Chapter 8
Honey
Honey stood awkwardly in the hallway of the Hale family house, hands clasped in front of her.
The soft yellow paint on the walls might have been cheerful once, but now it just looked tired.
At the far end of the hallway, a gallery wall of family photos climbed toward the ceiling—snapshots framed in mismatched wood, faces caught mid-laugh or locked in big, messy grins.
Honey kept her eyes trained firmly on the floorboards beneath her feet.
She didn’t dare wander closer to look for signs of the girls’ mother.
Wondering about her was unprofessional, and she had no business squinting at a photo lineup to piece together a story that wasn’t hers.
Besides, her temporary truce with Ethan felt too fragile and poking at the woman’s absence seemed like a good way to shatter it.
Ethan’s patient voice drifted out from the bathroom, narrating each step of handwashing to Melly as if it were her first time, but fatigue creeped into his tone as if he’d done it ten times today already.
“Turn the water on. Not too hot, there you go. Okay, soap—nope, more than that. Good. Scrub—tops and bottoms. Sing the ABCs if it helps. Now rinse. And dry.”
Honey had cleaned up and changed into clothing Ethan had pulled from a box shoved in the back of his closet.
The oversized knit sweater smelled faintly of lavender and dust, and the sleeves dangled past her wrists.
The jeans were worn thin at the knees but buttery soft.
Not exactly professional for a wishing well auditor, but she had to admit, it was cozy.
Emma and Brooke came into the hallway at the same time. Emma stopped short, her eyes scanning Honey from head to toe.
Her brows drew together. “That’s my mom’s.”
Honey looked down at the sweater, smoothing her palms over the pilled fabric. “Oh,” she said gently, “I didn’t know. Your dad gave it to me, and I—” She hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry. If it bothers you, I’ll change.”
“It’s fine.” Emma’s voice was clipped. “Family meeting’s in the living room.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
“Oh. I don’t think I’m part of the meeting.”
“Please,” Brooke said, and Honey couldn’t help but nod her head.
Honey followed the girls down the hall, her bare feet sinking slightly into the worn runner rug as she went.
She’d been too busy cataloging tasks and mentally organizing introductions and responsibilities to take in the living room earlier.
But now, with no checklist in hand and nothing to do but follow, she noticed everything.
The wainscoting and the faded floral wallpaper above it.
The scribbled drawings affixed to the wall with Scotch tape.
She squinted at one as she passed it, but for the life of her couldn’t tell what it was.
Emma went to the farthest corner of the couch, curling into it with her eyes fixed on something beyond the window.
Honey perched on the edge of the sagging green couch and tried not to sink too far into the cushion.
The crocheted throw on one side slid down as she shifted.
She picked it up and folded it carefully.
It smelled faintly like some kind of perfume that itched her nose.
A large oak coffee table sat in the middle of the room, clearly well used and scratched, and littered with a half-dressed Barbie head-down in a teacup, a puzzle missing its last corner piece, and a handful of crayon nubs in a chipped cereal bowl.
It was so well, loved, that it made Honey immediately picture family game nights with cards splayed across the table, half-finished puzzles left out overnight, juice spills wiped up between fits of laughter.
The kind of family nights she’d only ever seen in sitcoms.
Brooke plopped down beside Honey with zero regard for personal space.
She promptly unwrapped the package in her hands with the flair of a magician unveiling a trick.
With a flick of her wrist, the roll of neon-red Fruit by the Foot unfurled dramatically.
She peeled back the paper and stuck one end into her mouth.
“Want some?” she mumbled, already chewing.
Honey recoiled slightly, pressing herself further into the arm of the couch to avoid the sticky ribbon dangling near her lap. “No, thank you.”
“Sorry,” Brooke said, around the mouthful of candy.
“A proper apology usually includes what you're sorry for.”
Brooke blinked at her, then resumed chewing, slower this time as she considered. She wiped her fingers on her leggings, smearing red dye in the process.
“I’m sorry you were scared,” she said finally, lips twitching into a grin. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” she said, just as the sound of footsteps signaled Ethan and Melly’s return.
They entered hand in hand, Melly in mismatched socks and Ethan looking like he’d needed a coffee or a stiff drink. Maybe both.
He grabbed a chair from the kitchen table, turned it around, and straddled it backwards. Something in the move made Honey’s pulse flutter.
