Chapter 5 Winnie
I only meant to check the back door one last time. Maybe get a glass of water. But the moment my foot hits the bottom step, I feel it—that hum. Faint, like a thought I didn’t mean to think. The tavern’s holding its breath.
And Fleur’s still by the fire.
She hasn’t moved much. Just sits there, cloak still on, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the flames like they might offer answers. Or a way out. I thought she’d gone up hours ago.
I hover near the base of the stairs for a second, not wanting to startle her. “Can’t sleep?”
She doesn’t look at me. Just blinks slowly, then shakes her head.
I cross the room quietly, each floorboard seeming louder than it should. The fire throws strange shadows tonight—longer than usual, reaching too far. I don’t sit. Just rest a hand lightly on the back of the nearest chair.
“You okay?” I ask.
It’s a useless question. I know the answer already. But it’s softer than saying, “You look like the walls are closing in on you.”
She doesn’t say anything at first.
My instincts tell me to ask again, but something in my gut tells me she heard me; she’s just trying to find the words.
After a few long moments, Fleur’s voice cuts through the stale air.
“I’m fine.”
And it’s about as convincing as my great uncle Tobias swearing that raccoon bit him out of love.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask as I step closer to her.
“Not yet, no.” Her gaze remains fixed on the hearth, like at any moment the worn, aged brick will jump out and attack her.
Despite the hours since she’s been back, Fleur’s clothes haven’t dried in the slightest. The snow’s melted from her shoulders, the ice patches on her cloak long gone—but the damp has lingered.
Water still drips steadily onto the floorboards beneath her, slow and relentless.
The cloak hangs heavy with it, like she’s carrying more than just the storm she walked through.
“Can I get you a change of clothes?” The question leaves my lips as I slip into the chair opposite her, her attention not shifting from the hearth. “Fleur?”
The sound of her name seems to shake her from her trance as her eyes shift to meet mine, the look of unease from before venturing on abject terror.
“Did you say something?” she asks, far more timid than I’ve seen her before this.
“Yeah…” I clear my throat as I lean forward in my seat. “I can grab you some clothes. They won’t be pleasant, mostly some of my cleaning clothes, but they’d at the very least be dry.”
Fleur doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze dips, like the offer itself is too much to process.
“I’m not cold,” she says finally.
That’s not what I asked.
But I nod like it is, like I didn’t just watch her flinch at the sound of her own name.
The fire cracks, a little too sharply. I glance toward it, but the logs haven’t shifted. Still, the pop echoes in my ribs.
“It’s always like this before the solstice,” I say, trying to sound casual. “The tavern gets a little…moody. Or maybe that’s just me.”
Fleur doesn’t respond, but her eyes dart to the windows, then back to the fire. I follow her gaze.
The shutters are closed. Still, I swear I can feel the night pressing against the wood.
Something’s off.
The door to the canning cellar creaks open behind us. Just a hair.
I sit up straighter, pulse skipping. I wait for the draft I must have missed, for some logical reason. But none comes.
Fleur stiffens.
“Probably the hinges,” I offer. I don’t believe it either.
She swallows. “Something’s wrong here.”
The words aren’t loud. But they land heavy, like she didn’t mean to say them out loud.
And just like that, the air shifts again.
I rise, quietly, and move to the back. Grab the small ceramic jar from the shelf beneath the bar. Salt. It’s old tavern instinct, passed down like recipes and cautionary tales.
Fleur watches me, silent.
I move to each door—front, kitchen, cellar hatch—laying a thin, steady line of salt. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to say: not tonight.
When I glance back at her, she hasn’t moved. Just watches the fire, cloak still dripping onto the floor.
Still holding whatever it is she won’t say.
“You know that’s witchcraft, right?” Fleur’s voice is hoarse, but there’s the faintest trace of dry amusement threading through it.
I blink at her. “What, the salt?”
She nods once, eyes finally meeting mine. “It’s a ward.”
I shrug, setting the jar down on the bar with a soft clink. “Maybe. I just know my mother did it every time a storm hit or the power flickered. Said it helped her sleep better.”
“That’s not just folklore,” she says, more to herself than me.
I cross back to the hearth and ease into the chair beside her. “I’m not a witch, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t even know how to fake it.”
Fleur studies me like she’s trying to find the lie in that. “Then why does this place feel like it’s bracing for something?”
I let the silence stretch for a moment.
“Because I am,” I say finally. “Because when the pantry door opens on its own, and the fire pops like it’s angry, and you look like you saw something that won’t let you go…salt’s all I’ve got.”
That seems to land somewhere in her. Her posture softens—not much, just enough that the tension in her shoulders eases a fraction.
“Your mother,” she says. “Was she…”
I shake my head. “No. Just anxious. Like me.”
She hums, barely audible over the fire. “Anxious people make good witches.”
“Then I must be a damn prodigy,” I mutter.
And it earns me the smallest twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.