4. Birdie
BIRDIE
It’s a monstrous cliché, but I wake to the sensation of being watched.
Not the kind of watched you’d get from a curious woodland creature or even a neighbor with too much idle time and a window that looks in. No, this is the kind that sets up camp in the marrow, sifting through the sediment of your soul and finding it... unsatisfying.
I have only myself to blame.
I spent last night perched in nostalgia, paging through college notebooks while Dandy slow-cooked something unidentifiable in the kitchen. It’s possible I drank an entire bottle of plum wine, so when I say I see the world through a haze, it’s both metaphysical and deeply, deeply literal.
I pad down the stairs to find Dandy in the living room, cross-legged and wearing a tie-dye caftan that could theoretically double as a parachute should the cottage suddenly decide to launch itself skyward.
She’s already halfway through her mug of coffee and humming with an energy that suggests she hasn’t yet realized what hour it is.
“Is there a socially acceptable time to start eating chocolate chip scones?” I ask, my voice still thick and gravelly.
“Now,” Dandy chirps, not missing a beat. “Or whenever your enemies least expect it.”
She looks up at me, eyes far too alert for this early, and adds, “You have a visitor.”
I freeze.
“Like... a person visitor? Or is this one of your metaphorical visitors, like when you woke me up last Tuesday to tell me about the metaphysical presence of sultry mischief in the mudroom?”
Dandy grins.
“Both.”
I brace myself.
“Who?”
She waves her mug in a vague arc toward the front window.
“Tall, dark, and—by your standards—probably not that handsome, but I am charmed by the attempt. He’s been standing behind that pine tree for an hour and a half.”
She squints.
“I think he genuinely believes it’s hiding him.”
I peek around the curtain and spot him instantly.
He’s six-foot-something, wearing a coat so dramatic I half expect it to upstage him. His hair is slicked back, his shoes look expensive, and his posture is the kind you see at the end of a runway, just before the model realizes he’s about to eat shit on the turn.
My skin prickles.
Not in the way I was taught to fear.
More like when you pass a stranger at the grocery store and think, We could be friends, then immediately shame yourself for the thought.
“You don’t think it’s one of Leland’s men?” I ask, trying on nonchalance, though even I hear the wobble in my voice.
Dandy snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her coffee.
“No. Not even the Brooks family is that cliché.”
She laughs again.
“That’s Alaric Grimhaven. He’s a—well, technically the word is private investigator, but the title undersells it. Around here, people mostly call him when something impossible happens.”
She shrugs.
“So... every Tuesday.”
“He's good?”
“He's annoyingly good.”
The name lands with a thud.
I know it, in the way all fugitives know the names of the people who might blow their cover.
“Why is he here?”
Dandy sets down her mug and studies me with the kind of precision that means she’s about to say something inconveniently true.
“Because your ex is nothing if not persistent.”
For one awful second, the world contracts into a point of raw, nauseating dread.
I want to grab my go-bag and vanish. Pick a new city, a new name, and start the whole charade over.
Instead, I stand perfectly still, gripping the windowsill so hard my fingertips ache.
“I need to leave.”
I’m already halfway toward the door.
Dandy lifts one eyebrow.
“You say that every time.”
A beat.
“But you never make it past the mailbox.”
Fair.
The mailbox is a solid two hundred yards from the cottage, and the last time I made a break for it, I was ambushed by a flock of weaponized crows and an ill-timed reminder of what happens when you don’t pay for express shipping.
“Just... please tell me the wards are still up,” I whisper.
She gives me a look equal parts wounded and offended.
“You say that like I’m the type to let a basic perimeter go fallow.”
She gestures vaguely, and the faintest tingle dances across my skin, like confidence suddenly had a texture.
“You’re safe, B.”
I nod, trying—and failing—to match her certainty.
“How long do you think he’ll stay out there?”
Dandy considers the question.
“Alaric Grimhaven is the kind of man who naps in church because he likes the acoustics. He’s not leaving until he gets what he’s after.”
She grins.
“If you want to outwait him, you’ll have to be weirder than he is.”
I think about that.
“That sounds... exhausting.”
“It is.”
She flashes that irrepressible smile that's gotten her—us—into and out of more trouble than I care to enumerate.
“Luckily, today's errand is the opposite of exhausting. We're going to Hex & Honey. Aunt Clover wants us to pick up our order before the shop opens.”
I stare at her like she's sprouted a second head.
Which, to be fair, she has done once.
But only for the solstice.
“You want to go out while Tall, Dark, and Stalky is prowling around?”
“He hasn't crossed the property line. He won't, not unless he wants a second-degree hex burn.”
She shrugs.
“Besides... if he's watching us, maybe it's time to give him a show.”
Blackthorn in the morning is a patchwork of earnestness and rot, like an antique quilt that refuses to admit most of its stains are blood.
