Chapter 19 Elsie
ELSIE
It’s been a week since I found my grandmother’s letters, and I’ve still only managed to read two of them. The rest sit in a biscuit tin on the dresser, stacked like a dare. I haven’t touched them in four days. Haven’t even looked at them.
I’m not brave enough—or patient enough—to sit with my grandmother’s without wanting to tear through every line in a single breath.
I keep wondering what waits for me inside. What if she wrote something cruel, something that would split the memory of her I’ve been protecting? Or worse, what if they’re all so gentle, so full of love, that I’ll have nowhere to put the ache of it?
I don’t want to read about how she adored me. I want a time machine.
Three nights ago, I wanted something else entirely.
I almost let myself kiss Wells. I almost closed that impossible inch between us on the orchard bench, ready to let the dark or the grief or the plum trees themselves decide for me. But if I had, I’d have to admit that leaving this place won’t be as clean as I keep pretending it will be.
And I still haven’t given him his damned letter.
I don’t know what’s in it, but I know it wasn’t meant for me. And if I keep hiding it—or worse, if I read it—I become the villain again. That’s not a part I want to play, though it seems to come naturally these days.
At least it’s been easy enough to avoid Wells since the orchard. We skipped Friday’s committee meeting after Bobby decided to push it; no new business, bad forecast. A low-pressure system’s moving in from the coast—winds high enough to rattle siding, sleet and frozen rain.
Wells has been busy tightening shutters and checking the generator. I’ve been busy pretending to make progress, calling the lawyer, telling myself I’m closer to done here than I really am.
Still, if we have any hope of getting through this storm without the silence turning corrosive, it’s time I give him the letter.
It’s past five on Sunday evening when I find him in the front parlor, setting lanterns on the side tables in case the power goes out. He’s kneeling by the fireplace, testing the draft with his hand.
“I have something that belongs to you,” I say, which startles him enough that he smacks his fist on the flue lever.
“Shit.” He brings his knuckles to his mouth. Kisses them.
I can’t help but think of that almost moment between us. How badly I wanted it to happen and how grateful I should be that Isla stopped it. Should be, but oh God, I am not.
Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food, I swallow hard and hold out the envelope. Wells glances up at me through his lashes—knees bent, shoulders steady—and if I weren’t already sick with nerves, I might actually be salivating at the sight.
“It’s a letter from Elspeth,” I say. “She must not have given it to you before she passed.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know.”
“Did you just find that?”
“No.” My voice comes out small. “Last week. When I was digging through the attic for ledgers and pictures. I should’ve brought it to you sooner. I’m sorry.”
He yanks the envelope from my hand, then takes a long breath through his nose. I can only imagine he’s counting to ten inside his head, resisting the urge to say something outlandishly rude.
“I didn’t read it,” I tell him quickly. “Just looked at the outside.”
He pushes to his feet, walks past me to the window seat, and sits. The lantern beside him flickers low. He doesn’t ask if he can read it in front of me, but he does. Slides the paper out, unfolds it slowly, carefully.
I watch his face for the crack, the shift, the tell. Nothing. His brow doesn’t furrow. His jaw doesn’t harden. He breathes, chest heaving, and keeps reading.
“What does it say?” I ask.
He folds the letter again with the same precision, tucks it back into the envelope.
“Wells.” I take a step forward. “What did it say?”
He doesn’t answer, shakes his head.
“It’s not a secret, is it? I mean, it was in the attic with the rest of them. Anyone could’ve—
“I don’t need to hear the excuses.”
“Fine,” I say. “But if you’re mad, just say so.”
He stands. “I am mad.”
I flinch. “You are?”
“I am,” he repeats, sharper now. “I’m tired.
I’m cold. I’ve spent all day tying down shutters and blowing insulation into a wall that was already fixed last winter.
There’s a storm coming, and I do not have the energy to explain why holding on to someone else’s letter for a week is a shitty thing to do. ”
“I know it was wrong. And I said I was sorry. I just—couldn’t. I kept thinking maybe I was sparing you. That you didn’t need to carry the weight of one more goodbye. That whatever she wanted to say, she should’ve said it while she was alive, while you could still answer her.”
He looks at me like I’m an excuse pretending to be a person.
“So, what was in it?” I try again. “Kind words? Instructions? A confession?”
An amendment to her will? Something about the trust? The answer to everything he’s been waiting for?
He says nothing.
“Don’t do that,” I say. “Please. I gave it to you, and now you’re freezing me out.”
“You handed it over because the guilt finally got too heavy,” he says, low and even. “Because it’s easier to confess than to carry it. Must be all that empathy you have cooped up inside you.”
