Chapter 4 #2
She laughs, “Mean streets. Girl please. There’s nothing mean about that town. Well, maybe my sister’s scowl, but I digress. Okay, well, I want to avoid your ‘I’m a grown woman’ speech, so please, if you need me, call.”
“Enjoy your trip, Momma. You and Dad deserve this. I don’t want to hear from you until after Christmas. Buy me presents.” I say, feeling a bit choked up about all the sacrifices they’ve made for me.
“Okay baby. Well, I’ll try. I’ll be thinking of you. Love you, Ki,” she says with forced cheer.
“Go have fun. Love you both.” I reply as the end of street comes into view. She repeats her goodbyes a few more times as my dad shouts his in the background. I end the call and slide my phone back into my bag.
The Ruby Spring comes into view as I round a gentle bend in the sidewalk, and up close it absolutely steals my breath.
The water runs a deep, luminous red that catches the morning sun like liquid garnets or dark wine.
It moves lazily between carefully maintained stone embankments, steady and confident, with none of the rushed urgency of city waterways.
Drawn by curiosity and something deeper I can’t quite name, I drift closer and rest my hands on the cool wrought-iron railing, looking down into the sparkling, impossible depths.
The river stops. Like someone snapped their fingers and commanded the current to halt, the flowing water suddenly flattening into a mirror-perfect surface.
I blink once, twice, and push off the railing in disbelief, my heart starts to race.
“I didn’t just break the spring,” I whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever delicate magic is at work.
I glance around frantically, ready to call for help or defend myself against accusations of supernatural vandalism, but no one else reacts.
An elderly man in a cardigan continues walking his small terrier.
Two kids argue good-naturedly, backpacks bouncing as they head toward what must be the local school.
A woman exits what appears to be a bakery, carefully balancing a white paper bag.
I seem to be the only one who’s noticed that the town’s mystical centerpiece has decided to defy physics.
I turn back to the spring, and it remains perfectly still.
“Okay,” I murmur carefully, as if addressing a particularly temperamental pet, “if you are responding to me, that is both flattering and deeply unsettling.”
I take one cautious step to the right, ready to make a strategic retreat, when the water resumes its movement, but it flows in the same direction as my movement, mirroring my path like a liquid shadow.
Yep, I’m definitely not freaking out about an enchanted river subtly adjusting its current to mirror my movement. Nope, this is completely fine and normal. Nothing to see here, just a woman having a casual supernatural experience before her second cup of coffee.
I freeze mid-step, and you guessed it. The river stops right along with me, as if we’re dancing partners responding to the same silent music.
My heart beats steadily, but there’s something else now, a faint warming in my chest, the ghost of a sensation I’ve felt my entire life but never quite captured.
For a moment, I wonder if this is what it feels like when magic actually works, when the power that’s supposed to run in my bloodline finally decides to acknowledge my existence.
I look around again, trying not to panic while simultaneously hoping no one else has noticed me engaged in some kind of mystical dialogue with the town’s most important landmark.
I step backward slowly and blow out a calming breath, watching the water like it might suddenly surge over the banks.
The current returns to its normal pattern as if nothing happened, flowing away from me in its regular schedule, just another lazy Friday morning in magical Massachusetts.
I cock my head, studying the innocent-looking stream. “Huh,” is all I can manage as I stand there a moment longer, watching and waiting, but nothing else happens.
The faintest pulse warms low in my chest again, a flicker, a stir, like a candle flame in a gentle breeze. Then it fades like it always does, leaving me with the familiar ache of almost but not quite.
I shake my head in disappointment, the moment of possibility slipping away. For just a second there, I thought maybe this time would be different, maybe Ruby Springs would be the place where my magic finally decided to make an appearance.
“Not today,” I tell the river firmly, straightening my shoulders with false confidence. “It’s too early in the morning to unpack whatever just happened.”
With that declaration, I turn and follow the scent that has been calling to me since yesterday.
The Cackling Hen Café.
The hand-painted wooden sign swings cheerfully above a bright red door, decorated with two cartoon chickens leaning in to whisper gossip to each other, both of them laughing uproariously with their beaks open wide.
