“I can be the owner’s rep,” I argue.
Bobby’s brow wrinkles. “We all know how much you valued Elspeth, but Elsie is her family. She’s Hart blood.”
The word scrapes. Family. Blood. As if years of sweat in the beams and bones of that inn mean nothing next to the accident of a surname. My jaw locks so tight it hurts.
“I suppose,” I say bitterly, “that’s all that matters, then.”
The decision is settled in the silence that follows, like snow tamped under boots. A few nods. A few hands raised. Despite my protest, the vote goes through. Bullshit.
Elsie sits again, not looking at me.
Bobby rubs his forehead. “Anything else from the new committee before we adjourn?”
“Yes,” I say, bandaged hand tightening on the bench. “A reminder for everyone that the goal here is to protect Blue Willow. If we let sense outweigh soul, we risk losing the very thing that makes this place worth keeping.”
Elsie folds in on herself, quiet as the scrape of a chair. She can sit on the committee all she wants, but if she can’t see what the rest of us are fighting for, then she’s even more lost than I thought.
And I won’t let her walk away without at least knowing what she’s walking from.
10
ELSIE
Morning light turnsthe lace curtains in the kitchen the color of skim milk. I strike a match, lean in, and coax the stove’s left burner into a shy blue flame. It catches with a soft whoomph that sends a curl of hair skittering off my forehead.
“Okay,” I tell it. “We’re friends now. Calm yourself.”
For a second, I swear the flame steadies. Is it wishful thinking? Maybe it’s a figment of my imagination, or maybe I just like talking to something that won’t argue back.
The iron skillet is heavy and a little warped. I set it to heat and dig through the cabinets for coffee and anything that might pass for breakfast. I’m not much of a cook; I lean on microwave dinners and protein bars, the kind of stuff you can eat in your car without a plate.
Still, I rummage. The sugar tin has a faded label in Elspeth’s neat script. It stops me mid-motion. Strange, how familiar it all is, and how wrong it feels to stand among things I’ve always known but worked so hard to forget.
On the counter sits the pale blue tin I found yesterday. First aid. A brand-new kit, stocked with gauze, tape, wipes—everything needed to patch a wound. Wells swore he didn’tknow where it came from, only that it hadn’t been there before. Unsettled, I shift it aside.
As the kettle sings, I grind a pinch of cinnamon with the mortar and pestle. The coffee drips, slow and dark, filling the kitchen with a scent that makes it feel less like a museum I’ve trespassed in and more like a place where people actually live. Where I live, for now.
Eggs. I can do eggs.
The utensil drawer sticks half an inch from closed. I tug; it releases with a soft sigh and practically hands me the whisk I was searching for. I blink at it, then at the ceiling.
“Thank you,” I say, which is ridiculous, but the house has been trying, I think. And it feels polite to answer.
I whisk the eggs with a splash of milk, salt, and pepper. A handful of chives grows in a cracked pot by the window—someone’s been keeping them alive. The skillet is ready. Butter goes in, melts, runs. The scent loosens my shoulders.
Boots thump in the hallway. The door swings, and Wells fills the space behind me, tan work coat unzipped, bandage neat around his palm. His hair is a little darker when it’s damp from outside; the ends curl at his collar.
He stops at the threshold, eyes moving from the stove to the counter to me. For a moment, his expression hovers between suspicion and surprise.
“You’re making breakfast?”
“I’m capable of cooking, too.”
He reaches past me and turns the flame a hair lower. “That burner runs hot.”
“And now I know,” I say, batting his wrist with the back of the spatula. “Sit.”
He leans a hip against the counter instead. Typical. I slide the eggs into the skillet. They fold and set, pale yellow, fleckedwith green. I push them around like I know what I’m doing and choose my next sentence with care.
