The insistent pounding on his cottage door jolted Cavendish from a fitful sleep. His eyes snapped open, heart racing as he fumbled in the darkness. Who in the blazes would come calling at this ungodly hour?
He squinted at the window. A dark figure loomed beyond the warped glass panes. Cavendish's stomach clenched. This couldn't be good.
Cursing under his breath, he snatched up the closest thing resembling a weapon - a sturdy wooden spoon from last night's curds. As he crept toward the door, floorboards creaking beneath his feet, Cavendish wondered how his life had come to this. Hiding out in a ramshackle cottage, armed with kitchenware against who-knows-what threat in the dead of night.
"Beans," he muttered.
"Cavendish!" A woman's voice cut through his brooding. "Open up, you stubborn old goat!"
He froze, spoon raised. That voice. It couldn't be.
"Barbara?" he called warily.
"Who else would trek out to this sorry excuse for a home in the middle of nowhere?" came the dry reply. "Now are you going to let me in or shall I continue shouting and wake your neighbors?"
Cavendish snorted. His nearest neighbor was half a mile away. Still, he unlatched the door and swung it open.
There she stood - Barbara Helm, his former partner-in-crime. Her tall frame filled the doorway, red hair gleaming in the moonlight. Those sharp hazel eyes swept over him, no doubt cataloging every detail of his disheveled state.
"You look terrible," she said flatly.
"Charming as ever, Barb," Cavendish retorted, lowering his impromptu weapon. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"
Barbara's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Cavendish stepped back with an exaggerated bow. "By all means. Make yourself at home in my humble abode."
She entered, movements fluid yet cautious. Her gaze darted around the sparse interior, lingering on the exits. Same old Barbara, Cavendish thought. Always planning her escape.
"Nice spoon," she commented, nodding at his hand. "New security system?"
Cavendish tossed it aside with a shrug. "I wasn't exactly expecting visitors."
"Clearly." Barbara perched on the edge of a rickety chair, her posture stiff. "We need to talk, Cav."
A chill ran down his spine at her tone. Whatever had brought Barbara here, after all this time, it couldn't be good news. Cavendish sank onto his bed, suddenly feeling every one of his years.
"All right, Barb," he sighed. "Let's hear it."
Cavendish leaned back, crossing his arms. "Before we dive into whatever mess you've brought to my doorstep, can I offer you a drink?"
Barbara's eyebrow arched. "I'll take a dram. Whiskey?"
Cavendish fetched his one clean glass and went to the icebox. He returned with a too-tall pour of milk.
"What can I say? I've gone respectable," Cavendish replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"Mmm hmm," Barbara said, wiping the smudges from the perimeter of the glass.
"So," Cavendish said, "you didn't come all this way for a glass of milk and scintillating conversation. What's the real reason, Barb?"
Barbara took a sip, her face impassive. "There's a job."
Cavendish snorted. "There's always a job with you. In case you haven't noticed, I'm retired. Living the dream." He gestured to his wooden stool and clutter.
"This is different," Barbara insisted, leaning forward. Her eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Cavendish uneasy. "This one is big. See, there's this cavern that appeared on a farm north of here. It's... unusual."
"Unusual how?" Cavendish asked, curiosity getting the better of him.