Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Iwake to sunlight streaming through cool, Parisian curtains and the scent of maple bacon drifting up from downstairs. The bed beside me is empty, and I can hear Asher’s off-key rendition of Hotel California floating through the house.
My head feels like it’s been stuffed with sawdust, but the anvils have stopped falling. Small mercies.
As I get up to face the day, I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the desk. Yikes. My Sally costume is wrinkled beyond recognition, and my makeup has smeared into something that looks like abstract art.
Asher saying I looked like roadkill was being generous.
I peel off the costume and toss it onto the bed.
There’s an Ariana Grande concert t-shirt draped over the back of the desk chair—soft gray cotton with a faded tour logo—and a pair of black stretch pants folded beneath it.
They smell like lavender and vanilla, and something about the scent makes my skin tingle.
The clothes are a bit tight but not uncomfortably so. I guess I’ve grown a bit in the past five years. Mostly in my boobs and butt. Yay me.
I twist my hair up into a messy bun and head downstairs, following my nose toward breakfast. As I make my way, I run my fingers along the banister, testing myself.
Do I remember the smooth mahogany? The way it curves at the bottom? The small gouge near the newel post?
Nope, I’ve got nothing.
I have no active memories of my life here, just the persistent sense that I used to belong here, and this is where I’m supposed to be.
The parlor piano is still humming when I press my ear to the lid. What’s with the humming? The bench is pulled out slightly, as if inviting me to play.
Do I play? Did I play? I touch one key—middle C—and the note rings clear. My fingers want to find a melody, but my brain offers up nothing.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself. “Remember something. Anything.”
When nothing comes, I abandon the idea in favor of food.
In the kitchen, Asher has claimed the space like he owns it. He’s got bacon sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, eggs waiting to be scrambled, and his phone propped against the flour canister, playing some 80’s rock playlist.
He looks hilarious tromping around in his Jack Skellington pinstripe suit, but hey, maybe some of my dad’s clothes will fit him.
“Morning, baby girl.” He gestures toward the island with the spatula in his hand. “Sit. Eat. Recover from your life choices.”
“My life choices?”
“Halloween parties. Mystery men. Accepting magical house gifts. You know.”
I slide onto one of the bar stools. “Fair point.”
It doesn’t take long before he slides a plate across the granite surface—perfectly golden scrambled eggs, chewy bacon, and buttered toast cut diagonally. There’s a steaming mug beside it, and I pull it closer. “Earl Gray?”
He snorts and gestures toward the pantry. “Your parents were even bigger tea freaks than you are. They’ve got thirteen different kinds in that cabinet. Seriously, I counted and there are thirteen.”
I sip at the edge of the mug, and the familiar warmth settles something anxious in my chest. “Did you find anything else interesting while you were playing house?”
“No. I waited for you. I figured you’d want to be in on all the fun.”
I bite a forkful of eggs. They’re perfect—creamy and seasoned with just a hint of sweet peppers. “Thanks, Ash. If I hadn’t been clinging to you when that portal thing swallowed me and I ended up here alone, I would be losing my mind.”
He winks, searching through the drawers on the opposite side of the island from me. “I was thinking about that as I was milling around down here. I’m not sure if it was the portal thing or us being drunk or what, but we should be losing our minds, shouldn’t we?”
I chuckle. “Objectively, yes, but I’m not.”
Asher closes the drawers near the stove, frowning. “Where the hell do they keep the oven mitts?”
I point past him to the cabinet by the dishwasher.
He follows my direction, retrieves the set of oven mitts, and stares at me. “How did you know they were there?”
I freeze. “I... I don’t know. I just did.”
“Did you remember something?”
I shake my head. “Not a memory. I just knew where they were.”
He grins as he opens the oven door and straightens with a pan of oven-roasted hash browns. “That’s something, at least. Your body remembers this place even if your mind doesn’t.”
“Great. My subconscious is more helpful than my actual consciousness.”
“Story of my life.” He sets the pan on top of the cork hotplate and grabs a flipper to shovel hash browns onto my plate.
“Since when does your breakfast include freshly made anything? I already feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. What’s with the Gordon Ramsay impression?”
Asher feigns insult but laughs. “Hey, I’m just a vessel of the house. Everything just sort of puts itself together. All I have to do is help.”
