Montgomery is how that house came to be what it is. There is more to Nora’s story. She can feel it, and she will know it.

“One conversation,” Billie repeats, flicks the ash from the end of her cigarette. “That’s all I want.”

Billie is doing this alone, had decided to do this alone the moment Constance pulled that photograph out. No lights, no cameras, not even Constance. This is for her, and it is not for consumption. It is not baseless entertainment. This is real, a palpable, heavy thing that threatens to drag Billie with it as soon as she enters. She isn’t scared—she’s overwhelmed. Billie’s been here before, Billie has tried to save a family of lost souls here. Fruitless; they all died. This is where the broken come to shatter. Although, it’s not as unstable as it had been last time. It’s not lighter by any means, not more peaceful, but it is quieter in its own way. A low hum instead of a wailing cry.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” Billie calls, her heels rapping solidly, slowly, over the hardwood as she wanders down the hallway. What she feels is an energy corrupted, dark forces, and they surround her. They threaten to choke her, but she feels others threatening to choke themif they make the attempt. So, not all dark, then. Good. That will make all of this easier. “Nora Montgomery?” she tries again, stretching her hand out into the thickness of the air, otherwise empty, otherwise bare, save for the chilling vibration of spirits. Souls litter this house like a landfill, beating and banging their fists against the window of the mortal plane. She feels their desperation to escape. She understands it. She also feels that some of them like it here, and that they have made quite a home for themselves. She wonders which category Nora belongs to, or if Nora is of her own brand entirely.

As she is rounding the corner to enter the drawing room, she hears a steady creak from behind her, and she turns slowly, not wishing to spook whatever invisible force has decided to reach out and crack open the basement door for her. A whispered direction. Guidance. Billie checks up and down the corridor, finding it totally barren, and begins to make her way over. She reaches for the edge of the door carefully, pulling it and opening it the rest of the way. Billie is immediately hit with the foul, gut-wrenching anxiety of a violent darkness, a deteriorating barrier between the main floor and this concrete confinement. Something has, or perhaps several things have, occurred in this basement. Treacherous things. Horrors. She clamps her jaw tightly to keep her teeth from chattering at the spinning energy, closes her eyes and breathes a series of calming breaths, steadies herself before descent.

“Mrs. Montgomery?” she calls, taking each step with utter caution, keeping a hand on the cold, cement wall beside her for support. The basement door slams shut behind her, and she startles, her heart pounding. Her palms sweat as she drops a hand to the stair railing, clutches it in a white-knuckled grip. Billie reaches the landing at the bottom of the stairs, the demonic power assaulting her senses in full, blocking her from feeling anything out beyond the protective white light she holds so ferociously to.

She catches a glimpse of red from the corner of her eye, a skittish movement, tilts her head towards it and squints into the pitched blackness. It is silent, still, for a few beats. Then Billie feels it. She feels her.

A pale, willowy figure emerges from the shadows, donning a thin, blue dress embroidered with a pattern of lace around the edges of the bodice, the skirt of it brushing the floor as she walks. It matches her piercing, ocean eyes, Billie thinks, brimming with such despair, such bewilderment. She grasps the beige handkerchief in her fist more firmly as Billie watches her, takes her in. This is the woman from the photograph: the elusive Nora Montgomery, with her tear-stained face and her red-painted lips. Nora’s soft, blonde hair rests near the base of her skull in an intricately knotted up do, loose ringlets of escaped curls hanging delicately around her face, framing her features.

“Who are you?” Nora asks timidly, and she will not step any closer, has silently refused. She is frozen several feet away from the landing, keeping her distance, favoring her isolation. It is a question that Billie doesn’t have the answer to. She can’t very well say that she’s the mediator of life and death, that she can speak to the deceased and forge connections with them. Nora is a quiet storm, and that would only tempt the clouds to wreak their havoc. Nora’s face suddenly grows into something more hopeful, her eyes brightening. “Are you the new help?”

Billie doesn’t laugh; she’s sure Nora would find it inappropriate, even if Billie is not laughing at her. She wants to make a good first impression, doesn’t want to offend Nora and scare her back into the abyss of this basement.

“I’m just a friend from next door,” Billie says, and it is a half-truth. Nora’s face falls, and her eyes turn cold, azure frost. Her nose scrunches, and her brows gingerly tug together.

“A friend?” she asks Billie, as if she is not overly familiar with the term, as if she is disgusted by the thought of some stranger claiming the title so loosely. Billie smiles kindly, takes one, easy step closer to Nora, and Nora doesn’t retreat. Just stands her ground as her face pinches into confusion. Small victories. “What are you doing in my house?”

“I wanted to introduce myself,” Billie says warmly, offering out her empty hands in a placating gesture, communicating to Nora, I’m not going to hurt you. The light from the top of the stairs casts Billie in its dim ray, glinting off the sharp tips of her nails. It catches Nora’s attention, and Billie watches her stare on in puzzled fascination, can feel Nora’s interest. She lowers one of her hands, and Nora follows the movement closely. “You like my nails?” Billie asks conversationally. She glances at Nora’s own fingernails, trimmed and varnished the same color as her lips. Nora notices, drops her hands to her sides to hide them behind the fabric of her dress.

“No,” Nora mutters, sniffs like she is mortified that Billie would even ask such a question. “No, of course I don’t.” Billie sees the grip on the handkerchief tighten. “Who are you?” Nora asks again.

“Billie,” she says. “Billie Dean Howard.” And it is a feat that she manages to forego her professional title, so commonly spilled at the end of her name; she won’t frighten Nora with talk of mediums, talk of ghosts, even if Nora is one. There is something unconventional about her, and Billie is almost afraid of tarnishing the moment. She does anyway, holds her hand out in greeting, and Nora ever so carefully reaches her own hand out, grasps Billie’s lightly but doesn’t shake it.

“Billie Dean Howard,” Nora echoes thoughtfully, a delighted breath leaving her. Her gaze takes on a faraway quality, like she is trying to remember something that isn’t there, something that dissipates like stale smoke when she tries to catch it. “I’m sure I’d remember you. I keep having the strangest feelings,” she says, voice fragile.

“What made you show yourself?” Billie asks, keeps her inquiry as vague as possible, keeps Nora as comfortable as possible, while still attempting to satisfy her innate curiosity. Nora may be lost, but Billie is just as much so, trying to navigate these waters with matched devotion. Nora would like to know why Billie is in her house, and Billie thinks she herself would like to know the same. There is a tether like no other beckoning her, and she has to learn it, has to know it. She has to know Nora, not to solve her like a mystery, but to perhaps hand her the final piece to a jigsaw puzzle that Nora has long abandoned. Billie wants to help, wants to wipe this anguish out, stifle it. She wants to know her.

“I heard your voice,” Nora answers simply, as if that is good enough. As if Billie should understand it, the fact that Nora had enjoyed the sound of her voice, and that it had prompted her out of hiding. When Billie blinks at her with a slight heat blooming at her cheeks, Nora deflates, frantically shaking her head. “I don’t know, I don’t—you’re making me feel very nervous.”

Billie feels a particular fondness tugging at her. She sees now that Constance had been wrong about Nora; she is none of those harsh things, not overbearing or dim-witted or lacking. Nora is willful, intelligent, never cruel for the sake of being cruel, and while her marriage may have been loveless, Nora definitely isn’t. There is a soft sort of radiance emanating from her, and Billie feels it so intensely, wants to help Nora nurture it.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” Billie suggests, deciding that a spirit of Nora’s variety deserves to be surrounded by only nice things, and that she doesn’t belong sequestered away in a dark, dank basement. Spirits are flowers, and they blossom only under the right circumstances, Billie thinks.Nora’s eyes widen at first, at the thought of leaving this safety. Her hand flutters at her chest, fiddling with the neckline of her gown, but she relaxes, must find her strength because she nods and begins to trail after Billie up the steps.

“Could you make me a cup of tea?” Nora requests once they reach the top, once they emerge into the light of day among stained glass that glints, floorboards that groan and shudder. Billie watches Nora flitter, her hands never quite finding rest by her sides or with crossed arms. “I know I don’t need…I suppose, I don’t often…spend my time up here.”

Nora speaks in fragments, a result of her overwhelmed state, being so entrapped by this home that belonged to her first. And Nora seems to understand that, Billie thinks. Seems to understand that she is, for whatever reason in her mind, stuck here. She is just slightly adrift. Billie will steer her back on course, will hand Nora a warm mug of tea like it is an oar to wade through her cluttered heart.

“I can make you tea,” she agrees easily, and has to keep checking over her shoulder, has to reaffirm that Nora is still there with her and that she hasn’t floated off to the basement again. But Nora never falters. Nora is studying every inch of the house and its remodels, its modern designs. How woeful it must be to survey what was once home, but now has been taken over by intruders, a steady loop of buyers and sellers, all leaving their mark in some way or another. Billie wonders if Nora even recognizes this as the same place. She wonders if Nora is ever confused by the microwave or the cordless landline, if she ever dreams of smashing them to bits and restoring her claim to this house. She wonders if Nora ever dreams.

Billie adds water to the kettle and clicks the dial on the stove, watches Nora stand with her arms bent and folded in on her chest, her hands clutching tightly to the scrap of fabric, as if she is preparing to defend herself against an attack. Nora takes slow steps over to the sink, runs her fingertips along the chrome faucet.

She’s relearning her own house, Billie thinks. How many times a day does she do this? And have I caught her at the worst of it?

