Chapter 2
WELLS
Unfortunately, Elspeth’s granddaughter is exactly as self-important as I expected. Maybe even more so.
It’s been over a year since Elspeth’s funeral, and Elsie’s absence has spoken for itself. Disappearing in the immediate aftermath—fine. Grief does strange things to people. But staying gone while the house fell into disrepair, while the rest of us tried to keep her grandmother’s legacy upright?
That’s something else entirely.
You’d think the place would hold together better with me here full-time, a hammer always within reach. But lately, things seem to break faster than I can mend them. Hinges rust overnight, floorboards bow where they were straight a month ago.
The house feels tired. The magic that once hummed through its walls is dimming, and for the first time, I’m not sure I can bring it back.
Still, I keep showing up. Someone has to. This house has been severely lacking a Hart, and it shows. But now, one is back, after all this time, rooting around in the kitchen like she never left.
I would’ve turned around the second I saw her, made myself scarce.
But there was something strange about her.
Something that stopped me in my tracks. She’s got the same honey curls from all the old photos Elspeth used to show me, the same stillness and softness to her face.
Only now, there’s something sharpened at the edges.
She’s pretty, of course. That irritating kind of pretty that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking. Tiny freckles across her nose. A stubborn little tilt to her chin. Soft, glossy hair that clearly used to be blonde before she darkened it on purpose.
A golden edge for a girl who walks like she knows it’ll catch the light.
It’s frustrating that I’ve noticed. More frustrating still that she scared the hell out of me by scaling the kitchen cabinets like a sugar-starved raccoon.
Elspeth died without a single word from her. This house turned into something barely recognizable, and I patched every creak and leak, kept it standing out of sheer loyalty and habit.
Now she thinks she belongs here, and I don’t?
Sure, she can call Bobby. She can stomp through the rooms in borrowed nostalgia and pretend she still fits here. But I’ve been here.
I know how this place breathes. I know how the floorboards sigh in winter and the windows fog when a storm rolls in. I know the way the house listens when you speak softly, the way the light pools a little brighter when you need comfort and flickers sharp when you don’t.
I understand the magic that runs deep beneath this place—quiet, domestic, intentional. The kind stitched into corners and soaked into wood. The kind that remembers who’s come and gone. Who’s stayed.
Which means I understand even more so why it’s gone quiet over the past year; the inn knows when someone has turned their back on it.
I stretch my legs, heels propped against the battered old trunk at the foot of the bed.
The space heater hums in the corner, fighting a losing battle with the draft sliding through the warped windowpanes.
I pull the blanket tighter and stare up at the ceiling, where hairline cracks spider through the plaster.
For a long time, the house has been still. Not asleep, exactly, but settled into a kind of holding period. Now, there’s some movement again. A presence that doesn’t belong. Annoying. Disruptive. Alive.
There are five guest rooms in the inn. Two downstairs, three tucked beneath the eaves. I know them all by heart, not from brochures or Elspeth’s stories, but from long nights fixing radiators and chasing leaks through walls.
The Garden Room faces east; the sun hits it first thing in the morning.
The Thistle Room is smaller, cozier, tucked past the sitting room—close to the kitchen, where the house feels warmest. Elspeth’s own bedroom sits behind the pantry.
She liked being near the kettle and the back door, within reach of whatever made the house hum.
Upstairs, there’s the Hearth Room, where the chimney runs through the wall and the pipes complain in winter. The Carriage Suite is mine now. And the Wisteria Suite waits at the end of the hall.
Elspeth always kept it ready, though she almost never let it. Said it was for her granddaughter. Said one day Elsie would come back and sleep beneath that sloped ceiling and the faded violet wallpaper, trading her childhood room for something that belonged to the woman she’d become.
I used to stay out back in the gardener’s quarters—a glorified shed with a mattress and drafts from every direction. It felt honest. I hadn’t earned a room in the house.
Then Elspeth slowed down. She asked me to move inside, said the place needed someone who could feel when something was off. Living here made it easier to catch the problems before they spread: the pipes, the roof, the creeping rot by the back door. Her, too.
That was nearly three winters ago. Since then, I’ve learned every sound this house makes. I know when the water heater knocks too loud, which floorboards shift with frost, how to coax the heat into cold corners.
