The apartment was nice, for its size. A bookcase lined one wall, crammed with hundreds of volumes, files, and notebooks. A few small crates had been converted into a filing system of some sort, filled to the brim with papers, clippings, and who knows what else.
A nearby table was cluttered with pages of scribbled diagrams and figures, alongside contraption of a singular sort. A mismatched set of chairs sat facing a small fireplace. A harmonica sat glinting on the mantlepiece.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Sheila said carelessly, but still studying me intently with those penetrating brown eyes. “Your bedroom’s down on the far right, in the corner. I expect your things are outside?”
“Well, I suggest you move them inside; one never knows what neighbors will do. Here, I’ll help you.”
“Thanks, but they’re all really heavy…”
“Nonsense! I insist.”
The ease with which she picked up two of my jammed suitcases nearly put me to shame.