Waiting for the Flood (Spires, #2)

by Alexis Hall

But whereas for some people history is a few loud voices declaiming art and making war across the centuries, for me it’s a whispering chorus of laundry day and grocer’s bills, dress patterns and crop rotations. The price of tallow.

You don’t really fall in love with a house. You fall in love with the life you could have in it.

“Thank you,” I said bravely, dropping the syllables cleanly, like marbles, and secretly full of the most pathetic pride imaginable. I had spoken to strangers.