Elsie has memories of this place. She remembers the version that held her, that loved her. I’ve lived here in the quiet after. Through the seasons that stripped it bare. Through the months no one came.
She grew up inside these walls. But I’ve kept them standing.
And the house? I think it knows the difference.
When I wake the next morning, everything is hushed.
I pull on a sweatshirt and step into the hallway, blinking against sleep. The other doors are cracked open. Elsie’s room is empty. The Wisteria Suite is still untouched, cold and still.
I rub a hand over my face. My mouth’s dry, my shoulders sore. I must’ve been out cold. I didn’t hear her moving around overhead, didn’t hear the creak of the attic stairs or the soft thud of her footsteps above my room. She must’ve been quiet—or I was exhausted.
Maybe she’s already stomped her way into town. Tracked down Bobby, the town clerk, the zoning office, and whoever else might listen to her about the claim she has on this house. I wouldn’t put it past her. She seems dead set on disrupting whatever peace I’ve managed to carve out here.
So, I tug on a beanie and crack the window an inch to check the snowfall.
Another two, maybe three inches overnight.
Enough to cause trouble if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Judging by her shoes, her coat, and that general air of charging in without thinking things through—she probably doesn’t.
I head downstairs, half expecting to find her in the kitchen with the coffee going and the cabinets rearranged again. Elspeth Sr. used to make breakfast here every morning. Scones, jam, fresh coffee with cinnamon and heavy cream. A Blue Willow special.
But now, the kitchen is still.
No kettle. No noise. No Elsie.
I rub the back of my neck, open the top cabinet, and pull down the tin of coffee grounds. We don’t get the fancy stuff here, just whatever’s on sale at the market. I fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and wait while the flame kicks on with a low whoosh.
Elspeth kept the french press on the counter for years. I moved it under the sink months ago to make space. Now, I drag it back out, rinse it with one hand while keeping an eye on the kettle.
There was a time the house would have started the coffee for me. Not literally, but close enough. Lights would warm before I reached for the switch. The kettle would sing right as I thought of tea. Doors would ease open when my arms were full.
It wasn’t a trick. It was the inn knowing what you needed and offering it without being asked.
That stopped after she died.
I’m halfway through measuring the grounds when I hear a soft clatter down the hall. Two quick knocks, then silence, followed by the faint scritch of something moving behind the walls.
Has to be Harold, the persistent little bastard.
“Thought I got rid of you,” I mutter.
I turn in time to see the mouse scurry toward Elspeth’s room, tail flicking as he slips through the crack in the door. The same door that’s been shut tight for over a year.
I stop short. My chest tightens—not a dramatic lurch, but a quiet pull, like something’s been nudged out of place. A memory brushing against the present. A breath held too long.
I really don’t fucking like it.
I move toward the door without fully deciding to. Quiet steps. One breath at a time. The air shifts as I near the threshold, still carrying the faint scent of lemon balm and cedar. I press my hand to the frame, lean far enough to see inside.
She’s there.
Curled up in Elspeth’s old recliner in the corner. Her coat’s tossed over the ottoman, but she’s wrapped in one of the old quilts—patchwork and worn, the one with the frayed edge Elspeth mended every fall. The bed hasn’t been touched.
I swallow hard, back up slowly, and try to leave her be.
But my heel hits a creaky floorboard, and the sound splits the silence clean through.
Her eyes blink open, glassy with sleep. For a moment, she looks completely unguarded. Confused and soft, like she’s forgotten where she is. Then the haze lifts, and her expression sharpens.
She frowns. “Been watching me sleep, have you?”
I clear my throat. “And what a glorious sight it is. You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin,” I say, pointing with mock seriousness. “Just there. And is that a tea stain? Very classy.”
I don’t know why I say it. Why I bother needling her at all.
Maybe it’s easier than admitting I’m rattled. That now she’s actually here, part of me isn’t sure what to do with her.
And even if I won’t admit it to her—or barely to myself—I know Elspeth would’ve wanted this. She made it clear, in the most Elspeth way, that this house would belong to Elsie in the end.
It won’t happen today or tomorrow, but eventually, the paperwork will clear, the keys will change hands, and this place won’t be mine anymore.