The closer we get to Main Street, the less I worry about Grimhaven and the more I worry about whether I brushed my hair—or if I'll have to face the old warlock at the market with dried toothpaste on my lip again.
Dandy walks like she owns the town, which she might, depending on how you define own. She waves at the butcher, nods at the pharmacist, and calls out, “Morning!” to anyone within shouting distance.
Hex & Honey hasn't technically opened yet, but the windows are fogged with warmth. Burnt caramel hangs in the air alongside cinnamon—or, because this is Blackthorn, possibly aromatic spell dust.
Our order waits on the counter, tied with a ribbon and a handwritten note.
To my favorite disaster—keep the change.
Clover herself is perched on a stool behind the counter, feet swinging, defying both gravity and age.
She cocks an eyebrow.
“You brought the runaway.”
“She brought herself,” Dandy says, hopping onto the neighboring stool. “I'm just the getaway driver.”
I kneel beside the pastry box, letting its warmth seep into my frozen fingers.
“Thanks for the scones, Clover.”
I lift the note.
“And your handwriting's looking better.”
She beams.
Only for a second.
“You've got an admirer.”
She jerks her chin toward the window.
“Across the street.”
“Looks hungry.”
I glance up.
Sure enough...
There's Grimhaven.
Leaning against a lamppost.
Pretending to read the Blackthorn Gazette.
Upside down.
“Subtle,” I mutter.
Dandy snorts into her coffee.
Clover sighs affectionately.
“Bless his heart.”
I blink.
“...Everyone can see him?”
“Honey.”
She leans across the counter.
“Mrs. Blood sent him a blueberry muffin forty-five minutes ago because she thought he looked lonely.”
The barista giggles.
Dandy adds, “The squirrels have been gossiping about him since breakfast.”
“He thinks he's being incognito,” Clover says. “Nobody's had the heart to tell him otherwise.”
I look back toward the window.
He's still holding the newspaper upside down.
Against my better judgment...
I smile.
Just a little.
Clover notices.
“Well,” she murmurs.
“That's new.”
I pretend not to hear her.
Across the street, Grimhaven finally notices us watching.
He folds the newspaper with entirely too much dignity and starts walking over.
“Showtime,” Dandy whispers.
He's waiting by the curb before I can lose my nerve.
Up close, he's somehow taller.
His eyes are blue.
Then not blue.
Like a storm cloud deciding whether to ruin your crops or merely your afternoon.
They're fixed on me with complete, undivided attention.
“Birdie Longfellow.”
His voice is both more pleasant and more annoying than I expected.
Like a cello that wants to be a stand-up comedian.
I keep my expression carefully neutral.
“Alaric Grimhaven.”
A beat passes.
Neither of us moves.
The entire town, I'm fairly certain, has suddenly developed urgent reasons to look through shop windows.
Finally, I nod toward the folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm.
“You know...”
He waits.
“It was upside down.”
Silence.
He slowly looks down at the newspaper.
Then back at me.
“Well.”
A tiny smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“I've committed now.”
Despite myself...
A laugh escapes.
It's small.
Barely more than air.
But it's there.
His smile grows just enough to notice.
“Your ex hired me,” he says.
The laughter evaporates.
“I assumed.”
“He wants me to find you.”
“And?”
“And I've found you.”
I fold my arms.
“Congratulations.”
His expression shifts.
Just enough.
“I'm beginning to suspect finding you and delivering you are two entirely different jobs.”
I study him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means...” He tilts his head. “I'm a detective.”
“And?”
“I don't like mysteries that don't add up.”
Before I can decide what to make of that, Dandy appears beside me holding a second scone like a weaponized peace offering.
“You threaten her,” she says pleasantly, “and I'll turn your teeth into mothballs.”
Grimhaven laughs.
A real one.
Deep enough to rattle windows.
“I like mothballs.”
He considers it.
“They're underrated.”
Dandy narrows her eyes.
“If you're buying pastries, buy local.”
She points toward the bakery.
“Otherwise, keep your drama off Clover's front steps.”
He places one hand over his heart and gives an exaggerated little bow.
“Yes, ma'am.”
We leave him standing beside the lamppost.
By the time we reach the cottage, Dandy has already demolished half a cinnamon roll.
“That went better than last time.”
“Last time?”
“The last missing person he tracked.”
She grins.
“Tried serving a subpoena to a werewolf during the full moon.”
I stare.
“He broke two ribs.”
A beat.
“And one shoe.”
I laugh.
A real one this time.
Back inside, I sink onto the sofa with another scone warming my hands.
I know I should be frightened.
I should see Alaric Grimhaven as another extension of Leland's reach.
Another man determined to drag me back to the life I escaped.
Instead...
I keep thinking about the upside-down newspaper.
About the detective who admitted almost nothing...
...yet somehow managed to tell me everything.
Against every instinct I possess...
I am very, very curious.