Of Owls and Oolong (Owls, Tea Shops, and Other Magical Nuisances #1)

That Time I Inherited an Owl, a Cottage, and a Tea Shop

Idiscovered my aunt died two months ago on what started as a very standard Saturday morning. I was eating blueberry granola, listening to my father tell me about his latest gnome hunt, when my mother walked into the room, face pale, and said, “Laverna’s passed away.”

There was a moment of stunned silence—we didn’t even know my great-aunt was sick.

But the truly shocking news came when Mom added, “And she’s left her fortune to Kit.”

In case you’re wondering, I’m Kit. And that bit of news is why I’m currently sitting in a horse-drawn buggy next to a man named Hudson, with most of my belongings strapped to the luggage rack in the back.

And why are we in a buggy? Because cars aren’t allowed in the small town of Moss Hollow, Vermont—most likely because all the members of the town council are high fae. (And everyone knows how they are.)

“Is there a problem?” my driver asks, probably wondering why I haven’t hopped out even though he coaxed his horse to a stop a good minute ago.

Judging from the warm magic emanating from the man, he’s a shifter. It wouldn’t be polite to ask which type.

“No,” I answer absently, wondering if we accidentally drove into a fairy ring as I peer at the address on the iron plaque hanging from a post near the garden gate.

I don’t remember the property, but sure enough, it matches the one on the deed paperwork I’ve pulled from the manila envelope in my lap.

Which means this gray stone cottage in front of us, with its wooden shakes instead of shingles; tall, arched windows with trim that bisects the glass panes like graph paper; and whimsical English garden planted with peonies, foxgloves, and fragrant roses…belongs to me.

Chester sends out a high-pitched, sonic-ping of a bark from the back, where Hudson has stowed him with my luggage.

Wincing, I lower myself to the hard-packed dirt lane and explain, “He’s never ridden in a horse-drawn carriage before.”

Hudson nods, a man of few words. His tan cargo shorts, blue T-shirt, and hiking boots are at odds with his antiquated mode of transportation.

He’s a gruff sort of man in his late thirties.

His face is pleasant instead of handsome, but his muscular frame and square jaw are certainly appealing—if you like the big and bulky, lives-in-the-gym type.

Thankfully for both of us, I don’t, and therefore, I’m not in danger of subjecting him to my personal brand of awkward.

Let’s just say I’m not at my best around men I find attractive.

I round the back as Hudson leaps from his side of the buggy, smiling when I see Chester.

The dog’s wire crate is propped precariously atop the rest of my things, held in place with two bright yellow bungee cords.

He begins to whine, his furry mahogany and white body vibrating when he realizes his freedom is nigh.

“What kind of dog is it?” Hudson frowns at Chester as my brilliant boy tries to lick the driver’s hands through the crate’s narrow bars.

“He’s a pomsky.”

“A what?” He sounds like he suspects I made up the breed on the spot.

“Half Siberian husky, half Pomeranian.”

He waits a beat, the large shifter flummoxed. “But…why?”

“Because they’re cute.” I open the crate door, snap a leash onto Chester’s collar, and set him on the ground.

He trots forward, seventeen pounds of fluff and attitude.

His plumed tail arches over his back, and his dainty paws dance instead of step.

Immediately, he prances to the closest fence post and pees on it, ever the gentleman.

“Huh.” Hudson drags his eyes away from my dog to unload the rest of my luggage. There’s not a lot of it.

Shouldering a large duffel bag, I walk to the white, wooden gate, giving Chester a gentle tug to alert him we’re moving. The gate’s hinges squeak, and the bottom of the frame catches on a flagstone. After giving it a hard shove, I enter the property.

I pause when I’m surrounded by my late aunt’s flowers, hit with a heady dose of euphoria that only growing things can provide. My mood lifts, my trepidation of the unknown recedes, and a smile pulls at my lips.

I really love gardens.

