Another odd fragment of fill with no plot to fill in between any more . . .
She squirmed into the heart of the bushes, and considered the view.
It was a small house, adequate for a family to retire to for a quiet season, hunting on their own land. It presented its working face to the yard that the drive had led into, and its working face was pleasant, compact, practical. There was no air of abandonment to it. The paint was not this season’s but if had neither faded nor peeled. There was no impression of undisturbed grim on the windows, no winter damage to the glass or to the tiled roof. No weeds grew across the yard, no fallen wood blocked the road. No vehicle stood in the yard, but there might be a garage out of sight, and she could draw no conclusion from that. No lights shone from the windows, but the morning was already bright. No smoke rose from the chimneys, but a good fire, carefully banked, might show very little smoke – or the family might be hardy souls who thought a morning fire decadent. Out here any power would surely come from a generator, and no generator interrupted the morning stillness – but the same argument applied. They might as easily have left yesterday, or be due to arrive at any time today.
She could make no conclusions, could take no shortcuts. She settled herself more comfortably into her nest among the glossy foliage, and prepared herself to wait. At least waiting was something that she had always done well.