“How did you know my name?” Nora asks suddenly, still staring at the metallic fixture, like she is talking to it rather than Billie. “Before, when you…?”

Billie isn’t sure how to collect her words in a delicate way that won’t inspire fear in Nora. You’re famous, she could say. You killed yourself, and you’re famous, and the whole world is afraid of this home you’ve built, she could say. I saw a picture of you, she could say, and that was all it took.

When Nora looks at Billie, a silent reminder to answer the question, Billie lifts her shoulders in a careless shrug.

“I’ve heard all about you,” she says, and when Nora’s face falls, she quickly lies, “all good things.”

“Are you one of them?” Nora asks, despair in her tone, icy fire in her eyes. “Are you one of those awful tourists here to mock me and befoul my home?”

Billie’s brows arch at that; she had underestimated Nora, and she feels that this will not be the last time she does so. Nora is full of quiet surprises, of locked doors that she pretends she’s lost the keys to, but Billie thinks Nora is the most dangerous spirit in this house. Nora sees everything unfold before her, and she watches, and she forgets until she remembers. Nora uses ignorance as a mask because it is easier for one to accept that they are dead when they act as though they’re not.

“I’m not a tourist,” Billie says. “I told you, I’m a friend.”

Nora wrinkles her nose.

“Why do you keep saying that? I don’t know you. I knowI don’t know you, so why do I…”

Nora has all of Billie’s attention now, every bit of it, as Billie stares at her with fascination. Tell me what you feel, Billie thinks desperately. I feel it, too. The familiarity. The pull, the proximity. Billie is supposed to be here. She knows it, and Nora knows…something. Nora’s arms slowly lower and rest at her sides, her face impassive, and Billie thinks she is going to say something just as the kettle on the stove begins to steam and squeal.

Billie sighs and removes it from the eye, pours the boiling water into a mug from the cabinet. She finds a box of classic green tea and snorts softly to herself; eccentric ghosts drinking tea often enough that Constance keeps a stock of it here. Billie drops the tea bag into the mug and crosses the distance to the island bar with it, sets it down on the countertop. She slides a barstool out and settles down into it, pats the one beside her.

“Sit with me.”

Nora does, hesitantly. She takes the tea bag’s flimsy string, lifts it and dunks it several times, like she’s nervous and needs something to focus on. Or perhaps she is simply letting her tea steep, and Billie is just reaching. Maybe it’s Billie who is nervous. She has the lady of Murder House sitting next to her, and it had been so easy to contact her, to get her here. It had been so easy to make it this far. She’d been expecting a challenge, or nothing at all, but Nora seems content to entertain her. Nora seems…content.

Billie finds herself unsure of where to begin. She hadn’t drawn up a list of questions to recite over and over, to memorize and ask as she does on the job. Because this had been different, had been real, and maybe now it is too real.

She fumbles around in the pocket of her cardigan, digs out a cigarette that she’d stashed along with a lighter, and when she sparks it up, when she puffs out the first noxious fume, Nora hums disapprovingly.

“Vile,” Nora mutters, but there is the hint of a charmed smile at her lips and an embarrassed flush on her cheeks. And then she changes, the blink of an eye, the drop of a hat, and Billie both sees it and feels it. Nora frowns, pushing a sigh through her lips as her amusement spills over into sorrow.

What? Billie yearns to ask. What are you thinking? Why can’t I hear you?

“Something wrong?” she wonders instead.

“Would you get me a spoon of sugar?” Nora asks defeatedly, and Billie thinks that is a lousy reason to be so upset. But she doesn’t pass judgement. She rises from her stool and makes her way over to the set of matching canisters, her back to Nora. Her cigarette dangles between her lips as she pops the lid off the jar and digs out a level scoop of granulated sugar, and when she turns, Nora has disappeared. Nora has vanished, and all that remains is the full, steaming mug of tea on the counter in her place.

Maybe it has all been too much for her. Maybe Nora had gotten too lost in her own head, and maybe she needs a break. Billie thinks that would be okay. Billie thinks that learning Nora is going to be a process, one that she’s not opposed to.

Billie grins, knows then, at that moment, that she will be back.

October

It had been foolish to believe one meeting would sate her. She will save all of her questions, will spread them out here and there with each visit, because she’ll keep coming back to this house, back to Nora. She’s in no rush to unearth these curiosities that litter her mind. She’s going to take her time getting to know Nora. Billie doesn’t want one conversation where Nora tells her who she is. Billie wants a thousand conversations where Nora shows her who she is. Their first meeting had been Billie getting a feel for Nora’s energy and Nora getting a feel for Billie’s presence. Today, they will forge ahead, should Nora want to. That is what all of this comes down to, really: Nora’s willingness to participate. Billie wouldn’t be here otherwise, won’t push this to any level that disagrees with Nora. Should there come a time where Nora grows restless or uncomfortable, then Billie will remove herself. Nora’s peace of mind takes priority over Billie’s curiosity.

When Billie steps foot into the house, she hears the distant music. She lets the door close behind her and carefully begins to follow it. It is a slow, haunting, melancholic tune, one played on piano almost lazily, pauses between each key. Each note strikes a chord in her heart, and she seeks it out, up the stairs, down hallways on the upper floor, until she reaches a room. Between the stairway and the bathroom, there is a smaller bedroom, one which its size suggests is suited for a younger child, an infant, someone who wouldn’t require much furniture besides a place to sleep and a wardrobe.

There is a grand piano in the center of the room, the word Bechstein emblazoned on its front, and Nora sits on a velvet-upholstered bench in front of it. She presses her fingers to each key precisely, purposefully, and pieces together a mournful melody. Billie selfishly takes advantage of the fact that Nora is facing away from her, that Nora doesn’t know she’s here. She lets the song fill her soul, listens to the emotion behind every stroke, and she begins to understand. One octave is grief. One is longing. One is optimism. One is remorse. One is silence. And they are all Nora. They are all parts of her. The energy Billie feels leaking out, spilling from Nora in waves, is enough to make Billie’s heart ache.

Do you hear this? it seems to cry from her ribcage. Can you feel her?

Billie brings a sympathetic hand to her chest, rests it over her racing heart. She hears Nora. She feels Nora.

There is a moment of pause, hesitation as Nora rests, and Billie uses it, lets the words tumble from her mouth in the stillness.

“That’s very beautiful,” she says softly, and Nora startles, her hands slipping awkwardly and stuttering on several keys at once as she turns to see Billie in the doorway.

“Billie Dean Howard,” Nora murmurs, and Billie enters the room, takes a seat beside Nora on the bench. Nora’s face is adorned with a crimson flush, and her mouth twists into something of a frown. She’s not wearing lipstick today, Billie observes. “I didn’t—that wasn’t meant for you to hear, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I liked it,” Billie says, and Nora lifts her gaze from her hands to meet Billie’s. Billie can see her so clearly this close, can see the grey storm behind her crystal eyes. She offers Nora a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Nora doesn’t have an immediate response. She watches Billie adamantly, her eyes flickering over every inch of Billie’s face, and Billie wishes desperately that Nora would release her tight grip on her inner thoughts, wishes she would let them all out. Billie feels it below the surface, a whisper, a quiet turmoil. She can’t make anything of it.

“Charles bought me this,” Nora says finally, running the tips of her fingers along the wooden grain of the piano, and when Nora says those words, she spits his name and savors the rest. Loveless marriage, Constance’s voice rings in Billie’s head. “Charles bought me a lot of things.”

“Charles was your husband,” Billie gathers, feels the resentment roll from Nora, remembers the photograph. A family portrait of the three of them, looking so fleshed out and well-rounded, the very image of togetherness and perfection. But three sets of eyes had all held secrets, all closed doors, and Billie wants to open the one that leads to Nora. Wants to shove her way in and say, I’m here now.

“He was my burden,” Nora corrects, and she is not forlorn. Just withdrawn. “But he meant well. He gave me everything I could have wanted, even this…” she taps one of the bass notes once, a pulse of darkness, “dreadful thing. I was never much of a virtuoso, but I did enjoy the sound. I’d forgotten I could play. I haven’t been able to place what it was that reminded me, but suddenly I knew again.” Nora grimaces then, backtracks and retreats. She lifts her hands from the keys and draws them into her lap, closes in on herself. “Why do you wish to know me, Billie Dean?”

The first time Nora has said those words without the surname. It feels intimate. It feels kind. It brings about a string of thoughts that Billie wants to release all at once. Because I feel as though I already do. Because I am drawn to you. Because I want to be important to you. Because I want to help you.

“I want to be your friend,” she says instead.

Nora just shakes her head, her brows furrowed, and heaves a sharp sigh that shudders at the end.

“I don’t understand,” Nora laments, and she does sound sad now, not about her past, not about everything before, but about this. About Billie Dean’s presence. “Why did you leave?”

Billie is taken aback, stunned that Nora remembers the details of their encounter, that Nora remembers more than just Billie’s name.

“Why did you?” Billie counters, and Nora seems flustered suddenly, her hands twitching nervously in her lap.

“I don’t remember,” Nora lies. Billie lets her, feels a fond smile play at her lips, then softens slightly.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” she asks, and nothing in Nora’s energy implies otherwise, but if Nora voices concern, then that will be enough, and Billie will heed her words, will disappear much like Nora had in the kitchen.

But Nora doesn’t. Nora works around the question, then allows a small smile of her own to bloom. Nora seems pleased. “Yes, I think so,” she says, then she nods. “Yes.”

