Chapter Six
I spent the rest of the afternoon—and well into the evening—unpacking the last of my clothes.
I couldn’t bring myself to use the master bedroom. That room still belonged to Alice. Instead, I claimed the smaller guest room I’d used as a girl. The bed was narrower, the dresser scarred with age, the quilt faded—but it felt right. Familiar. Safe.
When I finished, hunger finally nudged its way past exhaustion. I reheated my boxed-up enchiladas and ate standing at the kitchen counter, not entirely sure why I couldn’t bring myself to sit. A restlessness buzzed beneath my skin, sharp and insistent.
I opened a bottle of wine.
Willow stayed glued to my side—watching as I unpacked, settling in the center of the kitchen floor while I ate, weaving between my ankles when I poured a glass. I set out a can of cat food, but Willow sniffed it, flicked her tail dismissively, and followed me into the living room instead.
The envelope Rylyn had given me now resided on the coffee table.
That couldn’t be ignored any longer.
I sank onto the sofa, legs tucked beneath me, wineglass in one hand and the envelope in the other. Willow leapt up beside me, golden eyes intent.
“You’ve been acting like you know something all day,” I murmured, scratching behind her ears. “Want to share?”
Willow purred.
I opened the envelope and tipped its contents onto the table.
Papers spilled out—scraps, sketches, lists in Alice’s familiar handwriting.
One page looked like a grocery list. Another held strange symbols and looping notes.
And then I found the sheet of notebook paper, stained with a faded coffee ring in one corner.
A letter.
My chest tightened as I unfolded it.
Alice’s handwriting marched across the page in neat, steady lines, so familiar it made my throat ache.
My dear Piper—I am sorrier than I can say for placing this burden on your shoulders.
But the truth could no longer wait. Hickory Hollow is not merely a town.
It is a crossing place, a place of old power.
Long before it had roads or fences or a church bell, there were legends that named this land enchanted.
Magical. A place where the borders between worlds wore thin.
By the third line, the wine turned sour in my stomach.
Everything Owen and Dougal had told me earlier wasn’t just true—it was documented. Alice spelled it out plainly. The ley lines. The gate. The role she’d played as Guardian. The daily ritual that had kept Hickory Hollow from becoming a welcome mat for every nightmare with claws.
And now?
Now it was mine.
My hands shook as I kept reading.
You must take my place, Piper. I wish there had been another way, but there was not. You are the only one I trust to keep the gate, protect the town, and uncover what truly happened to me.
I pressed my lips together hard enough to sting.
“Of course,” I muttered. “No pressure or anything.”
Willow jumped lightly onto the sofa beside me, then settled with her tail wrapped primly around her paws, watching me with those unnervingly bright golden eyes.
I looked back down at the letter.
There is more you must know. Willow is not merely a cat.
She is a witch under a hex, one whose name was once carried into legend and twisted into a children’s tale.
Long ago they called her a monster in the woods, the witch with the enchanted house and the sugared path.
But stories told by the frightened seldom keep the truth intact.
She was more guardian than villain, and I promised her I would break the spell laid upon her.
If I could not, then perhaps in time you will.
I lowered the paper slowly and stared at the cat
“You’re the witch from Hansel and Gretel?”
Willow blinked once, slow and unrepentant.
“Wow,” I muttered. “Talk about a rebrand problem.”
With the composure of someone who had clearly been waiting far too long for me to catch up, she tucked her paws more neatly beneath herself.
“Well,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “that explains a few things.”
Willow gave a soft, almost smug meow.
I looked back at the letter, pulse thudding in my ears.
Be kind to her. She has been my friend, my companion, and my guard in more ways than you yet understand.
That one got me right in the chest.
Alice hadn’t asked me to stay in Hickory Hollow. She’d required it. Built it into the will. And somehow, impossibly, she’d trusted me—only me—to uncover the truth behind her death, guard the crossing, and one day un-hex a witch trapped in cat form.
I took a long drink of wine.
“Of course you did,” I said softly.
