The day being fine – an improvement over the last couple of weeks – Harold elected to wander up to the cupola in the roof. The spiral staircase from the top floor to the aerial room hadn’t been swept for a while, and he brushed the cobwebs from his face as he heaved up the trapdoor, surprised and annoyed that someone had sawn around the bolt from the outside. *
The altar slab was exactly as he remembered it from Gillian’s resurrection and, once Devious had appeared with a mug of tea and a saucer of three biscuits, he used it as an impromptu seat, surveying his land and that of the farms to the west. The buzz of a tractor intruded as Mr. Johns, who owned the adjoining farm and rented two field from Harold, lifted the giant, plastic-wrapped rolls of hay onto the back of a wagon.
“Whatever happened to haystacks?” Harold said. “I used to love playing in those.”
“Me too.” Devious watched the farmer for a moment, a flame dancing across his claws like the dime in an old gangster movie. “They used to burn so well.”
*That's how Vixen got inside in Dead Line