There is a faint chill that lingers in the house on Halloween, and Billie isn’t sure if that is due to the slight drop in temperature outside or if it is because of the history that the holiday has with this house. When the gust of a late October breeze hits the air outside, the spirits inside, the ones who have chosen not to leave for the night, weep with it. Billie only sees Nora, but she feels decades of misery. It starts to strain the back of her eyes, bringing on a headache, and she is feeling dizzy and weak enough to lounge on the sofa in the drawing room. Nora stands by the window, watches the costumed people with painted faces and masks in the streets point at the house and laugh as their pace quickens past it.

“This is my home,” Nora says sadly. “Why are people so cruel?”

“They’ll never know the horrors of this house,” Billie tells her from the couch, and when she raises up, her brain buzzes in her skull. She clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling. Her skin crawls at the muffled sound of a tormented soul internally shouting for attention. “It’s easier for them to make fun of it, because then they don’t have to understand it.” Broken families. A handful of failed marriages. A lifetime of loss. A century of yearning. It all lives here, within these walls, and Billie believes she will faint if she continues to sit here and absorb it.

Nora lets the curtain drop from her hand, turns away from the window and looks at Billie with hurt flashing in her eyes, her face pinching into a frown.

“Are you alright?” Nora asks. “You’re very pale.”

Billie breathes out a laugh, takes one deep breath in, then releases it, nods her head slowly. She’s the ghost, and somehow, you’re the pale one. She’s worried about you.

“I’m okay,” she says lazily, waves a dismissive hand. “Something about this night…” Nora crosses the distance between them like she’s moving through molasses, settles carefully next to Billie on the sofa. Nora watches her, and Billie feels it, feels her gaze, feels Nora’s distress like an outstretched hand. She doesn’t say anything though, and Billie is worn thin enough, is moments away from bursting, asking Nora to just speak, to just tell her something. “Where do you like to go on Halloween?” Billie asks, unable to stand the silence looming thickly, among the anguished chatter in the walls.

“Oh,” Nora utters softly, “I don’t…” Billie thinks Nora is going to opt for the easy way out, feign memory loss, blame her poor traffic jam of a brain. But Nora narrows her eyes, and Nora remembers because Nora always remembers. “I took a walk by myself once.” She hesitates a moment, then nods. “Just the one time. I didn’t care for it.”

Billie imagines Nora’s spirit floating down cracked sidewalks. Nora jolting every time she hears a passing car, the bass of its speakers, so different from those of her time. Nora staring at people on cell phones, wires hanging from their ears as they listen to music, donning attire that varies so vastly from her own. Nora finding a spot in a park overlooking the city and all of its lights. Nora experiencing this new world alone. Lost and confused. Out of place with no one to answer all of her questions, no hand to hold. Nora being so overwhelmed that she decides she’s not going to leave this house on Halloween anymore, on her one night of freedom.

It’s different now, Billie thinks. She has you. Teach her. Help her to understand. That’s why you’re here.

“Would you take a walk with me, then?” Billie asks, and Nora’s eyes widen just a fraction as she considers. If Nora declines, then Billie won’t push. They will sit right here and learn each other from the aching discomfort of this house that shifts and settles and sobs, and Billie won’t force Nora out of her comfort zone, and Billie will continue to ward off the evils that lurk here around her.

“Yes,” Nora agrees, timid and uncertain, but with a spark of intrigue in the blue of her eyes, looking like she has surprised even herself.

She’s trying so hard. The thought nearly knocks the wind from Billie as her heart swells with it. She’s trying for you.

Getting Nora past the threshold is not as difficult as Billie had assumed, and she is reminded once more to stop underestimating Nora. She is capable of a strength that Billie can only dream of, that Billie knows must be exhausting and frightening. Billie pushes her palm against the unlatched gate, holds it open and stands on the other side, waits for Nora. She doesn’t need comfort or soothing words, because she is stepping over the property line, stepping out into the world, with conviction. Billie wonders if Nora has made the attempt before on any other night. She wonders if Nora has ever tried to escape, if she has ever tried to sever herself from the ties of this house, only to end up back inside where she started.

As soon as they start walking, away from the house, away from the destructive souls, the pain springing behind Billie’s eyes begins to fade. She breathes easier now, breathes in fresh air tinged with spice and wood smoke. They pass by houses with porch lights on for trick-or-treaters, jack o’ lanterns carved out cleanly and placed on front steps, decorations in the shape of witches and bats littering the lawns. A group of small children comes bounding around the corner of a stone wall surrounding a house, laughing giddily over their loot, and Nora startles, a hand flying up to clutch her heart through her chest as she watches them scamper off down the sidewalk behind them.

Billie thinks of the photograph, of the child Nora held closely in her arms. She thinks of how Nora must have lost that child to the darkness.

“Hey,” Billie eases gently, and Nora whips her head back around to face her, eyes brimming with tears, wide and frantic. She reaches out and places a soothing hand on Nora’s upper arm, feels the chill of Nora’s skin seep through and sink into the flesh of her own palm. Nora doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t relax, either. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

Nora twists the handkerchief in her grasp, exhales a shaky, fragile breath. Billie can feel the teeming regret, the undiluted sorrow, and she can feel the anger, too. Somewhere, Nora is quietly furious. She mourns here, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, and Billie feels it all, mourns with her, keeps a hand stroking up and down Nora’s bicep until the storm in Nora’s eyes passes, fizzes out. Like popping a soda tab. The moment of emotion, then the decompression.

“Can we keep going?” Nora asks quietly, and Billie smiles softly at her, dropping her hand from Nora’s arm. “I’d like to keep going.”

“Sure.” Billie nods, and they start walking again. She plucks the spare cigarette she’s kept tucked behind her ear. She pinches the filter lightly between her teeth, lets it hang from her mouth as she pulls a lighter from her pocket, sparks it up and inhales. She offers it to Nora just to see her wrinkle her nose, just to watch her animated repulsion, aiming to get Nora out of her own head a bit. The touch of a grin quirks at Nora’s lips. “It’ll calm your nerves,” Billie tempts, wispy smoke billowing on an exhale, and Nora sighs theatrically.

“You’re a menace,” she murmurs, and Billie titters.

As they make their way down the block, Billie studies Nora, watches her watching everything. Every now and then, Nora’s arm will twitch at her side, like she is restraining herself from reaching out. They walk for half an hour, content to be free of that house even if just for now, with no variation of strings tied to their ankles tugging them down. When they make it to a more industrialized area, Nora stares at the lines of cars parked on curbs, at all the stores and chains with lights that shine too brightly, and she lifts her hand faintly, then lowers it. The sound of a horn blaring loudly at a crowded intersection causes Nora to delicately place her cold hand on Billie’s elbow, fingertips pressing lightly, like Nora is saying, you’re real, and you’re part of this world, so it must be real, too. An affirmation. A comfort that Billie indulges her in, but doesn’t comment on, doesn’t draw attention to so as not to embarrass her.

“You doing okay?” Billie asks, keeps her tone light and casual as she gently nudges Nora’s side. But Nora doesn’t seem scared or anxious. Just slightly off-put, distracted, like she is taking it all in.

Nora sees it before Billie does, her brows pulling together as she stares at the large building across the street, aglow with multicolored lights, people scattered at the entrance, scanty dresses with classy feathered boas and pressed suits. Shiny, gaudy jewelry and slicked hair. The black banner stretching across the top of the building from one column to the other reads Gatsby’s Masquerade, and Billie feels a grin tease at her lips.

Billie mumbles for Nora to “come on,” and they cross the street, passing by individuals who seem to think they embody perfectly the essence of the Roaring Twenties. On their way up the steps, a woman with an exaggerated black feather headband tells Nora that she loves her costume. Nora’s reaction is one of slight offense, and Billie is still laughing when they enter. Nora’s entire disposition shifts immediately. Her eyes light up, her lips part in awe, and she clutches Billie’s arm tighter, and not because she is afraid, but because she feels welcome in the world for the first time tonight. This is familiar, the setting, the sound of trumpets pouring from the overhead speakers, the excess.

They wade through the masses, and Nora stares at every cocktail waiter that floats by, every intricate mask in the crowd of faces, all of the golden balloons adorning the walls in an arch.

Nora says Billie’s name, but the music is too noisy, too distracting, and Billie spots a stairway leading up to a rooftop patio. She makes her way to it, and Nora’s grip on her arm never falters as she follows. The patio is significantly less crowded, people here and there, a quiet jazz band tucked away in the corner, but they can breathe up here. Being outside is important tonight; Billie wonders how often Nora leaves the shelter of her home. She wants to know the last time the sun touched Nora’s skin. She wants to know if Nora likes to gaze at the stars.

“We can go back down there if you want,” Billie offers. “Figured you spend every other day of the year indoors. I thought it might be nice up here.”

“Yes, I like this,” Nora says contentedly, her eyes gleaming as they find a spot by the rooftop railing, and Billie leans against it, laughs breezily. “It makes sense.”

That is all Nora wants, Billie realizes. Clarity. To make sense of the world she’s in. To understand the world that left her behind. To be present rather than past, always. She can do that tonight. It’s Halloween, and Nora can be whatever she wants, including her true self.

“Did you ever dance?” Billie wonders curiously, thinks of all the extravagance happening below them, has to know if Nora took part in all of that back when it was more than just the theme at Halloween parties.

“Oh, you had to. It helped if you truly enjoyed it, though. I always found such pleasure in it.” Billie makes a snorting sound from the back of her throat, and Nora’s face works around a frown. “Why does that surprise you?”

“It doesn’t,” Billie assures her. “I just wouldn’t have made it very far.”

