Chapter 3
KRISTA
By the time the sun burns off the worst of the morning fog, the town is already half awake and full of things I can’t explain.
Not weird things, exactly. Just off. Like the colors are richer here, or the quiet is more patient.
Even the birdsong feels like it’s waiting for you to notice it, instead of demanding your attention.
Mari runs ahead of me on the worn cobblestone path that winds between gnarled trees and old lamp posts with cracked glass panes, her arms flung wide like she’s flying, and I have to remind myself not to yell for her to stay close.
She’s fast, but she always stops before she’s truly out of reach.
A crow follows us. I don’t know why. It’s big, glossy, beady-eyed, and makes no sound.
It just flaps from branch to branch overhead, keeping pace like it has somewhere to be and we’re conveniently going the same direction.
Mari says its name is Button. She decided that this morning over oatmeal, and that was that.
Gristlewood Hollow is not what I expected, but I can’t quite say what I did expect.
The buildings are old, but not run-down.
Some look like they were pulled from storybooks, all pointed roofs and ivy-clad stone, while others are just cozy little cottages with faded paint and porches filled with rocking chairs.
People walk slowly here. They nod. They smile.
But their eyes stay curious just a second longer than feels normal.
The first shop we find is a narrow green-painted place tucked beside a lopsided bakery that smells like cinnamon and... something vaguely burnt. There’s no sign above the door, just a symbol etched into the wood: a circle of stars with a feather through the center. Mari likes it immediately.
“Can we go in?” she asks, already tugging the door before I can answer.
Inside, it smells like warm spices and old paper. The air has weight, soft and heavy like blankets pulled from storage. Shelves climb up the walls with neat stacks of books, jars, bundles of dried herbs tied with string, and a curious collection of bird skulls displayed like fine china.
A woman leans on the counter near the back, thin and pale with short-cropped hair the color of river stones. Her eyes are a little too light. Not creepy, just... bright. She watches us like she’s been waiting.
“You’re new,” she says, without moving.
“I’m guessing that’s easy to spot around here.”
She smiles, slow and wide, and gestures toward a bowl of wrapped candies on the counter. “I’d offer you tea, but I don’t keep anything hot after noon. The wind turns after midday. Makes steeping go weird.”
I blink. “Okay. Noted.”
Mari helps herself to a candy. “This place smells like Grandma Jo’s basement.”
“Sharp nose,” the woman says, clearly amused. “I used to sell at the Saturday market. Johanna always said my cinnamon bundles smelled like history and sin.”
My spine stiffens. “You knew Johanna?”
She nods, stepping out from behind the counter. She’s taller than I realized, moves like someone used to walking in silence. “Everyone knew her. Or thought they did. She was... complicated.”
“I’m starting to get that impression.”
She holds out a hand. “Delphina. I do charms, readings, occasional pet retrievals. If something of yours wanders off, I usually know where it went.”
“I’m Krista. This is my daughter, Mari.”
Delphina crouches slightly, giving Mari a look both curious and kind. “Nice to meet you, little spark.”
Mari beams. “I like your bird bones.”
Delphina grins wider. “Me too.”
We chat a few minutes longer. She’s warm in a way that doesn’t demand anything in return, and I find myself relaxing without meaning to. When we leave, she presses a small sachet into my palm—lavender and something slightly metallic.
“For dreams,” she says. “Yours are loud right now.”
The path through town curls like a question mark. There’s no grid, no layout that makes any logical sense. The buildings feel arranged by feeling, not function, like the town built itself one room at a time.
We pass a man seated on a bench near the square. He’s dressed in full Victorian regalia: waistcoat, pocket watch, tall polished boots. His skin is paper-pale, and he tips his hat when he sees me. The way his eyes linger is sharp but not threatening. Just observant.
“You’ll want to talk to Elder Vess eventually,” he says, unprompted. “Council likes to know who’s breathing in the leyline dust.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmur.
