“Trust me,” she says, her voice sharpening, “I don’t have the energy or the funds to gut anything. Even if the historical designation would allow that. I just want it clean and functional enough for someone else to deal with.”
“Charming sales pitch.”
“I’m not a Realtor.”
We stare at each other. I wonder if she even sees this place anymore—if she remembers the chiming of the chandelier or the way the parlor smells after rain. If she feels the house dimming, the magic slipping, and wants to revive it as badly as I do.
Or if she’s really convinced herself she doesn’t care.
Her face gives me nothing.
“So, will you do it or not?”
I drag a hand through my hair and lean against the counter. I could refuse outright, but another idea takes hold: show her the worst of it. Every crooked floorboard, every swollen window frame, every stubborn hinge. Let her think it’s too broken, too costly, too unsellable.
If I bury the good parts—if I keep its quiet soul hidden—maybe she’ll walk away before she realizes what’s still here. Maybe she’ll leave her name on the deed and let me stay on to patch the roof, mend the windows, keep the lights warm.
No one else will want it if they can’t gut it and rebuild. That’s the truth I can sell her on.
“Let’s start now. Before you change your mind and call in someone from Hartford.”
“Ready when you are,” she says.
I force a grin and nod once. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
5
ELSIE
I’m notthat great at reading people, but I’m pretty certain Wells is fucking with me.
He’s shown me every uneven floorboard, every hairline crack in the paint, every window that sticks or squeaks or fogs too easily. He’s pointed out the scuffed trim like it’s a structural hazard and given me a twenty-minute lecture on the pros and cons of original plaster.
To his credit, some of it’s legitimate. The wiring is older than my great-grandmother. The floor in the Hearth Room slopes enough to make a marble roll. The pantry door sticks. But like Bobby said, the bones are good.
Still, Wells plays tour guide with all the subtlety of a cat dragging in a dead mouse (not Harold, to be clear), watching me squirm while he catalogs flaws. He gestures toward the gutters with a dramatic, world-weary sigh.
“These are definitely going to need to be replaced,” he says, squinting toward the roof. “You can’t see it from here, but they’re all warped along the northern eave. Could cause significant water damage.”
I rub my arms and try to keep my teeth from chattering. “You can fix them, right?”
“Fix them, she says.” He actually snaps his fingers, sharp and petulant. “As if it’s not a whole ordeal. Ladder, alignment, replacement brackets. We might as well talk about this charming, half-rotted drainpipe while we’re at it.”
“Is this a walk-through or a one-man show?”
He ignores me, jabbing a thumb at the porch. “Also, that step’s loose. Not immediately dangerous, but you never know with ice.”
I give him a look. “You mean the one I tripped on? Didn’t you just say you were coming back here to fix it?”
“I’ve been a little busy this morning, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “busy being a nuisance.”
He turns to me slowly, expression dry. “Look, all I’m saying is that there’s a lot to fix here. If the paperwork ever clears and you eventually get to sell, it’ll be for a pittance.”
He thinks I only see the rot and dust left here, not the way it settles into your bones if you let it. This place has carried magic for generations, tucked into the beams and bricks like breath. It may be quiet now, but it can be revived with a little more love and patience than I’m willing—or able—to give.
“I know you probably think I’m heartless and feckless, but I know what this house is.” I look up at the porch, at the frost-laced latticework, the stained-glass panes catching the last weak light. “What it’s worth.”