When I open my eyes, I find Hudson watching me, a loopy grin on his face. After a moment, he shakes his head and clears his throat, the picture of a man who just got hit with an accidental dose of magic.

“Sorry,” I say. So much for making a good first impression. “That wasn’t intentional.”

Looking sheepish, he tugs a suitcase down the flagstone garden path. “You’re a spring pixie?”

“A summer, actually.” Summer pixies make people feel joy. Spring pixies make them feel desire. People mix up our seasons all the time.

“You’ll have to be careful around the tourists,” he warns. “I’m sure you read the town’s list of regulations?”

I did, in fact. It was long, but the most important item was listed first and in bold print: Don’t reveal the secret.

The secret being that Moss Hollow, the cutest town in Vermont, is a community of fae beings—specifically, entrepreneurial fae beings who have found a way to coerce humans to part with their money.

The quaint town feels magical and oh-so-impossibly perfect because it is.

But humans don’t know about the fae, and it’s best they think Moss Hollow’s enchantment is artificial.

“Humans usually blame the effects of pixie magic on hormones,” I explain. “Mood swings and such.”

“Aren’t mood swings supposed to make a person grumpy?”

I fish in my pocket for the key that came with the paperwork, my hand shaking when I retrieve it and slide it into the lock. “They can be happy, too.”

Unlike winter pixies, who often bring sorrow, or spring pixies, who spread romantic drama, I like to believe my magic is harmless. It’s a shot of serotonin, and who couldn’t use a little more of that in our grim world?

Not that I don’t share some traits with the other seasons.

Like spring pixies, I’m good with plants.

Like autumn pixies, it rains when I’m upset.

I have nothing in common with winter pixies, as our magic is opposite and complements instead of boosts.

But their gift of remembrance is a melancholy sort of magic that I find rather unappealing anyway.

I gingerly push the door open. It swings inward, giving me my first glimpse of my new home. The curtains are closed, making the room very dark, but there’s just enough light to make out the furniture. The space smells stale—not bad, but forgotten.

Hudson hovers in the doorway, his big presence drawing my attention. I look back, trying to smile even though I’m spooked to be in this house. I only met Laverna three times. Once, my family came here. The other two times, she came to visit us.

“How much do I owe you for the ride?” I ask him.

Though he’s no more than a silhouette with the light streaming in behind him, I can feel his frown. “There’s no charge this time, not for a new neighbor.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” He shifts, looking a touch uncomfortable. “And I’m sorry about your aunt. I didn’t know her well, but she was a nice lady—used to give me peppermints from her shop when I was a kid.”

He’s giving off sweet puppy vibes, making me suspect he’s a canine shifter. Not a wolf—their manner is usually sharper, smoother, and a little intense. He’s probably a German shepherd, or maybe a St. Bernard. Something big.

“I think she’d like that you have that memory of her,” I say warmly, hoping he knows I appreciate the kind words.

I pull open the front drapes, bringing welcome sunshine into what appears to be a living room. But that feels like the wrong word in this fairy tale cottage.

Maybe it’s a parlor.

“I wish I’d known her better,” I add.

“You weren’t close?” Hudson pulls the suitcase inside the door.

“I’m afraid not.” I scan the room, my eyes landing on the needlepoint cushions on the couch.

“But she left you…”

“Everything,” I supply, feeling like an intruder in this house that must hold so many memories.

“Do you think—”

Before Hudson can finish his sentence, there’s a strange noise.

It’s like plastic and rubber meeting in a rattling kerthunk.

Then a screech comes from the other room, making me jump.

It sounds like a bird trying to whinny, and I recognize the cry immediately from several videos I watched while preparing for the move.

Chester races toward the doorway and then stands his ground, growling even though no creature alive would find him intimidating.

“What was that?” Hudson demands.

“A screech owl.” I kneel next to Chester, petting the ruff around his neck to soothe him. “It’s all right.”

The dog obviously doesn’t believe me.

“An owl?” Hudson asks, sounding stupefied.

“He was Laverna’s. He comes with the house.”