“What are you saying?” Nora looks aghast, appalled. Her hand lowers from Billie’s arm, and she moves from beside her, stands in front of her and crosses her arms. “You mean you can’t dance? You were never taught?”

Billie stifles her amusement at Nora’s expense.

“People do other things now,” Billie justifies. “It’s not all ballroom dancing.”

Nora overlooks this entirely.

“You really can’t dance?” she presses, and Billie releases a soft, defeated chuckle.

“I can dance,” Billie says. “Badly.”

Nora sighs, shakes her head in disappointment.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” she laments. “Society failed you.”

“It sure did,” Billie gibes, but Nora is preoccupied and distant, bothered by this in a way that it takes Billie a moment to understand, and when she finally does, her face relaxes into compassion, always finding a sympathy within her for Nora. This isn’t a joke to Nora, who values a certain lifestyle and puts stock in the ideals that were handed to her. She is an old soul, romantic, glamorous, and this is vexing her, that Billie never followed suit. Was given different opportunities in a world that now practices more than just the Waltz on weekends. And it is such a harmless thing, so trivial. Billie thinks that is why it is so important, simply because it’s not at all. Simply because it should be. Billie ducks her head to meet Nora’s fallen gaze, and Nora’s eyes are a deep sapphire, a shade that matches her necklace. “Would you like to teach me?”

Nora softens, shines, and the smile on her face is shy and exuberant, like she is overly excited but thinks perhaps she shouldn’t be. Like she is containing herself.

“I could do that,” Nora agrees, nodding her head and taking a step closer. “Yes, I could—here.” She takes Billie’s hands delicately, and the direct contact feels like morning frost on Billie’s skin, causes her to shiver. Nora flushes. “Oh,” she mumbles, embarrassed.

Billie wonders when Nora’s last experience with human contact was, if she often forgets to be mindful of her still-beating heart and all of its effects. Billie wonders if Nora is even accustomed to being touched. Billie wonders if Nora has ever been held.

She squeezes Nora’s hands in her own gently, offers her a warm smile to balance the chill that Nora’s body exudes.

“I don’t mind it,” she tells Nora, thinks distantly that she could actually get used to it, quickly decides that could be a dangerous thought and stores it away in the depths of her mind.

Nora brings Billie’s hands to her, settles them at her shoulders, and Billie thinks Nora might be nervous, the way her cheeks are stained a faint pink under the moonlight. Billie decides that this is for Nora, and it can be for her, too, and she will thrill in the fact that Nora cares enough to be anxious about it. Billie decides to have her own fun as well. She tugs Nora closer by a few odd inches until they are the nearest to each other that they have been in the short time they’ve known each other, and Nora’s eyes widen with a quiet gasp. Her hands adjust themselves gingerly at Billie’s waist, her touch so light that it is barely there. It is still for several seconds. Across the rooftop, one musician plays the saxophone. The vocalist croons out soft, raspy lyrics. And they stand there under the stars, unmoving, watching each other. Billie grins, drapes her arms around Nora’s neck.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, her amusement filtering through. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Nora shakes her head, stutters once, then nods, and Billie feels Nora’s distress leave her, feels concentration take its place.

“Right.” Nora takes a breath, then exhales, lets a giggle bubble up from her throat. “This feels so strange. I haven’t—I’ve never led before.”

“So, you don’t know what you’re doing, either?” Billie laughs. “Oh, good. This is good.”

Nora scoffs, affronted. “No, of course I know what I’m doing.” She taps her fingertips against Billie’s left side, indicating which foot for Billie to start on, and when Nora moves forward, Billie does, too, and they bump into each other.

“Sorry,” Billie mutters sheepishly, but Nora just smiles kindly.

“It’s alright, darling, you’ll get it. We’ve only just begun.”

This time, when Nora moves, Billie is patient, and Billie follows, and it happens slowly and meticulously, like a spider weaving strands of a web, so careful. They complete their first successful box-step, and Nora beams with pride for Billie, and it is so jarring to see Nora this full of life, the way she carries herself here so different in comparison to how she trudges about the house, like she is lost within her own home and finally free out here.

Billie thinks Nora is right. That they have only just begun, in more ways than one. Billie had taken Nora out tonight to help her adjust to the world around her, to show her that she can fit in as long as she has a support system by her side. She had been ready to teach Nora, to help her learn and navigate modernity, but Nora is the one teaching her something new. Billie finds herself feeling more than content with that.

It is not until after, when they have long since decided to call it a night, when they are walking back to the house, that Billie realizes. Nora had called her “darling,” the term of endearment rolling off her tongue like they’ve known each other for years, and Billie wants so desperately to know why it feels like that. Why does it feel like they are old friends? What is this connection? Why did Billie feel it even before she met Nora, when she had only seen a picture of her?

She thinks, sometimes, that her state of confusion rivals Nora’s, because she doesn’t understand this, either. But she is starting to. She’s beginning to listen more closely to her heart and all the strings attached to it that Nora tugs on. So, when Nora’s hand flutters by her side as they stroll down the sidewalk, when Nora’s fingers brush Billie’s almost in question, Billie takes her hand. She locks their fingers, and she holds tightly, and Nora meets her gaze and smiles softly.

November

Nora is having a bad day.

Nora is struggling, fighting to keep her head above choppy waters, and it’s hard for Billie to reconcile this image of Nora with the one from Halloween. But spirits are fickle entities, and Billie knew what she was signing up for when she stepped into this house the first time and called Nora’s name. They have made progress, Billie thinks. Nora was beginning to come out of her shell. She was beginning to exist in her nonexistence more freely. She was playing her piano, and she was smiling more, and she taught Billie how to dance. She allowed Billie to hold her hand, and she will allow small touches here and there, sporadic. She will let Billie call her things that aren’t her name, soft things, endearments, and she will cast her gaze elsewhere and blush, delicately and quietly.

Billie knows Nora Montgomery. Billie knows of all of her good, and almost none of her bad. But today, Billie is learning that, too. So unlike the others, Billie thinks. Nora is neither lost nor found. She is both, sometimes, and most times, she is neither. She has good days and bad days. Nora believes herself to be at home, feels comfortable here. At home, but not at ease. Two different things, on the opposite ends of the spectrum. Nora can’t seem to find her peace, and Billie knows she can help her, somehow. Billie knows there is something here, knows it with everything in her. It’s what she had meant to do all along, help Nora overcome this insufferable cycle, the ups and downs of immortality, but maybe Billie had gotten lost along the way, too.

Maybe Billie had started to feel.

Nora holds tightly to her handkerchief, balling it up in her fist and unfurling it, repeating the motion like it is soothing to her. Billie watches, eyes flickering over Nora’s expression, then the tension in her shoulders, the position she sits in, as if she is pulled taut to snap.

Billie has to wonder what has caused this. She has to wonder if it’s her fault, if she has wriggled her way in to a place that Nora does not want her, a place deep within. She flicks her thumb at the filter of her cigarette, tipping the ash off into the tray on the coffee table in front of her. Maybe Nora is simply trying not to drown. Maybe it has nothing to do with—

“Why don’t you ever leave?” Nora asks, and Billie thinks she’d meant for it to come out biting and scathing, but it just sounds sad. “I mean, you—you do, and then you’re back, always back, and why—” Nora shakes her head, lets the rest of her words sink as she stops herself. Billie sighs and stamps her lit cigarette out in the ashtray, drops it once the flame is extinguished. Nora begs, as if Billie somehow has all of the answers. She doesn’t. Billie has no answers, and she is just as disoriented, but Nora seems significantly more perplexed by it, whereas Billie does have an inkling.

“Are you asking me to leave?” Billie questions, and Nora’s icy stare meets hers.

If Nora says yes, Billie will make herself scarce. She will abandon this spark she feels, will let it sizzle and dim, if that’s what Nora wants. She knows better than to keep an unhinged spirit company. But her question only seems to intensify Nora’s frustration, and she just scoffs, flustered and undignified from her place by the window. Nora dismisses her completely, moves from her chair to stand, and on her way out of the room, Billie hurries to her feet, catches Nora’s wrist in her grasp.

“Hey, don’t,” she requests softly, keeps her voice low and gentle, and Nora looks like she is so overwhelmed, so quietly emotional. Billie’s hand remains, delicate but solid, and Nora lets her hold her there. “Just talk to me, okay? Let me help you, whatever you’re feeling today.”

You’ve got to let me in, sweetheart. I can’t reach you if you won’t open up.

Nora worries her bottom lip with her teeth, opens her mouth to speak once, then twice, before she heaves an exhausted sigh. She slumps gracefully back against the wall behind her, as if the mere thought of having to explain her feelings is too much for her.

“I think you yearn,” Nora tells her, and Billie’s lips cast downward, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “I believe you crave fulfillment more so than I do. I thought nothing could compare to this incessant heartache, but you…” Nora stops herself, studies Billie for a moment, eyes scanning over Billie’s form, then focusing in on her face, searching for cracks in the veneer. When Nora doesn’t find any, she smiles sadly. “I’m beginning to know you. There’s something you need.”

The pieces fall together like the ashes of her depleted cigarette, no longer stacking themselves on top of one another, but collapsing, fitting. Billie does need something. How much thought has she put into this? Billie asks herself. How much of it does she understand?

Billie’s fingers graze Nora’s wrist, an attempt to calm both herself and Nora, and Nora watches her with keen eyes, daring Billie to disagree. There is something about this moment, teeming with fragility, as if the tension between them is screaming to be handled with precision and care.

