She’s not kind in the way people expect. She’s careful. That’s rarer.
“Wells,” she says quietly, not looking at me.
“Mmm?”
“Do you think the house—she—can forgive? Will she forgive me when I finally let her go for good?”
I think of the groaning floorboards that hush when we walk, the lights that flicker to guide us, the way warmth always finds the room when we need it most. I think of Elspeth’s tin voice folded into the walls, and the way the house has leaned toward Elsie since the moment she arrived—as if it remembers her. As if it’s been waiting.
The house already behaves as if she’s forgiven. As if it loves her still, and always.
“I think you should sleep,” I say. It’s not the answer she’s looking for, but it’s the only one I trust myself to give. “You’ve got names to track down tomorrow. Alma wants that inventory draft by Friday.”
She nods, slow and tired, and keeps rubbing the cat’s chin until his eyes sink to slits. Then she leans back and lets her head rest against the chair. There’s a robin’s-egg blanket bunched beside her hip; she tugs it once, doesn’t get the angle right, and gives up.
I stand. My knee complains. I take the blanket, shake it loose so the dust glitters in the lamplight, and lay it gently over her legs. She doesn’t open her eyes. Hemingway flicks an ear but doesn’t move.
“Good night,” she murmurs.
“Night,” I return.
I set the fire poker back on its hook and turn the lamp down one notch. The room goes honey dark. At the door, I stop. I always do. I look back at the hearth, at the way flame throws itself against iron.
She’s only been here a week, and already the house is shifting around her. If she stayed—if she truly stayed—I think she could bring it back to life. The way things were before Elspeth fell apart.
And I think, in a more terrifying sort of way, she could stitch herself into my bones the same way this place has. I don’t know if that would be a mercy or the thing that undoes me.
14
ELSIE
The next morning,Wells has left me alone with a list of small chores he plans to tackle downstairs—tidying, dusting, polishing the brass fixtures that always tarnish too fast. Making a few calls to the county clerk about missing documents.
He says he doesn’t need or want my help today. Rude, but whatever. He seems almost relieved to have something he can throw himself into that doesn’t involve ladders or my questionable assistance, and who am I to get in the way?
So, I set off into town with my notebook and pen, determined to collect the first of the statements Alma asked for. It’s something I can provide without aching hands or strained shoulders, though the work feels flimsy beside Wells’ tangible repairs.
The air bites as I trudge along, boots crunching through snow that shows no sign of thaw. Wells was right—Florida softened me. This is cold with teeth.
I don’t mind the bundling up; it’s like wearing a portable fortress. What I mind is what comes after. The wet socks, the stiff coat, the hat that tries to pull my hair out one strand at a time. It’s enough of a sensory hell to make me want to stay cocooned forever.
When I reach the bookstore, I half expect to turn into my younger self. Tucked into the corner chair, legs swinging, nose buried in a paperback. I’ve always loved reading, but I haven’t had as much bandwidth for it in recent years.
The shop bell jingles as I slip inside, shaking snow from my coat.
Mrs. Fallon looks up over her glasses, her expression brightening when she places me. Thank God for small mercies. Another Blue Willow resident who doesn’t dislike me on sight.
“Well, if it isn’t a Hart,” she says warmly.
“Hi, Mrs. Fallon. How are you?”
“I’m well, dear, and you? I’ve got a great selection of new romances right up front. And there’s a Valentine’s display going up next week—early, I know, but the tourists love it.”
“I’m here for business, not pleasure, I’m afraid.” I smile to soften the blow. “I’m trying to collect statements for the committee from longtime patrons of the inn. Alma thought you might be willing to share?”
She waves me toward the stool by the register, settling her glasses lower on her nose. “Of course. Spent my honeymoon there, you know. My late husband and me. That was fifty years ago last week.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.”
