“Keeper of memories,” I murmur.
Beau chuckles, and the sound fills the cramped room. “Breaker of illusions, some prefer.”
I don’t laugh. I’m thinking of a moment I haven’t been able to fully recall since I was twelve. That first kiss behind the orchard’s barn, quick and sweet and sealed in a blur. I know it happened. I remember the smell of apple peel and cold air, the brush of knit gloves. But the name, the face, the spark of it? Gone. Scrubbed clean.
They say Copper Hollow runs on memory. That it keeps the town afloat with the slow, steady power of sentiment. The land itself is charmed—one of only two working bogs left in Connecticut, and the only one known to be tethered to a living magical source.
Its magic feeds on what matters. Core memories. Moments of joy or clarity or change. Townsfolk are meant to give freely, ingratitude for the harvest. And mostly, they do. I did, once upon a time.
But sometimes, the bog takes more than you expect. Sometimes, it feels a bit like theft. Consent by omission, maybe. You offered a thimble of memory, and it siphoned a whole well.
“What are you here for, Beau?” Wells asks, and I stiffen at the gruff, unwelcome sound.
“Nothin’ for you to worry about, buddy.”
Wells busies himself with a stack of ledgers, teeth gritted. He doesn’t rise to the bait, and I can’t tell if it’s restraint or disdain that keeps him quiet. They circle each other like two flints—too stubborn to strike first, too volatile not to spark if they get too close.
We leave not long after, carrying a few copied deeds, a survey from the eighties, and a folder full of correspondence between the town and Elspeth. A handful of files that might help me feel a little less lost in all of this.
Outside, the sky has shifted to pewter. Snow drifts down in soft sheets, muffling the world as we make our way back. Wells’ strides are steady, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” I ask.
His head whips toward me. “What gives you that impression?”
“The look on your face. It’s the same one you give me sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same category.”
“Why not? We’re both thorns in your side.”
He snorts. “One of you’s a little pointier.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t.”
I grin despite myself, but the thought of Beau lingers—crown of curls, money to spare, rooted in this place in a way even Wells can’t dispute. Someone like him could buy the inn. Someone likehim could keep it intact, respect the designation, preserve what my grandmother loved without expecting me to shoulder it.
The Langfords are bound to their bog the way the Harts are to the inn. The magic runs deep in both families. If the sale went to Beau, it wouldn’t be the same kind of betrayal as selling to an outsider.
The thought burns, shame and relief tangled together. I hug the folder tighter, as if it might muffle the sound of my own compromise. It may not be poetic, but it would be practical. Necessary. The surest way to set this house—and myself—free.
By late afternoon,the parlor smells faintly of flour and scorched sugar. The platter of scones I “attempted” cools on the sideboard, lopsided and hard at the edges, some caved in like deflated balloons.
I’ve always liked baking. My grandmother and I used to do it on long winter afternoons, elbow-deep in dough while the snow piled against the windows. She had a patience I’ve never been able to mimic.
I rush measurements, skip steps, get distracted halfway through creaming butter. The results have never once matched the picture in my head. My attention is better suited for things like sorting old papers or tending small, quiet tasks that don’t talk back. Or, as Wells so kindly pointed out, holding steady while he works.
Rather than dwell on my failures as a baker (read: hopeless multitasker), I tidy the hearth twice, polish the table until my arms ache, and light the lamps early so everything glows. At least the house looks warm and inviting, even if the scones could double as doorstops.
When Bobby suggested we host this morning—he was the one at the hardware store when I stopped in to ask where the committee usually met—he told me town hall was occupied. Something about the quilting guild refusing to give up their slot.
“Why not just host it at the inn, Lil’ Miss?” he’d asked cheerily.
I didn’t know how to decline. And when I told Wells, he didn’t argue with me. He didn’t say anything at all, which I took as reluctant agreement.
Now, he’s moving through the room like a storm contained in work boots, adjusting a chair one inch left, then right again, stacking and restacking papers that don’t need it. His jaw hasn’t unclenched in hours.