Ivy trails around the large windows in carefully tended spirals, and the sound of actual human laughter spills out onto the sidewalk, mixing with the faint strains of music that definitely isn’t the folk acoustic I was expecting.
I step inside and the warmth of the place hits me first, not just temperature, but emotional warmth, the kind that comes from a space that’s been loved and lived in.
Following immediately is my awe at the plants.
This isn’t decoration; it’s a horticultural masterpiece that somehow manages to be both wild and carefully curated.
The plants aren’t just sitting in pots, they are part of the architecture, living and thriving as integral elements of the café’s design.
Massive ferns drape from ceiling hooks like natural chandeliers.
Flowering vines weave along exposed wooden beams in spirals of green and purple.
A small lemon tree grows boldly in one corner, its branches heavy with bright yellow fruit that looks ready to be plucked and added to someone’s tea.
Soft leather couches in warm brown and burgundy cluster near floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with actual books. Mismatched wooden tables host customers sipping from oversized mugs and reading newspapers or novels, the scene so deliberately cozy it borders on parody.
Threading through it all is British punk rock humming from cleverly hidden speakers. The Jam That’s Entertainment seems almost too appropriate for my current mental state.
I stop just inside the door and grin despite myself. “I was expecting folk music,” I admit to no one in particular.
From behind the counter, a woman with cropped bright pink hair and a vintage Clash t-shirt looks up from an impressive espresso machine. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief and what might be approval.
“Disappointed?” she asks, wiping her hands on a towel covered in tiny skulls and roses.
“On the contrary,” I reply, taking in her studded leather bracelet and the chain hanging from her pants. “I respect a café that serves scones and rebellion in equal measure.”
She smirks, and I can tell I’ve just passed some kind of test. “Yeah, you’re going to be just fine here, girlie. Name’s Toni. With an I, not a Y, because I’m not a cheerleader from the suburbs.”
“Of course it is,” I say, my smile widening. Toni looks like a woman who takes absolutely no shit from anyone, and I’m already loving her energy.
Beside her stands a woman who couldn’t be more different if they’d planned it.
Long black hair woven with colorful beads cascades over shoulders, draped in layered rainbow skirts that brush the floor when she moves.
A delicate pince-nez perches on her nose, clearly for show rather than function, and she studies me with warm, knowing eyes that seem to see more than they should.
“Lin,” she says gently. “Welcome to The Cackling Hen. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The way she says it makes me think she means more than just this morning.
I step up to the counter and glance at the chalkboard menu written in flowing script. Everything sounds either comforting or magical, sometimes both. “Alright, ladies. What’s life-altering in here?”
“Honey, everything we make will change your day,” Toni answers immediately, gesturing at the display case filled with pastries that look like they belong in a French patisserie. “But the honey-lavender scones and chocolate croissants are town favorites for good reason.”
“And don’t forget the house roast,” Lin adds, touching the gleaming espresso machine with obvious affection. “Most important drink of the day, especially for someone adjusting to new circumstances.”
“Sold,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “One coffee, one croissant. Because I believe in maintaining balance between caffeine and carbohydrates.”
Toni works the espresso machine with the efficiency of someone who’s been perfecting their craft for years, steam hissing and milk frothing with precise timing. “So, you’ve moved into Thorne Manor,” she says conversationally, as if discussing the weather.
“News travels fast in a small town,” I observe, watching the way the ivy beside her seems to sway to its own private breeze despite the absence of any air circulation.
“This town is small,” she replies, focusing on creating what appears to be elaborate latte art. “And dramatic arrivals are rarely subtle around here.”
“Yeah, I guess everyone saw me being paraded through town yesterday like some kind of refugee,” I say, shaking my head at the memory. “Riding on Lucien’s lap in Maceo’s tow truck probably wasn’t the most dignified first impression.”
“Oh, it was definitely interesting,” Lin chuckles, her pince-nez catching the light as she arranges pastries in the display case. “The town’s been talking about nothing else since yesterday evening.”
My coffee arrives in a substantial ceramic mug, rich and fragrant with a perfect foam leaf design floating on top. I take a sip and flutter my eyelids closed in pleasure, it’s everything I hoped for and more.