She shuffles down the stairs, opens another door. A beat of silence, then, “Jesus Christ,” she yelps.
A thump. A clatter.
I grit my teeth. It sounds like she’s in the Hearth Room beside me, probably trying to wrangle the radiator. She should know that thing has barely worked over the last five years. That’s why we have the fireplace, the stack of wool throws, the extra quilts folded on the cedar chest.
That’s whyIhave my own personal space heater set up by the edge of my bed.
Once I’m up, I shove on a sweatshirt, drag my fingers through my hair, and pull open my door. By the time I’m padding through the dim hallway, she’s already disappeared up the narrow stairwell to her attic-side room.
I climb the steps two at a time, irritation sharp enough to keep the cold from sinking in, and knock once on the door, flat knuckles against wood.
She appears a moment later, cheeks flushed, curls loose, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to her elbows. It would almost be cute if she weren’t so determined to dismantle the place piece by piece.
I clear my throat. “You rearranging the entire upstairs or just trying to wake the dead?”
“I was looking for an extra blanket, thank you very much. It’s freezing in here. The radiator sucks.”
“It’s an antique, like the rest of the house.”
“It’s also frigid, like the rest of the house. Like the outside of this house. Like this whole damn town,” she mutters. “Should’ve stayed in Florida.”
“Yeah, probably.” She narrows her eyes, and I add, “You could’ve just asked me where the blankets are.”
“I was going to, but I didn’t want to owe you another favor. Heaven forbid I further burden the resident handyman.”
“Come on,” I mutter, half-hearted. “I’ll show you.”
She trails after me, mumbling about “medieval heating standards.” I don’t bother responding. The house doesn’t need defending. It’s weathered a hundred winters, and she’s only been back for two days.
Across the short landing, I pop open the narrow attic door, flick on the light, and climb inside. She follows, arms wrapped around herself.
“The good quilts are in the trunk,” I say over my shoulder. “Elspeth kept the thickest ones up here for emergencies.”
“Does this count as an emergency?”
“Well, it sounded like you were being mauled by a bear. So, yes.”
She huffs. I ignore it.
The attic is crammed with dust and the weight of lives half remembered. Unlike Elspeth’s curated antiques downstairs, this is pure accumulation—boxes, trunks, forgotten furniture stacked like a memory palace no one’s walked through in years.
I kneel beside an old cedar trunk, flip it open, and pull out the softest blanket I can find. Blue and white, edges hand-stitched with tiny silver stars. A little dusty, but a few good shakes will fix that.
When I hand it over, Elsie brushes her thumb over one corner and exhales.
“This used to be on the Wisteria bed.”
“Elspeth must’ve moved it up here that last summer and forgot to put it back. Those last few months were ... hard.”
She doesn’t say anything. I half expect her to gripe about me invoking grief or complain that her grandmother moved her things. But she just stands there, wordlessly, gripping the quilt between shaky hands.
When Elspeth was alive, the inn knew how to soften the world for those who needed it. Fires lit on their own. Blankets found their way to the end of a bed before the cold set in. Windows closed themselves with a gentle click.
Once, I swear the pantry restocked its salt when I was halfway through a recipe.
But since she passed, it’s been quieter here and much colder. It’s like the magic’s still around, hidden maybe, unsure what to do with itself.
I think it misses her. I think I do, too.
