Chapter 22 Winnie
The beam cracked sometime last winter, long before the storm.
It isn’t a danger, not yet, but I’ve meant to fix it for months. Kept putting it off for the same reason I put off oiling the back door’s hinges and rewiring the lanterns in the cellar: there was always something else. Something more urgent.
Now, there’s nothing but time.
The tavern is quiet in a way it’s never been. Not empty—just…settled. Taking a break.
I run my hand over the beam, fingers skimming the fracture. It’s not deep, but it’s there, a reminder that even the sturdiest things need tending. That, sometimes, staying upright means learning how to be held together.
I gather what I need from the back: a few tools, a strip of wood, the old nails Fleur helped me sort weeks ago, back when she was still just the witch who came for tea and stayed through a storm.
Jinx watches me from the hearth. He hasn’t moved much since she left—just curled up in that same spot, tail flicking every so often like he’s listening to something I can’t hear. I’d make a joke about him being lovesick if it didn’t hit so close to home.
The beam groans as I brace the new slat of wood against it.
I work in silence, sweat gathering at the back of my neck, the tavern walls soaking it in. The hearth hums behind me—still warm with a faint glow despite being without a flame.
It’s not just the beam that’s cracked.
It’s the air. The light. Me.
This place is different now. Rebuilt. Remade.
And I don’t know what it’s supposed to be anymore.
But as I drive the first nail in and Jinx yawns, I think…maybe it could be more. A haven, maybe. A shelter. A place that listens.
A place she’ll come back to.
The second nail doesn’t go in quite straight. I curse under my breath and adjust, tapping it back into place until it holds. The rhythm is grounding. Simple. Tangible. And it keeps me from looking at the door too often.
I told her not to promise anything.
Didn’t ask her to stay.
Didn’t beg.
But gods, I wanted to.
Jinx shifts behind me, stretching long, then hopping down from the hearth with a soft thud. His claws click against the floorboards as he crosses the room, tail flicking like punctuation. He stops just shy of the door and sits, staring at it.
Waiting.
I don’t say anything. Just lean my forehead against the beam, breathing in sawdust and old pine. The scent anchors me.
Outside, the sky is softening—clouds thinning, light warming to gold.
I think of her out there, basket in hand, sleeves pushed up as she crouches to gather chickweed or feverfew. I think of her humming under her breath without realizing, hair pulled back, cheeks pink from the cold. I wonder if she’s thinking of me too.
Of us.
The nail finally bites deep. I test the hold with both hands—solid.
I step back, wiping my palms on my apron. My eyes drift to the table where her teacup still sits, half-full and cold. I haven’t touched it; can’t bring myself to.
It might be foolish to keep pretending she’s coming back.
But maybe it’s not pretending.
Maybe it’s faith.
Inevitable.
Jinx lets out a low, almost offended meow, like I’ve taken too long to reach the same conclusion he came to days ago.
I walk over and open the door. Just for a moment.
The wind is gentler today. Carried on it is something similar to rosemary and alder bark.
I smile.
I leave the door open longer than I should. Long enough for the cold to nip at my ankles. Enough to feel the ache of it settle back into my bones.
Then I close it again. Turn back toward the hearth. Toward Jinx. He’s still by the door. Waiting.
I sigh. “You’re more patient than I am.”
His ear flicks.
And then, before I can even cross the room again, he perks up.
A sound. Soft. Boots on snow-melt slush. A shift in the air.
A knock.
It’s quiet, almost sheepish. I don’t rush to open the door, but my hands shake a little as I reach for it.
And there she is. Hair tousled by the wind. Basket askew on her hip. Breath curling in the chill.
“I forgot the honey,” Fleur says.
I blink.
She shrugs. “And also, it took me no time at all to realize I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”
I laugh. Sharp, stunned, too full of relief to keep inside.
Jinx bolts past my legs and winds between hers, purring like he’s missed her all his life.
“Traitor,” I mutter, blinking hard as Fleur crouches to scratch behind his ears.
She smirks faintly but doesn’t look at me right away. Only when she straightens does she finally meet my gaze.
“I know I said I had to go.”
“You did,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
She tilts her head, the barest trace of hesitation softening her features. “But if it’s all the same to you…I think I’d rather stay.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
It takes me a second too long to respond. The weight of it—of her choosing to stay—rushes in too fast. I feel it everywhere. In my breath. In my knees. In the aching place behind my ribs that’s been bracing for her absence since she first said the words I have to go.
I open the door wider, but my voice is quieter than I mean it to be.
“Then come inside.”
And when she does, it’s all I can do not to crumble with the sheer relief of it.