“And what do I yearn for?” Billie asks, feels a sudden uptick in her nerves, being so exposed under Nora’s gaze, one that implores and demands. Don’t answer that, Billie thinks after she’s said it. Don’t answer that question, because I think I know, and I’m not sure you’re ready, not yet.

“I often wonder if you long for the same freedom I once did,” Nora says quietly, and her eyes spark with resentment towards Billie, entertaining the miserable thought of Billie actually glorifying this, wanting to be subjected to the horrors here, the heartache. “The way you spend your time in this prison, surrounded on all sides by such…tragedy.” Nora sighs, a small, melancholic sound, and her lip trembles. “Tell me you don’t dream of being a part of it?”

Billie feels her heart begin to pound more rapidly, thinks of the splattered wound on the back of Nora’s head, feels the memory as it crashes into her, tastes the bitter, metallic rust on her tongue, living the experience as Nora relives it in her mind, hearing Nora in her head for the first time. Billie emits a soft sound of disbelief, feels tears begin to well in her own eyes at the image of Nora ending her life. She’d been so distraught, had never felt complete, so she solidified the missing piece of herself with a bullet. Why couldn’t I have been there then? Why now? Why nearly a century after the fact?

“Come here,” Billie whispers, fights against the tears in her voice, and she wraps her arms around Nora’s shoulders, around her neck, pulls her into an embrace. Nora’s hands flutter awkwardly at Billie’s back, lightly touching her shoulder blades then quickly retracting, moving to the middle of Billie’s spine and deciding against that, too. Nora finally settles on the small of Billie’s back, above her waist, and Nora’s hold is so fragile as she melts into the hug that Billie wonders if Nora is truly here, if her form is something solid. “Honey, of all my desires, death is not one of them,” she says into the fabric of Nora’s red gown, lips at her shoulder.

Nora pulls back to look Billie in the eyes, and Billie’s heart crumbles at the fact of Nora having to see a thing before she believes in it, of Nora having to analyze it to know that it’s real, to know that she feels it. Loveless marriage, Constance’s voice reminds her in her head.

“Then what is it that you desire?” Nora pleads softly, like she can use Billie’s wants to escape from her own.

Billie wants to say something, wants to tell her to stop thinking so hard with her head, to start using the heart that’s been silenced inside her for so long, and Billie is convinced that Nora has never really used it at all, even when she was alive, even when there was warm blood pumping in and out of it, channeling through her veins. Billie thinks Nora knows. She thinks Nora is asking in hopes to be proven wrong. But the thing about all of this is that Nora is rarely wrong, is most often right, and she is right about this, and Nora has desires of her own, Billie knows. They are shrouded in panic and fear, but Billie feels them fighting to see the light of day. Billie does yearn, but not for death. For life. For truth. She yearns for Nora, has felt something digging at the pits of her heart as soon as she saw Nora’s photograph.

Billie thinks Nora is so close, right at the precipice of freedom and discovery, right on the edge of the cliff, glancing over and surveying the height of this, the magnitude of it. Billie will be at the bottom of that cliff to catch her. Billie will even take the first step for her.

“It’s about what I don’t,” Billie tells her. She brings a warm, careful hand to Nora’s cheek, gently resting her palm to Nora’s face, and Nora does lean into it, does humor Billie’s gesture for a moment. Billie can feel Nora’s anticipation, the way her gaze darkens, a flush painting her skin, her lips parting as she releases a sigh of a breath. “I don’t want to be your friend, Nora.”

The muscles in Nora’s face twitch, like she is searching for the right response, can’t find it, and she keeps trying, shaking her head lightly as her brain works around this. Billie’s eyes flicker dangerously to Nora’s lips as they breathe the same air, and Nora sees this, inhaling shakily, the cold flames returning to her eyes, replacing the soft glow.

“Stop it,” Nora commands, her voice flustered and unsteady as she swats at Billie’s hand, pushes her away with a shove. Nora brings her hands to the front of her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles, trying to compose herself. “I think…” Billie watches Nora swallow thickly, “I think you’d better go.”

Something in Billie shatters all at once at that, at the retraction of all their progress. She’s crossed a line, so quickly and so recklessly. Billie has crossed a certain line that is very bold and prominent and obvious. She has seen it, has acknowledged it, and now she’s crossed it. Nora’s withdrawal, Nora’s shame, Nora’s guilt, is entirely Billie’s fault. She has tarnished the trust they’ve built, has betrayed Nora in some way, by following her heart. By urging Nora to follow hers.

Nora wasn’t ready. Billie doesn’t think Nora will ever be ready, or if she even believes there is anything to be ready for. She doesn’t think Nora will ever allow herself to feel, because the last time Nora felt something, it had been rage, disappointment, loss, and it had killed her. She had let it kill her.

She stands in stunned silence for several odd seconds before her thoughts begin to catch up to the present. Nora has asked her to leave. She has to leave now, even if it will feel like leaving a part of herself.

“Okay.” Billie nods and pushes a hand through her hair, tosses it behind her shoulder. She walks over, grabs her purse from the coffee table, slides it onto her arm, and Nora stares on with such pained confusion etched onto her face as Billie makes for the door. She glances back just before she exits, and Nora has already disappeared.

“You know, in all my years, I’ve never heard anything quite like it,” Constance berates. “Tell me, what compelled you to make a pass at the Golden Age Ghost of Murder House, hm? Entertain my curiosity, why don’t you?”

Billie shakes her head. She’s kept her distance from that house, from Nora, for almost a week now. She’s no longer welcome there, and she knows it. She’s avoiding the very essence of Nora, avoiding the embarrassment that comes with knowing she’s hurt her. She’s made a mistake, and she’s suffering the brutal consequences of separation.

“You don’t understand,” Billie says, and Constance releases a breathy, pitched laugh. “She’s not like the others.”

“Well, Jesus, strawberry’s not like vanilla, and you don’t see people molesting their ice cream cones.” Constance sighs, rests her hands on the kitchen table to steady herself and gather her thoughts. “What I mean is—”

“I know. I know what you mean.” Billie unzips her purse, digs around the inner pocket for a few moments. She pulls out a key and tosses it down on the table with a metallic clatter. “You can have that back now.”

Constance tuts and rolls her eyes.

“You’re being a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

No, Billie thinks stubbornly. She’s not going to want me there now. I wiped out all our progress and then some. She’s worse off now than when I found her.

“Who knew that place existed in such a delicate balance?” Billie muses quietly, stares distantly at the corner of Constance’s peeling wallpaper.

“I tried to tell you,” Constance says, snatches Billie’s attention, and Billie glares at her. Constance makes a careless, waving gesture with her hands. “Of course, I didn’t know at the time that your endgame was to fornicate with the lady of the house. But I did warn you about the dangers of investing all your time into lost causes.”

“I wish you’d stop calling her that,” Billie snaps. “You think I had any idea the kind of effect she’d have on me?”

“You’re missing the point, Billie. Even if you’d known, you still would have marched right over there. Your selfish desires will always get the best of you, and you never listen to anything that anyone else has to say.”

Billie prickles at that, would like to believe it’s not true, but has to wonder if it is. Had she only imagined what she wanted? Did she ever really know Nora, or did she only know who she wanted her to be? Who she hoped Nora could be? Had it been selfish? No, Billie thinks forcefully, shaking her head in denial. No, from the beginning, I only wanted to help her.

“It was worth it just to know her,” she says, knows this with certainty. But Constance scoffs, dismisses her.

“Nothing in that house is ever worth it, believe me.”

Billie closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath. She’s growing tired of Constance’s chronic negativity, can feel a tension migraine beginning to form at her temples. Constance was wrong about Nora before, and she is wrong about this. She has to be. It doesn’t make sense that Nora isn’t worth it. Getting to know her had been the most insightful, exhilarating experience of her life.

She excuses herself, makes up some lie about her call time being early tomorrow morning. Constance doesn’t question it, probably doesn’t even notice. Always so self-absorbed, always offering the exact wrong advice. But Billie has been grateful for a willing, listening ear, at least. It hasn’t helped to clear her mind, hasn’t helped at all, really, but she had gotten to voice her thoughts, bring them to life instead of letting them spin and muddle in her brain.

As Billie starts down the sidewalk in the cool, autumn breeze, she comes up on the house, walks up to the gates just to torture herself, just to feel. This isn’t something that will fade away the quicker she runs. This is something that will chase her. This is something that can run faster than her. This is something that Nora will be stuck with, if she bothers to remember. She doesn’t sometimes, doesn’t feel like trying, putting the effort into her pain, and she wonders what Nora’s other options are, really. Nora isn’t granted the luxury of unpacking her devils. All of her boxes are trapped in that house. She sits with them, long past the point of collecting dust. They collect tears now. And here is Billie, on the opposite, more fortunate side of these gates, free and hiding still. She is alive and unbound, and that makes her a coward. She has the privilege of denial, of forgetting. Nora is stronger than she will ever be, she thinks, simply because she is forced to face her regrets every single day, every waking moment.

Billie sees a flash of blonde out of the corner of her eye, and she tilts her head, presses herself to the gate to see further.

“Nora?” The name tumbles from her lips before she can stop herself, shocked to see Nora outside, in broad daylight, when she is normally so fond of her isolation in the darkness. Billie’s heart flutters at the sight, at the fact that Nora has not taken to locking herself away in the basement after Billie’s disappearance. Maybe I have helped her with just that one thing, Billie thinks. “What are you doing out here?”

