No Sense of Humor, But at Least He’s Handsome #3
“An honor—he usually sends one of his employees. He probably wanted to personally welcome you to the town.”
“He was very kind.”
Ash nods. “Hudson is an excellent businessman and a hard worker. He and his brother run the livery stable and own all the local delivery wagons and public transport carriages. Moss Hollow is lucky to have them.”
I nod, not sure what else to say.
“Have you looked for the bike in the detached garage?” Ash asks, returning to the subject.
“I haven’t had much time to explore. It was nearing evening when I arrived yesterday.”
“Laverna’s bike was an ancient, rickety thing. You’ll likely be more comfortable with something created in this century.”
“Is that allowed?” I say. “I figured everyone was riding around on velocipedes.”
“Edgar Hanson used to own one,” he says solemnly, “but I was a child at the time.”
Okay, he missed the joke.
“Where would I buy a bike?” I ask.
“There’s a shop just before the post office, right when you reach Main Street’s business district. Or you can drive to Burlington. There’s a sporting goods shop there, along with a few budget retail stores.”
“Is that allowed?”
He pulls his eyes from the lane to frown at me. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m afraid a box-store bike might mar the town’s aesthetic.”
This time, Ash realizes I’m joking, and wry amusement plays at the corners of his mouth. “An important consideration.”
The smile feels like a win, and it makes me happier than it should.
“How do you get to Burlington?” I settle into the cushioned back of the seat. “Surely you don’t drive there in this?”
Ash’s amusement grows, though he’s trying to conceal it. “I have a car. It’s parked in the garage just outside of town.”
“Oh, right. Mine is, too.”
A common misconception about the fae is that technology—specifically iron—is our downfall. An instant death, kryptonite sort of thing. But the truth is, the fae during the Industrial Revolution merely whined a lot, resisting change.
For the most part, our people have gotten over their aversion to machines and electronics—though my mother still won’t touch a cell phone, and my father refuses to buy anything online.
We turn onto the main road that goes through town, leaving gravel for cobblestone. Most of the houses along this stretch are over a hundred years old, and if they’re newer than that, they were designed to look like they’re a hundred years old.
Moss Hollow resembles a modern storybook village.
The buildings and houses have cedar shake or ceramic tile roofs.
Their siding is either wood, stucco-like plaster, or stone.
There are a few brick buildings scattered throughout, along with elaborate yet cozy cottage gardens and walking paths that meander between shared common spaces, planted with small patches of lush grass.
As we grow closer to the center of the town, the houses become fewer.
Then we’re in the heart of Main Street and its stretch of charming stores.
The sidewalks here are generous walkways, wide enough for sitting areas and places for children to play.
Trees grow near the edge of the road, planted in circular breaks in the cobblestone that are covered with decorative metal grates just large enough for the trunks to grow to full size.
The buildings are tall and narrow. Doors are painted in rich, city-council-approved tones. They boast large window fronts, each with elaborate displays and smudge-free glass.
And there are people everywhere—on bikes, on foot, and in huge trolley-like horse-drawn carriages. Tourists carry disposable coffee cups and craft paper bags with local store logos printed on them. They walk dogs, chat in small groups, and pose for selfies.
There’s a carriage, bike, and pedestrian traffic jam outside the cafe, giving me time to study the restaurant.
It’s larger than the other buildings, and it has an attached patio.
Delicate iron tables and chairs are topped with tan umbrellas.
The area is separated from the walkway by a short decorative fence.
A line has formed outside the door, and there isn’t an open seat to be seen.
After several minutes, the street clears, and we’re finally able to continue. I don’t mind the slow pace, though. It gives me time to take it all in.
Moss Hollow’s Main Street is a tasteful mishmash of quaint English countryside and Parisian elegance. But thanks to the abundance of tourists and carefully crafted ambiance, it reminds me of a theme park.
“It’s not even ten, and it’s already so busy,” I say.
“It’s Memorial Day—one of our busiest days of the year.” Ash guides the cabriolet down the street like a seasoned pro. “The worst of the crowds will clear out tomorrow, but we’ll stay steady throughout the summer season.”
We finally reach a bend in the road. Town Hall stands in front of us, stately and pristine, but my eyes are on the two-story building taking up residence on the corner across from it.
I’ve only visited once, but I remember its grand, gray-stone presence. It’s like a villa from a fairy tale—a landmark on Main Street.
And it now belongs to me.