Not really. Not permanently.
So, maybe I need to stay guarded. Maybe I need to give her a hard time. Pushing her away now will make it easier when I finally have to leave. Because no matter how long I’ve lived here, no matter how much I wish it were different, this place has never been mine to keep.
“You’re very rude, you know.”
I tap the doorframe with my thumb. “And you’re surprisingly chipper for someone who spent the night in an upright chair. Didn’t fancy something a little more comfortable?”
She scrunches her nose. “Didn’t feel right,” she says quietly. “I didn’t want to sleep in her bed.”
I nod. That, at least, I understand.
She sighs and rubs her temples like I’m the headache. “Also, the light switch isn’t working, the faucet in the bathroom hisses like it’s possessed, and I’m pretty sure a mouse ran across my foot at some point around four in the morning.”
“That’s Harold,” I say.
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The mouse.”
Her stare is flat. “You named him?”
“Well, he’s a tenant, too. Been here a lot longer than you have.”
She gives an exaggerated blink. “Maybe he can help me file the paperwork, then.”
“Wouldn’t count on it. He’s terrible with bureaucracy.” I flash a smirk. “You, on the other hand, seem like you were born with a clipboard in your hand.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m astounded that a handyman could be so smug.”
“I’ve had practice,” I say, grinning now, because I’m absolutely doing it on purpose. “Still better than being a house thief.”
She groans. “I did not steal a house.”
I lift my hands, palms up. “Very convincing.”
“Well, when it sells, you can leave a Yelp review.”
The words knock something loose in my chest.
“Sells?” I echo. “You’re selling the inn?”
She shrugs. “That’s the plan.”
Holy fucking shit. She’s serious. I don’t know what I expected her to do—move in, kick me out, bake celebratory muffins? Cry in the stairwell like a normal person?
“You’re not selling Elspeth’s house.”
She straightens. “My house. My grandmother’s old house. And I’ll do whatever I want with it.”
Despite her detached tone, this house is more than a house; it’s a cornerstone. The inn has been in the Hart family for generations—tended, loved, and laced with intention. It’s where the town’s magic gathered and grew.
Even if the spark’s gone quiet now, it shouldn’t be sold off like scrap. It needs time and care and patience. Someone who remembers what it was and still believes in what it could be.
Properties in the neighboring towns are already changing hands. Old inns gutted for “luxury experiences,” general stores replaced with candle bars and paint-your-own-pottery studios. Quaint becomes content. History gets rewritten in cursive font on a chalkboard sign.
I’ve seen it happen too many times, and the thought of it happening here makes my stomach turn. I can’t trust an outside buyer to know what this place is—what it means.
And I can’t think of a single towns member who could afford it. Not the taxes. Not the upkeep. Not the weight of what it holds.
The house isn’t just a landmark. It holds a quarter of the town’s magic. That’s not metaphor. That’s fact. Sell it to the wrong hands and they won’t even realize what they’re draining away until it’s gone.
“That’s a hell of a way to honor her,” I mutter.
She exhales. “Can you go bother someone else, please? I have a lot to do today, and I’d rather not spend my first morning back in Blue Willow bickering with you.”
“You have to be—”
“You can call me cold. You can think I’m heartless. Either way, there are legal documents on the agenda and probably four plumbing emergencies waiting in the wings. So, unless you’re here to help, I suggest you get out of my way.”
“Fuck if I will.”
She keeps going—something about the water pressure, maybe Bobby’s spare keys—but I’m not really listening. I’m too busy unraveling.
Because this is the part where I realize she means it. She’s really going to take this place apart piece by piece, box up the bones, and walk away like it never meant anything.
Like it hasn’t been mine, too.
She’s a young woman who lost her grandmother and doesn’t know what to do with the grief. But she’s also fucking evil, casually cruel. And she can pry this inn from my cold, dead hands. I won’t let it go without a fair fight.
“Are you even listening to me?” she snaps.
“Nope,” I say, deadpan. “Not a fucking word.”
She rolls her eyes and brushes past me, all business and bite, every step a statement. Entitled and pushy; what a lethal combination.
It’s a shame it looks good on her. An even bigger shame that we’re going to war.