Nora moves away from the blockade of shrubbery, stands in front of Billie through the gates instead. She tenses her fingers around her handkerchief and blinks once, nervously.

“I was hoping I’d catch you,” Nora admits quietly. “Now that I have, I’m not quite sure what to do.”

Billie feels her lips quirk at that, her disposition softening. She wonders how long Nora has been waiting, if it has been hours or days, and she decides it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because dwelling on it will only make Billie feel worse than what she already does, and she is here now, and so is Nora, and Nora is reaching out to her, in her own small way. There is something so incredibly endearing about it, and Billie can’t keep herself from reaching back, from opening the gates and stepping onto the property.

“Do you want to talk?” Billie asks gently, and Nora sighs her relief, nods graciously.

She follows Nora up the crooked walkway, revels in the fact that she doesn’t need a key to get in, not when she has Nora. Constance can keep her damn key, she thinks petulantly. Constance is wrong, she’s wrong, she’s wrong.

They reach the foyer, and Billie shuts the door behind her, softly clicking into place with finality, as if the very foundation of this house is saying, Okay, you’re here, you have her, and she has you, so fix this. The silence stretches as they stand, facing each other, and Billie is the one to speak first, thinks that she has to be.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and Nora lets it hang there in the air, doesn’t accept it or refuse it. Just fiddles anxiously with the scrap of fabric in her hands, twisting it over and over her finger. “I was—I shouldn’t have pushed you so far out of your comfort zone. I’m just…” and, what word?Billie wonders. Enchanted? Mesmerized? Intrigued? Enamored? “I admire you.”

This brings the shadow of a smile to Nora’s face, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise, and she exhales slowly through her nose.

“Could you make me a cup of tea?” Nora asks timidly.

Billie feels the pull of a grin at her lips, feels some of this aching tension ease between them as she nods.

“Yeah,” she says, a snicker creeping into her voice. “Yeah, I’ll make you some tea.”

It is just like the first time, just like the first day they met, as Billie prepares the kettle. Nora lingers beside her this time, though, watches her flit about the kitchen, filling the water up, placing it on the stove to boil. When the dial of the stove clicks into place, the flames roaring and heating the kettle, she turns away from it to engage with Nora, only to find her inches away in her space. Billie startles, pushes out an uneasy laugh, trapped between the chill of Nora’s body and the heat of the stove.

“It’ll be ready soon,” Billie tells her, and it almost sounds like a question, a placating thing to encourage Nora to take a few steps back. But Nora stays, her eyes locked on Billie’s, burning so brightly and so intensely. It knocks Billie off-kilter, throws off her whole mental balance, having Nora this close. Having Nora look at her like this. Like Nora is accepting a long-lost truth that she has always wanted to hear, but has never had the courage to put much faith in. Billie swallows thickly, pushes past the emotion in her throat. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’d like to stay right here.”

Nora is so capable of dismantling her, of stripping her of righteous confidence and steady standing. Nora reads her well, like a book plucked from a shelf that has been rifled through a thousand times, and some of the words feel rusty, but the remembrance, the familiarity, is still present. Still glaringly obvious. People call her complicated, blunt, persuasive, careless. But she’s not those things right now. Here, before Nora, she is measured, and she is bare.

She feels Nora raise a hand to her face, handkerchief wound and knotted around her forefinger. Her knuckles graze Billie’s cheek, the lace embroidery touching her skin.

“How did you do it?” Nora asks in a hushed tone, like she is deeply fascinated, but Billie doesn’t understand, can’t focus beyond drawing shallow breaths as Nora leans closer. “How did you free me and make it look so easy? Had it not been for my own stubbornness, I’d have hardly noticed.”

Billie frowns, is pulled lightly from her stupor.

“Don’t say that,” she says softly. “I got so invested in you so fast. I should have been more patient. And you should be patient with yourself.”

Nora smiles, her demeanor shy but her eyes alight with possibility, with this wholly new concept.

“I’m very fond of you, Billie Dean.”

Nora’s fingertips trail over Billie’s cheekbone, coming to rest in her hair, carefully running them through soft strands, and Billie feels her heart sputter in her chest. Nora’s touch is so delicate, like she only knows of what she wants to do and not of how to do it.

“I don’t want you feeling overwhelmed,” Billie manages, feels her pulse skip beneath her skin when Nora’s smile widens.

“I have been, only because you make me feel less alone.” Nora sighs thoughtfully, like she is learning herself as Billie is learning her. “I’ve never been anything else. But here you are, and here I am, and it all seems so strange, doesn’t it? That it isn’t strange?”

Billie releases an unexpected breath of laughter, reaches for Nora’s wrist, sliding her hand down the length of Nora’s forearm and holding her there, Nora’s hand buried in Billie’s hair, cradling her head. She is surprised by how right this feels, Billie thinks. You’re not alone in that anymore. She understands.

She presses the tips of her acrylics softly into the skin of Nora’s arm, needs to distract herself from the warmth she feels rising to her cheeks, needs reassurance that Nora is here, that, yes, she is a ghost, but she exists in such a tangible way, so staggeringly real, even if she isn’t. She has a heart, even if it is frozen. She has a brain, even if it is bullet-splintered. She has a soul, even if it is tormented. She’s real to Billie. This, everything they are, is real.

“What are you trying to tell me, honey?” Billie asks teasingly, because she is selfish, just slightly and just when it is necessary, and she needs to hear Nora say it. She wants Nora to hear herself say it.

“I don’t want to be your friend, either,” Nora admits quietly, so simply, as if it doesn’t hold the weight of worlds. As if the gravity of this moment is not heavy at all for her. As if she has been waiting for it, and she didn’t even know it.

Nora brings her hand back to Billie’s face, runs her thumb delicately over Billie’s bottom lip, watches so intently as she does this, like it’s so important to her. Billie hopes it is. It’s important to Billie, too. She scratches her nails lightly across Nora’s forearm, up, then down, then back up, acclimating them both as she draws stalled breaths. Nora leans into her first, lowers her head so slowly, and she rests her forehead against Billie’s, and Billie closes her eyes. She feels Nora’s other hand move to the other side of her face, cupping her cheeks so gently, like Billie is made of glass; right now, Billie feels like she might be. When Nora presses her lips to hers, it is tentative, a fleeting touch. A small peck, small but not without feeling. Small but not insignificant.

Billie pulls away, a quiet check-in, and she opens her eyes to find that Nora’s are still closed. Nora lowers a hand, wraps it around the back of Billie’s neck, chilled skin pressing to heated flesh. She brings Billie back to her, carefully, and kisses her again just as slowly, but more openly. Less reserved. Like she is trying so hard to make sense of this. Billie lets her, allows Nora to feel her way through this darkness that becomes light, is ready to catch her should she stumble. But she doesn’t. Nora doesn’t stumble. Nora forges ahead. Nora sprints, and Billie struggles to match her pace, is feeling her heart and her head align with too much emotion, too much thought. She keeps one hand at Nora’s arm, brings the other to Nora’s other arm. Nora’s hold brackets her, and Billie’s hold complements hers. I’m here, she thinks. You’re owed this moment, and I’m right here to keep you steady.

Billie drags her nails down Nora’s arm, rakes them over skin, and Nora releases a soft sound from the back of her throat. Billie smiles against Nora’s lips, sighs as her mouth moves against Nora’s, giving Nora her truth as Nora gives her assurance, that Billie was not wrong about this, that what she’s felt is more than just conceptual, more than just a distant dream.

Nora pulls away this time, and just before she does, Billie sucks once, lightly, at Nora’s bottom lip, causes her to shudder as she draws back with an exhale, her cheeks rosy and flushed. They breathe the same air for several silent moments, just the sharpened push and pull of lungs. Until Billie notices the storm forming in Nora’s eyes, notices the shine of tears in the soft afternoon light that casts through the kitchen windows.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Billie breathes.

Hasn’t grief strangled you long enough? she wants to ask. Let yourself breathe with this. Nurture it.

She slides her hands up Nora’s arm, takes Nora’s hands in her own, clasps them together and presses a gentle kiss to Nora’s knuckles. Nora’s lips part softly as she watches, and she takes a shaky breath, one that threatens to hitch with tears. The kettle behind them begins to reach a boil, the noise startling them, Nora squeezing Billie’s hands tighter. Billie laughs softly, drops Nora’s hands as she turns to remove the kettle from the stove eye.

“It’s okay,” she assures Nora in more ways than one. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Nora brightens at that, her eyes softening.

“Does that mean you’re going to stay with me?” she asks, so full of hope, and Billie’s smile is one of affection.

December

Billie slides her arms into her cardigan, braving herself against the oncoming chill, preparing herself to step outside. Nora watches her, lingers by the front door, takes one step closer and brings a hand out to trace fingertips over the string of pearls around Billie’s neck. A lopsided grin finds its way to Billie’s face.

“You still with me?” she asks, and Nora looks at her, quiet but not timidly so. Just introspective, Billie thinks. She does this sometimes now, will sit with her silence and ponder feelings, for perhaps the first time in her eternal life.

“I’ve been wondering about something,” she tells Billie with an easy smile of her own, one that is bashful in nature.

Billie covers Nora’s hand with her own, still at her neckline, dangerously close to the only heart between them that still pulses. “What’s that?” she asks softly, leaning in to Nora, thrilling in the way Nora softens around her this closely, always so discreetly pleased with this proximity.

“The nights are impossible,” Nora confesses, isolation looming in her gaze as she thinks of it. Billie feels it, the way Nora wanders, disappears, when Billie is not here. The way she withdraws and reverts. “It’s so much more difficult without you here.”