She straightened instinctively, then mentally scolded herself for noticing how his forearms flexed as he folded them across the top of the chair.
“Alright,” he said. “Brooke first. Apologize.”
“But Dad—”
“Already done, Mr. Hale,” Honey said quickly. It was best not to waste time on a useless squabble.
Ethan blinked at her once before turning to Emma. “Okay, Emma, you’re up. Ms. Baxter says you have something you need to talk to me about.”
Silence.
A long one.
“Emma?” Ethan tried again.
“Forget it. I changed my mind,” Emma muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”
Before anyone could respond, the front door clanged open, and Marlene thrust her head inside like a subway rat on garbage night. Her gray curls bobbed as she scanned the room, and she brightened the moment she saw Honey. “Oh, good. You’re still here.”
“She’s just about to leave,” Ethan said.
“Hm.” Marlene stepped in fully, leaving the door agape behind her. “Well, before you go, I’d like to bend your ear a second. You know all about regulations and such, right?”
“Marlene.” Ethan said her name like a sigh.
“Yes, well, regulations are my job,” Honey answered anyway.
“Perfect.” Marlene crossed into the living room and began pacing the far end as if she were a detective solving a case.
“Hypothetically, say someone in town, you know, a good, honest, salt-of-the-earth human woman, was planning to enter the bake-off this year. And let’s also say she happened to notice that the reigning Sugar Spoon Champion was turning out baked goods so delicious they make you feel as if you’ve been drugged, in a good way. ”
“Marlene. Enough,” Ethan said, voice edging toward warning.
“You mean...” Honey trailed off. But it couldn’t be. “Are you suggesting someone is using magic to win whatever this competition is?”
Marlene glanced around theatrically, then leaned in.
“I can’t prove anything. But last year, Clover’s Earl Grey scones were delicious, I’ll give her that, but I took one bite and cried about a childhood vacation to the sea I never even took.
Her shortbread made my arthritis go away for a full hour. ”
Honey opened her mouth, and promptly shut it again. It couldn’t be…
“Is this Clover a witch by chance?” she asked carefully, running a mental checklist to make sure even asking wasn’t technically against protocol.
“Okay, stop,” Ethan cut in sharply. “I invited you into my home because my daughters clearly needed something, but you have no right to go sniffing around my town.”
“And Marlene,” he added, turning toward her, “you should know better.”
Marlene just shrugged. “It’s not sniffing if something already stinks.”
“You don’t understand how things work here,” he said to Honey. “This isn’t just about bake-offs and compliance. You start pulling on threads, and the whole thing unravels.”
Melly, sensing the shift in the room, scooted toward Emma and Brooke, who automatically tucked her under their arms. Emma looked between the adults like she was watching a tennis match.
Honey folded her arms. “So we just let her use her magic willy-nilly?” The phrase felt unnatural in her mouth, but she was too flustered to care. “That’s—There are implications, Mr. Hale. Violations worth addressing. If I were the director of this town, this would never be allowed.”
“Clover’s from the Anchor House,” Ethan said, as if that excused violations.
She could practically hear Mr. Aldridge’s voice in her head: Order ensures trust. Trust builds safety. Safety keeps the peace.
“That doesn’t mean she can cheat. It’s not just about fairness,” she went on, her voice rising slightly.
“Community events like this give people something to strive for. A little friendly rivalry, a sense of tradition, pride in your own two hands. If someone’s using magic to rig the outcome—no matter how subtle—it undermines the whole foundation.
People stop trusting the system. They stop participating.
Or worse? The magic use gets more and more until it becomes dangerous.
And then what do you have? A town with no heart, no hope, and no order, that’s what. ”
“Okay, well, that feels a little dramatic.” Marlene waved a hand. “All I’m saying is, if she gets to sprinkle stardust or whatever on her scones, maybe I deserve a charm or two myself. You’ve got connections, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Ethan said, voice firm now. He pinched the bridge of his nose like the headache had already landed. “Marlene, stop poking bears. Ms. Baxter, stop trying to put a collar on them.”
Both women looked at him.
“He always says weird things like that,” Melly, the youngest child, stage-whispered to Honey.
“What does that even mean?” Marlene asked.
“It means,” he said through gritted teeth, “leave my damn town alone.”
A heavy silence settled in the room. Marlene, surprisingly, didn’t argue. She just sighed and dragged one of the kitchen chairs over, plopping down beside Ethan.