I cringe, picturing it. Would I feel at home there now? Or would I lay in that ruffled, narrow bed and think about the smell of stone and oil paint, dust and citrus, and the masculine scent of Mikolaj himself. I know the truth already. I’d miss this dark, old house, and the even darker man inside. I would feel drawn back here like one of Dracula’s victims, bitten and infected and compelled to come home.