He returns to his book. It’s bound in something that looks suspiciously like black leather and smells of cloves. Mari tugs on my sleeve.
“He’s not cold,” she whispers. “But he should be. His coat’s too thin.”
I don’t answer. I just keep walking.
Later, after we’ve wandered through half the Hollow and Mari’s stuffed her pockets with leaves, feathers, and two pieces of enchanted candy (her words, not mine), we stop at a place called The Tumbled Wyrm for hot cider.
It’s part tavern, part cafe, part secondhand bookstore, with tables carved from whole tree stumps and booths made of patchworked velvet cushions.
The bar is run by a shifter woman named Sariah, all coiled copper curls and amused eyebrows.
“Thought I smelled outsider,” she says with a grin. “Don’t take offense. We don’t get many with soft boots and big eyes.”
“My boots aren’t that soft.”
She raises a brow at Mari, who’s trying to climb into a seat that’s too tall. “You let her eat the honey bark yet?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. She’ll start seeing the wind talk.”
Mari perks up. “I want that.”
Sariah laughs, pours us cider without asking, and gives Mari a small, round cookie shaped like a crescent moon.
I take the moment to breathe. The warmth here sinks into my skin in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
There’s something about the lighting, the mix of gold and amber tones, the hum of a spell circle faintly etched into the floor beneath the rug.
It feels like the whole place is holding its breath just to let me exhale.
Outside, the fog’s rolled back in. Thick again. Soft. Almost too still.
“Hey, Mama,” Mari says suddenly, licking cinnamon sugar from her fingers. “There’s people out there.”
I glance out the window. The square is empty.
“What people?”
“In the fog. They’re waving. But not at us.”
I lean closer to the glass. There’s nothing.
“Mari, sweetheart, there’s no one there.”
She frowns, staring a moment longer, then shrugs. “They’re gone now.”
Sariah watches her carefully. “She always like that?”
“Like what?”
“Open.”
I sip my cider. “She sees things sometimes. Dreams things. But nothing scary. At least not yet.”
Sariah leans in. “The Hollow responds to energy. Old blood. Unspoken promises. She might be lighting things up just by walking through.”
“That supposed to comfort me?”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
That night, after I’ve tucked Mari in and double-checked that the wards around the cottage are still quietly humming—yes, actual wards, I felt them like a low drumbeat beneath my feet—I climb the narrow stairs to the attic.
The door sticks. It takes a hard shove to open, and when it finally creaks inward, the smell of dust and clove oil nearly knocks me over.
It’s cold up here. Not air conditioning cold—old, forgotten cold.
The kind that settles in the bones of a house and doesn’t care if you’ve come to change anything.
I click on the small lamp hanging from a crossbeam. Its light is dim, yellow, but enough. The attic is crammed with boxes, trunks, shelves of preserved herbs, bundles of dried flowers, and rows of what look like potion bottles but could just as easily be weird old apothecary keepsakes.
Then I see it.
A chest tucked beneath the far window, covered in a faded quilt with little moons stitched into the fabric. It hums. Not out loud, but under the skin. I know that’s ridiculous. I know I should laugh. But I don’t.
When I lift the quilt, a chill runs up my arm. The lock is heavy, old iron, etched with a sigil I recognize from Johanna’s old letters; never open in haste. Except it isn’t locked. It clicks open under my hand, smooth and certain, like it was waiting for me.
Inside is a book.
Thick, bound in leather, stitched with silver thread that shimmers faintly in the low light. The cover reads: Johanna Briar — Grimoire, Vol. I
I don’t breathe for a second.
Not because it’s scary. Not even because it’s magic—though it absolutely is. But because it makes something inside me shift. Click. Like finding the missing page in a story you didn’t realize you were telling.
I carry it downstairs, slow and careful. I don’t open it. Not yet.
But I place it on the table by the window and light a candle beside it.
And suddenly I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.