CHRISTIAN WINN
At irst, there was no answer, though there was a low moaning Abby could hear in the faint middle distance behind that door. She put both palms to the red-painted wood, and could feel a humming, and a warmth. She leaned gently into the door, and her whole body felt a generous ease, a comfort, a familiarity and afection. The moan rose and quavered, shivered through her. She closed her eyes and let the door wrap her, hold her, as it seemed to be pressing back into Abby, whispering now. “Abigail.” It was Professor Naughton’s sonorous voice, the low and soothing voice he’d use mornings as they woke and held each other gently, as one. “You’ve made it. We’ve been waiting all these years.” “I know,” Abby whispered back, her eyes still shut, a pulsing joy seeping into her. “I’ve been away so very long.” “Come in,” he whispered, as the door gave way, swinging easy into the front hallway. Abby stumbled a little and pushed back from the door, but the warmth and comfort remained within her.
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