“Are you saying you miss me?” she teases, and Nora frowns, tries to solve the question like an equation in her mind.

“You never stay,” Nora complains. “Every day, you’re gone by sundown. It’s agony, having to watch you leave like this.”

Yes, Billie thinks; this has been intentional on her part. This thing between them has woven itself together for months now, their actions slowly catching up to their connection, and for the past three weeks, Billie has made herself scarce no later than nine o’clock. She’s so content to give Nora this time, this feeling, to let her live without needing to be alive. But Nora is protesting this. Nora seems to crave Billie’s warmth in the dark, frigid night. Billie remembers her scheduled meeting with her producer in the morning and takes the risk anyway.

“Do you want me to?” Billie asks with care, and Nora’s frown starts to loosen up, unwind. “Stay, I mean?”

“I want to know how it feels to spend a night with you,” Nora says, vulnerable and bare, and Billie’s eyebrows must raise just a fraction at this, because Nora begins to flush. “Oh. No, I didn’t—I meant, to have you here.”

Billie tilts her head back lightly, releases soft, amused laughter.

“Needy and greedy,” she gibes, squeezes Nora’s hand once, and Nora still looks embarrassed, still looks like maybe she thinks she’s asked for too much. “Hey,” Billie says, keeps her voice low and soothing, “I’ll stay with you tonight, okay? Whatever you need. You don’t have to be afraid to ask me for things.”

Nora’s eyes spark, lighting up with contained but animated excitement.

“I’ve never had someone to keep me company all night. The light of the moon is always so unbearable and infinite,” Nora says, and a fond grin spreads to Billie’s face as she eyes Nora with adoration. “Though, I might enjoy it with you.”

“Sweetheart, I sleep,” she reminds her gently, but Nora’s face doesn’t fall, she doesn’t deflate or become saddened, disappointed. Instead, she remains beaming and lovely, and Billie’s heart skips at the sight, of Nora just being content to have her, to be with her in her most difficult time of day.

“Oh, that’s alright,” Nora assures her, nodding softly. “You can sleep upstairs where I used to sleep, and I’ll watch you.” Her cheeks flush again, and she huffs out a flustered breath, her next words rushing out nervously. “No,” she decides quickly, “no, I won’t do that, that would be rude, I’ll just…I think I’ll just lie next to you, would you mind that?”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Billie says, her tone low as she imagines. Nora’s form inches away from her as Billie sleeps. Nora’s quiet breathing as Billie snores lightly in the silence. Holding tightly, then loosely to Nora’s hand as Billie drifts off. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

Although, later, once the stars fully blanket the sky and Billie yawns her first yawn, once they’ve made their way upstairs, it does start to feel odd, settling into a fully made-up bed in a house loaded with spirits. Willingly letting her guard down in such a sinister place, such an unpredictable space. Unprotected, save for Nora, Billie’s last line of defense. It feels a bit like being an anxious child going to bed with their closet door open, staring blindly into the darkness as if it will ward off the monsters. Nora must be able to sense Billie’s unease, because she gently flicks the bedside lamp on, illuminates the room in a soft, golden hue.

“Is that better?” Nora asks, and Billie feels a lump form in her throat at the gesture.

You have been so focused on making her feel comfortable, Billie thinks to herself. She’s paying that same kindness forward. She wants you to feel safe here with her, perhaps so that this will become a common occurrence, these sleepovers.

“Yeah,” Billie says, and when her voice comes out weak and raw, she clears her throat, nods her head. She feels her heart pound so steadily fast, being in this intimate setting with Nora, feels her blood run hot through her veins, and immediately needs to gain the upper hand, needs to distract herself. She realizes, with a smirk, that she can’t possibly sleep in her slacks, in her blouse, and she hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t planned to stay here.

Nora pulls the covers back as Billie begins to undo the buttons of her blouse. Nora doesn’t notice, is too busy fluffing the pillows and smoothing her hands over the sheets. Nora doesn’t notice until Billie is stripping her pants, folding them up along with her shirt. She places them on the dresser, then walks over to slip into bed. It leaves her in a thin tank top and her panties, and she modestly tugs the duvet over her body when she sees Nora blanch, freeze in her spot by the side of the bed.

Take it easy on her, she reminds herself. She just needs to know you’re here with her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Billie says dryly, attempts to dispel the tension, feels Nora’s eyes at her collarbones, creeping over the exposed skin of her neck, her shoulders.

Nora huffs unappreciatively, shaking her head and averting her gaze as she settles in next to Billie. She lies atop the covers rather than beneath them like Billie, and Billie thinks that’s good, safe.

“That’s not funny,” she scolds, and Billie titters softly, smiles warmly at Nora as she turns on her side to face her.

Nora rests on her back, keeps her eyes on the ceiling, and Billie leans up on an elbow, props her head in her hand and watches Nora’s lashes flutter with each blink. Nora fiddles absentmindedly with the ties of her gown at her midsection, twirling them around a finger, preoccupied. Confused, maybe, if her face reveals anything, lost at sea in the middle of a storm. Billie reaches out, places her hand over Nora’s and stills her movements. Nora turns her head to look at her, and Billie runs her thumb over Nora’s knuckles.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” Billie asks, not for the first time since they’ve encountered each other, and Nora has asked her to be here. Nora has asked for this, and Nora is allowed to change her mind. Nora is allowed to decline this if it’s too much, and it’s Billie’s responsibility to listen to her, to always listen, especially in the quiet.

Nora pushes a soft sigh from her lungs, a small smile causing the corners of her lips to turn up.

“You’re very warm,” Nora tells her, her hand tensing under Billie’s hold, and Billie grins.

“You’re very cold,” she counters.

Emotion swirls behind Nora’s eyes, and she drops her gaze to Billie’s mouth, leans up in the next moment to kiss her carefully. Nora does this sometimes, will press her lips to Billie’s in the strangest moments, like she’s no longer in the business of denying herself these things, these feelings. Good, Billie thinks. Break all of those evil habits and kiss me while you do.

There is nothing sinister about this place, Billie decides indefinitely. This is Nora’s home, her final resting place, her immortality, and only the bad spirits here are bad. Nothing else. Everything else is solace.

Nora brings her hands to Billie’s face, pulls her deeper, drowns her further. One of Billie’s hands remain at Nora’s abdomen, palm flattened against the silk bodice of her dress, her other hand pressing into the pillow at Nora’s head, holding herself up. Nora’s lips move softly over hers, parting for Billie to brush her tongue against Nora’s. Nora releases a stuttering exhale, and her hands fall to Billie’s shoulders, tugging, drawing Billie closer, making it so that Billie is almost on top of her.

Billie’s hand slides lower to Nora’s waist, thumb pressing to her hip bone through the skirt of her dress, nails biting at skin through the fabric. Billie thinks, fleetingly, that this is wrong, that this is not why she’d agreed to stay. She hopes Nora knows that. She needs Nora to know that, but Nora drags her teeth lightly across Billie’s lower lip, an invitation, and Billie moans softly into her mouth, loses her thoughts to the fire. She kisses Nora with more fervor that Nora returns, an increasing spiral of heat between them, and she grips tightly at Nora’s hip as she strokes Nora’s tongue with her own. Nora gasps against her lips, tears herself away with a breathless shiver, Billie’s forehead coming to rest against Nora’s as they breathe in this proximity.

“I think it’s more than okay that you’re here,” Nora pants delicately, her chest rising and falling in quickened spurts. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re here.”

Billie laughs softly, tilts her head back to press a gentle kiss to Nora’s forehead, then the tip of her nose, her cheek, her jaw. She rests her head in the crook of Nora’s neck, lips brushing the cool skin there.

“I bet you do,” she says, her voice slightly muffled, and Nora sighs, almost impatiently.

“I need to know you,” Nora whispers in the silence, then adds, “I need to know myself.”

Billie chortles, and the vibration of her amusement must resonate through Nora’s bleached bones because she hums with it.

“You already know yourself, honey,” Billie assures her, maintaining patience, maintaining care. “You never needed my help.”

Nora groans in protest, slides a hand through Billie’s hair and urges her head up, looks her in the eyes with a sort of desire that knocks the wind from Billie, a sort that Billie has never seen before: the desire to feel everything at once after a lifetime of learning how to feel nothing.

“I did. I do,” Nora insists, her voice fragile, exposed, something Billie wonders if she has ever felt safe enough to be. “Please?”

The word is spoken so simply, but its impact weighs that of ten steel tons. Maybe, Billie thinks, it’s her own fear holding her back. Maybe she’s not afraid for Nora, because she knows Nora is braver than she is. Yes, she is afraid purely for herself. She is afraid of how much she cares. Billie is afraid of facing that, of owning up to it, this thing she’s never felt before that she now feels so deeply. It’s called love, she thinks fiercely, and it seems foolish to call it anything else, when they have made it this far. It seems unfair.

She thinks, if they do this, it has to be right. It can’t be a product of poor judgement clouded by eagerness. Billie wants to take her time, to learn this part of Nora just like all the other parts of her. And she wants to learn it well.

Billie dips her head, captures Nora’s lips with her own, and Nora strains up to meet her, the hand she has in Billie’s hair tightening into a fist. She maps Nora’s mouth, chaste kisses that linger more and more with each breath, growing languid, deep. Her nose bumps Nora’s as she tilts her head, teases her tongue at the seam of Nora’s lips. Nora’s mouth falls open with a sigh and a moan, makes Billie’s heart skip several odd beats in her chest. As she slowly pulls away, she sees Nora is flush with desire, and Billie feels the burning of her own skin, the heat in her veins, the warmth in her stomach.