I’m about to tell him the owl’s name is Rowan, but one glance in his direction confirms he thinks pixies are weird, so I keep the info to myself.

And I can’t take offense because the truth is, we are sort of strange.

It seems there’s not one of us who doesn’t have their quirks.

My friend Nadine makes pinecone hedgehogs and hides them in her local library for people to find.

My mother crochets bunny beds out of sphagnum moss and tucks them into bushes in the forest. And my father, dear man that he is, tracks gnome villages and leaves chocolate almonds for them to find like Easter eggs.

And I…well, I’m rather boring. Or I was until I inherited my aunt’s fortune, cottage, tea shop, and owl. I suppose I’ve adopted her quirks.

Hudson looks like he’s about to ask why Laverna had such a creature when the small owl swoops into the room on nearly silent wings and perches on a swing hung from the ceiling.

Tawny red and white, he stares at me with golden eyes.

The feathers that make a vee on his forehead are drawn low like eyebrows, and slowly, he lowers his tufts.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s judging me.

Startled by the owl’s sudden appearance, Chester’s growls turn into staccato barks.

“Hush,” I command, not that it ever works.

Rowan snaps his beak at the dog, unimpressed. Chester whimpers once and then cowers behind my legs.

Hudson turns his frown to Chester. “Brave pup, isn’t he?”

I reluctantly pull my eyes from the owl. “I’m sure they’ll get along once they get to know each other.”

“Sure.” Hudson heads out the door. “I’ll get the rest of your things.”

I watch him go, tempted to follow him, mostly to escape Rowan’s unblinking stare. But I remain here and soothe Chester instead, glad he quit barking.

Five minutes later, my mishmash of thrift store suitcases is sitting near the entry by a coat rack ladened with hats and jackets—none of which belong to me.

“I think that’s all of it,” Hudson says from the doorway. “Let me give you my number in case you need a ride.”

“How far away is my aunt’s tea shop?” I ask, offering him my phone so he can enter it.

“Main Street is about a forty-minute walk, but you can cut that in half if you ride a bike. Laverna had one she got around on. It’s probably here somewhere.”

“So, no cars, but bikes are okay?”

“The council believes the sound of engines ruins Moss Hollow’s aesthetics, but they decided bikes were acceptable in the mid-eighties.”

“What about delivery trucks?”

“All packages are delivered to the local post office by wagon. Visit them in the next few days, and they’ll set you up with a P.O. Box. You’ll also pick up your mail there.”

“And how do the shops get their goods?”

He returns my phone. “I run a warehouse just behind the parking garage outside of town. People meet my drivers there, sign for their shipments, and then they either load them into their own wagons or use our services.”

All of this is going to take a while to get used to.

“Thank you for everything.” I clasp my hands as he steps out the door, desperate to call him back so I won’t have to face this quiet cottage alone. But I don’t, of course. He has things to do, and I’m a big girl. “It was nice to meet you.”

Hudson gives me a wave from the buggy and then takes off down the lane, leaving me alone with my dog and the owl with the judgy eyes.

I can feel those eyes boring into the back of my head right now. After closing the door, I slowly turn.

“Hi there, Rowan,” I say to the diminutive owl, determined that he and I will become friends. “I’m Kathleen, but everyone calls me Kit. Well, everyone except my grandma, who says Kit’s a name for fox shifters. She’s traditional like that.”

Unblinking, the owl stares at me.

Daunted by his avian focus, I clear my throat and continue, “I’m your new owner.

You’re a pretty guy, aren’t you? Look at your little feather tufts.

Oh, you’re tucking them against your head again.

Do you not like me talking to you?” I take a hesitant step closer.

“I’m nice, I promise. I’m going to buy you all the mice you want.

I’m really freaked out at the idea of feeding them to you, but I’ll manage. ”

The feather ridge above his eyes lowers even further, and I swear he’s glaring at me.

With a disdainful flap of his wings, he boldly meets my eyes. “I do my own hunting.”