The words stick in my chest.Her home.
It’s what I’ve been saying since I got here, isn’t it? Only now, it feels awkward with an audience, like I don’t have as much right to lay a claim when Wells is standing there brooding.
He doesn’t sit. He plants himself behind the chair opposite mine, shoulders squared, expression carved from stone. He hasn’t looked at me since the others walked in, and I think I might scream if he doesn’t soon.
“All right,” Bobby says, shuffling his notes. “Let’s get this committee rolling. Elsie, why don’t you start us off?”
I glance back at Wells, but he’s staring past me, jaw tight. It’s like he can’t even bring himself to watch me speak of the inn. If I weren’t used to being embarrassed—used to being the odd one out, the blunt edge in every room—I might flinch and hand the floor back to Bobby.
Instead, I lift my chin and start talking.
13
WELLS
“Sixty days,”Alma says, pen tapping like a metronome. “That’s all we’ve got.”
Bobby clears his throat. “Sixty days of interim protection. In that time, we document the inn, file the packet, and hope the county board has a shred of sense.”
I lean back, arms crossed. If Blue Willow is worth keeping on paper the way we know it is in bone, the county will stamp it. If not, Elsie’s free to sell to any buyer with a checkbook, and this place might as well be stripped for parts.
And sure, I could rattle off a few names who could afford to take it on. But I wouldn’t trust a single one of them with it. Beau, for starters—he’s got the money and the motivation, but not the right reasons.
If he got his hands on the inn, that would give him control over half the town’s magic. And he’s the kind of man who’d treat that like leverage. I’ve long suspected he helped push the Ashbys out of Copper Hollow just so he could claim the bog for himself.
That’s not how this town was built. The founders set up a system—shared, balanced. Each family responsible for one part of the whole. You start consolidating that kind of power and you mess with the fabric of what keeps this place right.
If I could afford it, I’d be the first in line to buy the inn myself. But I’ve got enough saved to stay here, keep the place patched together, and live quietly. That doesn’t cover a down payment, let alone whatever number Beau (or some other greedy bastard) might offer to beat me out.
As I contemplate the grand tragedy of my bank account, Jack volunteers for roof and foundation inspections, promising a guy two towns over who won’t gouge us. Alma takes form-keeper duty—drafting, outlining, keeping us from wandering into adjectives when the county wants measurements. Bobby will wrestle the liaison and get the checklist.
I offer to sort through the records we dug up at town hall and make a list of what’s missing: probate copies, old insurance, utility histories, the deed trail back to Dorothea Hart and the south-wing addition.
When Alma asks for “documentary evidence of use”—proof that the inn hasn’t just existed all this time, but served the public—Elsie finally pitches in. She says she’ll dig through the attic for photographs, menus, ledgers, guest book signatures. Whatever’s buried under quilts and dust that shows guests came and went.
When Alma says we’ll need community testimony, too, Elsie nods quickly, volunteering to collect statements from longtime patrons. The Motts. The Ashbys. Mrs. Fallon.
It’s almost funny, the way she keeps straightening up in her seat like she’s answering questions in class. Not exactly pathetic, but earnestly out of her depth. And intimidated as hell by Alma, who hasn’t even raised an eyebrow at her yet.
We set the schedule. Weekly meetings here since the quilting guild has claimed town hall Fridays and it’s the only evening the doctor has available. Ten-day progress reviews. Nonnegotiable.
The meeting winds down without a single mention of the wordsale, but Elsie twitches every time Bobby says transfer.She’s antsy for this all to be over. The rest of us are toeing the line.
When everyone files out—Alma with her shawl folded neatly, Jack pocketing a scone like contraband, Bobby blessing both the house and the plumbing—the door shuts, and the air holds their shape.
I clear dishes because my hands want a task. Add a split log to the fire because silence, after company, can turn on you. I’d rather not give myself space to think about all the ways I’ve failed Elspeth since she passed.
Elsie lingers. She sits where Alma sat, shoulders folded in, fingertips smoothing the edge of a page that doesn’t need it. The lamp casts a halo on the table. A single crumb catches the light, pale and stubborn.
I want to say something to ease the knot in her posture, but I’m still a little pissed she arranged the meeting here in the first place. The house didn’t need to listen to all that. I know she’s trying her best, but still, it’s like she doesn’t understand the cost of dragging something sacred into bureaucracy.
“Everyone here sort of hates me, don’t they?” she asks, quiet and self-effacing. “Well, except Bobby. I don’t think he has a hateful bone in his body.”
I reel back. “Do you actually care?”
If she’s worried about being liked, she’s going about it sideways. You don’t drop back into town with a real estate broker’s checklist and expect confetti. You don’t call your inheritance a burden and expect people to cheer.
She’d have to be delusional to think that’s how this works.
