Chapter 12 #2
We leave not long after, carrying a few copied deeds, a survey from the eighties, and a folder full of correspondence between the town and Elspeth. A handful of files that might help me feel a little less lost in all of this.
Outside, the sky has shifted to pewter. Snow drifts down in soft sheets, muffling the world as we make our way back. Wells’ strides are steady, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” I ask.
His head whips toward me. “What gives you that impression?”
“The look on your face. It’s the same one you give me sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same category.”
“Why not? We’re both thorns in your side.”
He snorts. “One of you’s a little pointier.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t.”
I grin despite myself, but the thought of Beau lingers—crown of curls, money to spare, rooted in this place in a way even Wells can’t dispute.
Someone like him could buy the inn. Someone like him could keep it intact, respect the designation, preserve what my grandmother loved without expecting me to shoulder it.
The Langfords are bound to their bog the way the Harts are to the inn. The magic runs deep in both families. If the sale went to Beau, it wouldn’t be the same kind of betrayal as selling to an outsider.
The thought burns, shame and relief tangled together. I hug the folder tighter, as if it might muffle the sound of my own compromise. It may not be poetic, but it would be practical. Necessary. The surest way to set this house—and myself—free.
By late afternoon, the parlor smells faintly of flour and scorched sugar. The platter of scones I “attempted” cools on the sideboard, lopsided and hard at the edges, some caved in like deflated balloons.
I’ve always liked baking. My grandmother and I used to do it on long winter afternoons, elbow-deep in dough while the snow piled against the windows. She had a patience I’ve never been able to mimic.
I rush measurements, skip steps, get distracted halfway through creaming butter.
The results have never once matched the picture in my head.
My attention is better suited for things like sorting old papers or tending small, quiet tasks that don’t talk back.
Or, as Wells so kindly pointed out, holding steady while he works.
Rather than dwell on my failures as a baker (read: hopeless multitasker), I tidy the hearth twice, polish the table until my arms ache, and light the lamps early so everything glows. At least the house looks warm and inviting, even if the scones could double as doorstops.
When Bobby suggested we host this morning—he was the one at the hardware store when I stopped in to ask where the committee usually met—he told me town hall was occupied. Something about the quilting guild refusing to give up their slot.
“Why not just host it at the inn, Lil’ Miss?” he’d asked cheerily.
I didn’t know how to decline. And when I told Wells, he didn’t argue with me. He didn’t say anything at all, which I took as reluctant agreement.
Now, he’s moving through the room like a storm contained in work boots, adjusting a chair one inch left, then right again, stacking and restacking papers that don’t need it. His jaw hasn’t unclenched in hours.
“You’re glaring at the table like it insulted your mother,” I say, wiping flour from my hands.
“Don’t care that much about my mother,” he says, flat and sharp. “I’m just making sure everything’s in order.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It feels like something’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”
I know I should let it go. Guests are going to be walking in the door any minute, and it’s not really my business why he’s upset. But the half-healed people-pleaser in me balks at leaving things unsettled. And I’ve never been particularly good at holding myself back from pushing when I shouldn’t.
“Not now, or not ever?”
He finally looks at me, eyes dark in the lamplight, golden hair a little mussed like he ran a hand through it too many times.
He’s the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you—quiet and uninvited—because you were too busy being irritated to notice.
The kind of man who guards his silences like he’s afraid they’ll give something away.
And I’m not immune to it. Not even close.
“The latter, really,” he snaps. “You shouldn’t have agreed to host the meeting.”
I laugh, quick and unsure. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.” He grunts. “I don’t want the house listening in while you argue it’s worth less than it is.”
“That’s not how its magic works,” I whisper.
At least, I don’t think it is. The house has always felt half-alive to me—less a ghost than a presence in the walls. It reacts when it wants to. A draft that slams a door. A drawer that opens before you reach it. Floorboards that hush or creak depending on the words you choose.
But feeling? I’m not sure I ever believed it went that far.
“It’s not?” His voice drops lower. “You’d be surprised what she hears, what she feels. I know you talk to her, too.”
My brow shoots up. “Her?”
Before I can push him, the front door opens, cold air sweeping in with Bobby’s booming voice. “Knock-knock! Hope we’re not too early.” He stamps snow from his boots, cheeks red, smile broad.
Alma follows at her own measured pace, shawl trailing, eyes sharp enough to make me stand a little straighter. Jack Rhodes brings up the rear, scarf hanging loose, mullet still wild from the wind, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
I’m still not sure this is entirely fair. The mayor, the town doctor, Wells, and his very best friend. And then me, the girl who vanished and came back with a to-do list and a deadline.
“Evenin’, Wells,” Bobby says, dropping his papers on the table. “Elsie, these the scones you made?”
I wince. “Attempted to make.”
Jack picks one up, turns it over in his palm like he’s weighing a stone. “Looks like you could patch a roof with these.”
“They’re . . . rustic,” I mutter, cheeks hot.
Alma sets her shawl neatly over the back of a chair and lowers herself. It’s the kind of precision that makes me feel twelve again. The kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need to raise its voice.
I was treated by her once or twice as a kid. I can remember lavender compresses, the sharp smell of calendula, her voice low and steady while my fever spiked. Western medicine is sort of a funny concept when you have magical plums and honey that chase off the ache before it blooms.
But Alma still stitched my knee when I gashed it on the orchard gate, muttering about tetanus and herbal practices in the same breath. She’s a good doctor, a serious one.
Which is why my stomach knots when she says, “We’re not here for baked goods.”
Bobby chuckles, takes the head of the table, and gestures to me. “But it’s mighty hospitable of Miss Hart to open her home for us.”
The words stick in my chest. Her home.
It’s what I’ve been saying since I got here, isn’t it? Only now, it feels awkward with an audience, like I don’t have as much right to lay a claim when Wells is standing there brooding.
He doesn’t sit. He plants himself behind the chair opposite mine, shoulders squared, expression carved from stone. He hasn’t looked at me since the others walked in, and I think I might scream if he doesn’t soon.
“All right,” Bobby says, shuffling his notes. “Let’s get this committee rolling. Elsie, why don’t you start us off?”
I glance back at Wells, but he’s staring past me, jaw tight. It’s like he can’t even bring himself to watch me speak of the inn. If I weren’t used to being embarrassed—used to being the odd one out, the blunt edge in every room—I might flinch and hand the floor back to Bobby.
Instead, I lift my chin and start talking.