He’s mocking me. That’s what makes it hurt.
“That’s not fair.” The windows moan under another gust. One of the lanterns flickers out. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“I know,” he says. “But you still did.”
I’m not sure how to fix this. Last week, things between us were almost easy. We talked, we worked, we managed. Now, everything feels off-balance again.
It makes me want to scream, to cry, to run, which somehow feels worse than all of it.
“I’m going to make tea,” I mumble, already halfway out of the parlor.
It’s cowardly, and I know it. But the air in there was getting too thin, and if I’d stayed, I would’ve said something I couldn’t take back. So, I take the out. My bare feet find the kitchen floorboards, familiar and creaking.
The house meets me there.
The lights warm before I flip the switch. The kettle hums before it’s filled. A breath of heat stirs from the radiator, even though I haven’t touched it. And the smell—orange peel, woodsmoke—slips out from the pantry. Something gentle to remind me to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the house. “I didn’t mean to make everything worse.”
The lights pulse. One long blink, then steady again.
“Okay, you’re right.” I open the drawer for a teaspoon, and the handle feels warm against my palm. “I know it’s all my fault.”
The only reply is the groan of wind and the rattle of the panes. A shutter bangs once, twice, impatient. The kettle boils, shrill. I pour too much water into my mug and forget the honey. Still, I hold the cup in both hands and let the steam rise against my face.
Behind me, a doorframe cracks under pressure.
Then, “Goddammit, Elsie—”
I startle so hard I nearly drop the mug. Wells stands in the doorway, damp around the collar, eyes bright with anger. His shoulder presses into the frame. It’s like he caught himself there mid-stride.
“You can’t just hide away and retreat every time something doesn’t go your way,” he says. “You told me you were done running from your problems. Well, look at you now.”
“You want me to apologize again, is that it?”
“I want you to stop acting like I’m something you have to sneak around. Not just now, but all week. You’ve been hiding.”
I glare at him. “I figured you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Of course I do,” he says, stepping farther in. His voice rises. “But I’m tired, Elsie. You keep making decisions that mess with me, and I don’t know what to do with that. Not when there are times you—” He cuts off, jaw tight.
“That I what?”
“That you look at me like you want nothing more than for me to put my lips on yours.”
I gasp, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
He doesn’t move as he watches me, breath rough at the edges. I think he’s dared himself to say it, and now he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. But I can’t seem to move, either. My pulse climbs. My fingers twitch on the mug’s handle.
“I know you want it, too,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re not very good at hiding it.”
I stare at him. The curve of his mouth, the small freckle at his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s holding himself back.
He’s right. I do want it. I want it so badly it hurts sometimes.
I never thought he’d say it out loud. Not when we both know nothing real can come from it. Not when every inch I give to him takes me further from the clean goodbye I’m supposed to make.
I’m going to tell him that he’s wrong to start this now. That we’d ruin each other if we tried. But before I can form the words, a sharp, violent crash cuts through the house.
He swears under his breath and turns toward the sound.
“Stay right there,” he says, already moving. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
He grabs his coat from the peg and slips out the back door. The wind slams it behind him so hard the whole wall shudders.
The beams groan like old bones under strain. The house has been taking things harder these days. Even with the soft hum of magic stirring back to life, it feels frayed at the edges, stretched too thin to mend itself completely.
If the storm’s bad enough to knock out the power, it could set back the repairs. Jeopardize a future sale. She might not weather another blow so easily.
And what about Wells? Could he take that kind of disorder—water seeping in, walls buckling, roof bowing under the weight of too much?
Could I?
“Come on, girl,” I whisper to the house. “Hold on. You’ve lived through worse, haven’t you?”
The lights flicker again, slower this time. She’s listening to me.
I press my palm flat to the counter. “I know I made a mess of things. You tried to warn me.”
A gust howls against the eaves. Another shutter bangs open, then slams shut again.
“He was right,” I say quietly. “About me. About hiding. About all of it.”
I don’t know if it’s a confession or an apology. I just know I want someone—or something—to understand. And pleading with the house to listen, to see me anyway, feels like the only language I still have left to speak in.
The stove exhales a soft sigh. One of the lights narrows to a pin. Then the power goes, and the kitchen folds into darkness, sudden and whole. Somewhere beyond the house, the wind bellows.
I stand still, hand on the counter, heartbeat counting itself out. This is the kind of darkness that swallows. That presses in and steals the shape of the room right out from under you. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve already been forgotten.
“Okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. We can do this.”