“If this starts to feel wrong,” Billie says, voice pitched barely above a whisper as she tucks a stray curl behind Nora’s ear, “or like it’s too much, then you say something. You tell me. Okay?”

Nora nods, and her eyes shine with such self-assuredness, so secure, and Billie wonders how deeply Nora’s strength reaches; she exhibits more and more each day, and Billie wonders where she keeps finding it. Billie wonders if Nora could share some with her, because she is trembling with anticipation right now, a mess of nerves.

Billie runs her hand over Nora’s waist, trails it down across her thigh, to the hem of her dress, and she carefully brings her hand under the fabric. She massages the heel of her palm against Nora’s hip, watches Nora take her bottom lip between her teeth. Nora’s cheeks warm with anticipation, and she quickly reaches for the ends of her gown, sits up and sheds it, leaving her in her silk, sheer slip. Billie’s throat tightens at the sight, and Nora settles back against the pillow, exhales shakily.

She brings her hand to Nora’s cheek, cradles her face as she leans down to kiss her, slowly and messily, carelessly, but softly. She inches Nora’s slip higher, pushes it up around her breasts, and toys with the thick band of Nora’s underwear. Nora pulls away with a breathless, flustered sniff, slides the slip above her head, lets it land at the foot of the bed.

“Nora,” Billie breathes in awe, her heart pounding rapidly at Nora, bare before her save for the fabric at her waist that Billie’s fingers stall at.

“Well, you weren’t going to do it,” Nora says, almost sounds embarrassed by her own haste, and Billie just shakes her head and laughs airily.

“Honey, you’re gorgeous,” she tells Nora, and that silences her, returns the darkened glow to her eyes. Billie skims her fingers along Nora’s lower abdomen, teasing below her waistband, and Nora’s hips twitch in response as she swallows thickly.

She rolls the fabric down Nora’s hips, pulls it slowly from her body, and Nora helps her, wriggles out of them, kicks them away. Billie’s fingertips graze across Nora’s stomach, feels the muscles tense and constrict as she presses the tips of her nails just below Nora’s navel. Nora clasps Billie’s hand with her own, stopping its descent. Nora strokes the pad of her thumb over those tips, and she watches it softly pierce her flesh. She eyes Billie quietly, an unspoken question, and Billie’s smile is lighthearted, warm.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly, pressing her lips to Nora’s once in the same manner, thinks again, I’m not going to hurt you. Thinks, I could never.

She wonders if Nora has ever been touched just for the sake of it. She wonders if Nora’s pleasure has ever truly been for herself. Nora is the product of a harsh, archaic society, one that tells women that they don’t deserve selfless love. A society that makes sure every woman knows her place, servants of the home. Servants of aesthetic and procreation. But Nora does a fine job at rejecting this. Nora is wise, and Nora knows herself. Something as simple as this, as simple as lying in bed together, is an act of rebellion against the ideals that held her hostage.

Tonight is for Nora, Billie decides. It is a celebration, the fact that Nora has shattered and glued herself back together in all the right ways.

Billie lets her hand slide lower as Nora releases her grasp, lets the tip of her middle finger brush Nora’s clit, and Nora releases a soft, breathy sigh, shuts her eyes in bliss. Billie leans in, crushes her lips to Nora’s, dips her tongue into her mouth as she presses her finger more firmly in tight circles. Nora inhales sharply, then her breath leaves her, rushes out in the next instant as she lifts her hips delicately into Billie’s touch.

“Look at me,” Billie whispers against Nora’s mouth, Nora’s heavily drawn breaths stealing her own away. Nora opens her eyes, watches Billie, chest heaving. “Are you okay?”

But Nora just moans, lifts her hips again, hands resting at Billie’s neck, then her shoulders, her collarbones. Nora’s hands slide all over her, never settling in one place for too long, like there is too much exposed skin at her disposal, and she can’t decide where to begin.

“I’m fine,” Nora breathes, and her voice is pitched higher, lighter. “Keep touching me.”

Billie does, doesn’t slow her pace, keeps her wrist angled and keeps her fingers moving against Nora. She dips them lower, dragging them through wet warmth and sliding them back up, gliding over Nora’s clit with newfound precision. The arousal she’s gathered slicks between her fingertips, slipping over and over Nora’s clit as she adds more pressure. When Nora rolls her hips, Billie rolls her hand, and Nora huffs out a breath.

“Are you still—”

“Yes, yes I’m—” Nora nods, sighing breathlessly, almost like she is annoyed, “I’m fine, I need…” Billie lowers her head, her lips attaching to the skin of Nora’s neck, fastening at her still pulse and sucking. Nora emits a low, steady hum, tossing her head back. The muscles in Billie’s forearm ache, but she knows Nora’s ache is deeper, more prominent. She speeds up her motions, rubbing her fingertips over sensitive flesh with vigor, then faster, and Nora’s moan isn’t quiet or restrained this time. It fills Billie’s ears, sends heat to the pit of her stomach, coiling tightly. “God, how I need you,” Nora whines, bucking against Billie’s hand.

“You have me, sweetheart,” Billie promises huskily into her neck, and Nora’s breath grows shallow, stalling as she is guided closer, closer to this edge. “You have me.”

She wants, then, for Nora to feel this strongly and with everything in her, wants Nora’s nerve endings to feel like they are burning within her, like she could burst. She wants Nora to have something she has probably never had.

Billie removes her hand, scratches her nails along Nora’s inner thigh as she withdraws, and a look of frustration passes over Nora’s face. Billie grins, leans in to kiss it away, pressing her lips to Nora’s soundly. She slowly moves to Nora’s throat, dipping her tongue into the hollow of her collarbone. She draws further down, presses her mouth softly to the top of Nora’s breast, presses another kiss to the side, then takes her nipple into her mouth, sucks it and strokes her tongue over it. Nora pushes her chest up into Billie’s face, keening with pleasure, tangling her fingers in Billie’s hair and tugging each time Billie’s teeth scrape lightly over the peaked, sensitive skin. She grows impatient from her own ministrations, feels her own clit throbbing, pulsing with need. She slides down Nora’s body, drops an open-mouthed kiss to Nora’s stomach, sucks one love bite into bloom below her navel and makes Nora squirm, her back arching, her hips twitching.

“Stop me if you need to,” Billie reminds her in a ragged voice, settling her hands at Nora’s thighs and spreading them further. She watches Nora closely, watches her chest heave as she hooks her arms under Nora’s thighs, draping one over her shoulder.

“I won’t need to,” Nora promises, sounds so incredibly sure of herself, and how must it be, Billie wonders, to know so deeply within oneself, to be so certain in the face of uncertainty? Nora has no fear of the unknown. Nora has no fear.

It’s with this thought that Billie tastes Nora for the first time, dragging her tongue through arousal, and Billie craves to speak the words aloud, to ask Nora if she knows how wet she is. But more than that, she doesn’t want to sever her mouth from Nora, and she alternates, almost chaotically, between flicking her tongue at Nora’s entrance and sucking Nora’s clit into her mouth. Nora’s thighs clench around her head, pressing against Billie’s face as she buries her head deeper, pushes then curls her tongue further into Nora.

Nora cries her name, whimpers “Billie Dean” like she is cursing, lets it fly from her lips where it sinks into Billie’s chest, makes her heart swell. She grinds her hips against nothing, against air, and moans into Nora, digs her sharp nails into the soft skin of Nora’s thighs. She brings one of her hands between her own legs, slides it beneath her panties, keeps her mouth moving against Nora as her fingers fumble over her own aching clit. Nora bucks a steady rhythm against Billie’s face, and Billie matches it in time to the movement of her wrist, rubbing steady and firm, faster when Nora begins to emit breathless whines with every swipe of Billie’s tongue, every pulsing suck.

She feels Nora’s thighs tremble and quake by her head, hears Nora sigh her plea, and nips lightly at Nora’s clit, pulls at it with her lips. Nora’s hips stall, tensing, her muscles taut as she shudders through her release with a low, satisfied hum, riding the aftershocks. Nora’s climax pushes Billie over the edge as she slowly laps at Nora, feels herself clench and tighten, then holds her breath. Her pleasure washes over her, and she stills her hand, pulls back and buries her face in Nora’s inner thigh, biting down gently and groaning into it as she spasms.

Billie moves up Nora’s body, boneless as she collapses next to her, drawing in harsh, heavy breaths as Nora does the same, panting in the silence, which lasts no longer than mere seconds. Nora turns on her side to face Billie, pupils blown wide, hair disheveled, lips parted, cheeks painted a soft pink.

“Let me touch you,” Nora begs, her eyes burning deeply, hungrily, into Billie’s, and she slides her hand along Billie’s side, over the jut of her hip.

Billie just smiles, leans in and kisses Nora sweetly, lets her lips linger, then pulls back slightly. She presses a final, chaste kiss to Nora’s lips, then settles her head on her pillow.

“Later,” she promises, and Nora pouts. Billie grazes her thumb over Nora’s browbone, smoothing the frown away. “I just want to lay here with you. Can we do that?”

Nora relents, and her smile is soft and free as she nods, curls up into Billie, presses her head to Billie’s chest.

Tomorrow, Billie will wake up, and Nora will be in this bed with her. She knows this, can feel it, the emotion in Nora’s silent heart. Nora’s been stuck in this house for nearly a century, and only now, Billie muses, is she finally home.