I don’t even know what to do with that. Is the house haunted or is the house alive? Neither of those answers makes any sense in reality, so my mind just shorts out and moves on. “So what’s our plan?”
“We’ve got a house to explore and a life to rediscover.”
I glance toward the window, where the standing stones cast long shadows across the yard. “We need to figure out who we’re dealing with. Blue Eyes said he had a gift for me, but what if he’s involved in us not being able to get outside?”
“You think we’re his prisoners?”
“I think we don’t know enough to make that call yet.” I take another sip of tea. “But we’ve got bigger problems than mysterious benefactors.”
“Such as?”
“It’s Sunday morning. We both have shifts tomorrow. You’re supposed to walk Mrs. Patterson’s poodle at seven-thirty, and I’ve got a split shift at the restaurant.”
His face goes slack. “Shit. I didn’t even think about that.”
“No cell service. No way to call in. No way to explain to anyone why we’ve vanished.” I spear a forkful of potato perfection and dig into the comfort of a home-cooked meal. “What happens to our lives when we’re a no-show?”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our situation settling between us.
“So we find answers fast,” Asher says finally. “We figure out what Blue Eyes wants, we learn what we can, and we figure out how to mitigate the damage to our lives back home.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then fuck it.” He reaches across the island and squeezes my hand. “We’re not going to worry about the Kansas stuff, Poppy. Our friends will understand. and there are always other jobs. You discovering your truth is way more important.”
I agree, but I also don’t want to torch our lives back home. But is it home? Or is this my home?
I finish the last of my hash browns and Asher takes my plate to rinse and set into the dishwasher. “What if we don’t like what we find? What if my past is dangerous and the reason my family didn’t come find me is because they’re all dead? What if I don’t want to know what happened?”
Asher leans on the island and sighs. “Whatever it is, good or bad, you want to know. Ignorance won’t protect us if we’re already in the crosshairs. Blue Eyes found you, and now you’re here. Figuring out what happened is the only way to know if he or someone else will come for you.”
I set my mug onto the marble countertop and swallow. “You are remarkably calm about us potentially being in mortal peril.”
“Are you kidding? This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since I woke up in that biker cuddle puddle a couple of years ago engaged to a guy named Coyote.”
“You what?”
“Nothing. Never mind that.” He grins and tosses the dish towel over his shoulder. “Come on, Nancy Drew. Let’s go find some clues.”
I slide off the stool, my anxiety replaced by determination. Whatever happened to my family, whatever brought me here, I want to know it. I want to know all of it. I glance toward the hallway, considering our options. Something tugs at my attention… It’s not quite a memory… more like instinct.
“Okay, I think I know exactly where we should start.”
I lead Asher down a hallway that branches off from the kitchen, my feet moving with confident familiarity despite my conscious mind drawing a blank. The wood floors creak beneath our steps, my hand trailing along the wallpaper.
We pass several closed doors, but nothing that sits behind them comes to me.
At the end of the hall, we turn left into a narrower corridor that slopes gently downward. Morning light filters through a small, diamond-paned window, casting prismatic patterns across the floor.
“This house is a maze,” Asher mutters.
“Yeah, but somehow, I know where I want to go.”
“Which is?”
“No idea.”
He snorts. “You are a paradoxical woman.”
And then we see it.
At the end of the corridor stands a door unlike any other in the house.
While all the other millwork is painted eggshell or stained wood, this door is a deep, vibrant green.
It’s the color of forest shadows, and carved into its surface is an intricate tree.
Branches spread toward the top of the frame, roots reaching toward the floor.
Tiny symbols I can’t quite decipher are etched among the leaves and roots.
Asher leans in close. “Wow, this is some door.”
My heart quickens as we approach, the blood in my veins starting to vibrate. It’s like a tuning fork has been struck and something inside me is humming at the same frequency as the piano and the standing stones.
“Let’s see what’s behind the magnificent tree of life.” Asher tries to twist the ornate brass handle and frowns. “Well, that was anticlimactic.”
“I think I’m supposed to do it.” I don’t know why I’m so certain, but when my fingers touch the cool metal, something electric passes between the door and me.
It feels like one part recognition and one part relief.
The handle turns effortlessly in my grasp, and the door swings inward without a sound.
Asher rolls his eyes. “Rude.”