I sifted through the remaining papers, growing more frustrated by the minute. Notes. Half-finished thoughts. Strange symbols. No clear instructions. No handy beginner’s guide to magical crisis management.
“How am I supposed to make a potion without a recipe?” I demanded the room. “Did you honestly think I’d just figure it out?”
Willow rose, hopped onto the coffee table, and nosed several papers aside before placing both paws squarely on one scrap.
I leaned forward.
It was a list—but not a mundane one.
Unpronounceable names sprawled down the page, each followed by a number.
Latin. Definitely Latin.
I looked at Willow. “You’re a genius.”
She flicked an ear.
Smiling despite everything, I reached out and scratched her beneath the chin. “I owe you tuna.”
I started toward the kitchen—then stopped.
Something scraped upstairs.
Metal against wood.
Slow. Deliberate.
Willow’s head snapped up, ears flat.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Nope. I am not doing attic horror-movie nonsense tonight.”
Another thud echoed overhead. Then a dragging sound. I moved toward the stairs, one foot on the bottom tread staring up at the ceiling.
A faint orange glow leaked from the seams of the attic door at the top of the stairs.
My pulse spiked.
But I couldn’t ignore it, could I? With my heart in my throat, I ascended.
I pulled the ladder down, heart pounding—and immediately realized it wasn’t fire.
Light detonated from above, unnatural and pulsing.
“Fantastic,” I muttered. “I love this for me.”
I climbed.
At the top, a trunk glowed in the corner.
The lid blasted open.
Something massive surged upward.
I screamed and stumbled backward, barely catching myself before tumbling down the ladder. Below me, Willow hissed, body coiled tight.
Then—
Silence.
The light vanished.
The trunk was closed.
Nothing moved.
“I’ve officially lost my mind,” I whispered.
I hustled down the ladder. As I shoved the attic door shut, a familiar voice chimed cheerfully behind me.
“That was a warning.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Tani!”
The fairy hovered at eye level, wings a buzzing blur. “Relax. You’re fine. Mostly.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“That thing wasn’t fully here yet,” Tani said. “It was testing the boundary.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Great. Love boundaries that test themselves.”
I headed downstairs and snatched the wine bottle. Tani fluttered alongside me.
“You don’t have much time,” the fairy added. “Whatever Alice stopped is waking up.”
“Of course it is.”
When I showed her the list, Tani nodded. “Flower ingredients. You’re missing the rest.”
“Then how do I make the potion?”
“You find the rest the way Alice did.”
I stared at her. “Cryptic is not helpful.”
Willow brushed against my legs, then padded down the hall—stopping at the basement door.
I sighed. “Basements are never good news.”
But I opened the door anyway.
The space below was transformed—clean, bright, orderly. Shelves lined with labeled jars. A worktable laid out like a laboratory.
“This,” I breathed, “is definitely not normal aunt behavior.”
Willow hopped onto the table and sat squarely over a locked drawer.
I dashed upstairs, returned with the keyring, and opened it.
Inside, a red folder.
A recipe.
Instructions.
Every ingredient listed plainly.
“Yes,” I whispered, relief flooding me. “Thank you.”
“Now you work,” Tani said.
“Tomorrow.”
The fairy yawned. “Every missed day widens the gate.”
I squared my shoulders, staring at Alice’s set up, at the tools I’d never asked for but now owned all the same.
“All right,” I said quietly. “Let’s get to work.”
Tani disappeared in a puff of pink glitter, abandoning me to the basement, the potion notes, and what was rapidly becoming the weirdest night of my life—which was really saying something, considering I’d recently met a fairy, inherited a flower shop, and been informed I was apparently responsible for a supernatural superhighway.
I spent the next stretch of time elbow-deep in jars and labels, muttering terrible Latin to myself and trying to figure out which dried flower looked the least likely to accidentally summon a demon.
Somewhere overhead, the house settled into silence. Down in the basement, I lined up bowls, bottles, and the mortar like I had any idea what I was doing.