She waves me off, eyes going soft and faraway. “Elspeth put us in the corner suite, the one with the bow window that faces the willows. January wind rattled those branches all night, but somehow, it sounded like music. Your grandmother swore the inn was built to sing if you listened hard enough. She wasn’t wrong.”
The hairs on my arms prickle. I can’t exactly jot magic trees that hum into Alma’s tidy designation packet, but architectural charm, cultural significance, continuity of use—those are thingsthe county will care about. I make sure to frame my notes that way.
“She baked us a cake herself. Vanilla with blackberry jam. Said no one should start a marriage without the exact right amount of sweetness to carry them through. That was Elspeth—half innkeeper, half soothsayer.”
I press my lips together, writing furiously.
When my pen pauses, my gaze drifts to the front display. Romance novels crowd the table, glossy covers and swooping fonts promising scandal and devotion. The sight makes something tug inside me—familiar, hungry.
Mrs. Fallon notices. “Still your favorite, aren’t they?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Always.”
“Elspeth used to grab everything from the dollar boxes in the summers,” she says fondly. “Told me she didn’t see any harm in a young girl learning the world through love stories.”
And that, I did. Around eleven or twelve, I stopped making friends with whoever happened to be nearby—stopped running with the neighborhood kids or striking up conversations at the park. I started choosing solitude, and in that solitude, books.
I liked the ones with longing best. The ones where strange girls had entire worlds blooming inside them, waiting for someone to notice.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone. I thank Mrs. Fallon quickly, tuck the signed page into my folder, and promise to bring her a copy of the final packet when it’s ready.
By the time I reach Copper Hollow, the sun’s turned brittle, and the snow has hardened into glassy layers that crack beneath each step. The bog stretches out flat and endless. It’s beautiful, in its own way.
Photogenic, objectively. Though I’ve been wary of that black water for as long as I can remember. It took a memory from me without asking—I’d swear on my heartbeat—and never gave itback. A first kiss, stolen in the reeds, lost to the murk. That kind of moment should be sacred, not swallowed whole.
Still, like the fool I am, I’ve trudged all the way out here for another statement from a founder. One the county will actually care about. I know he and Wells have history, bad blood that seems to run deeper than the bog itself.
It’s probably because Wells is a whimsical sort of optimist, and Beau opposes that for practicality. But if someone with Beau’s money, lineage, and local roots might want the inn, shouldn’t I at least find out where he stands?
I climb the farmhouse steps and knock. The clapboards are pale with frost, the wreath on the door brittle and brown at the edges. Boots scrape on wood before the door swings open.
“Hey there, Hart,” Beau drawls, grin widening as he folds his arms. “Twice in one week. How did I get so damn lucky?”
If I weren’t pulled in a hundred directions, I might be charmed by the easy warmth of his greeting. As it stands, I’m too wary of him. I can’t tell if he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing or some angel sent to solve all my problems in one clean stroke.
“I’m just gathering statements,” I say, lifting my pen like a shield. “For the designation. Dr. Torres’ orders.”
“Then you came to the right man. Come inside, and we can talk where it’s warm.”
I follow him inside, unsure whether it’s the cold or the man himself that makes my skin prickle.
The house surprises me. No crooked beams like the inn, no threadbare quilts or creaky radiators. Everything is sleek and deliberate. Glass and steel, burnished wood, minimal clutter. The walls are painted in shades that feel expensive. Even the fire in the hearth crackles in an orderly way.
It’s beautiful, undeniably. But it doesn’t feel like Blue Willow. And it definitely doesn’t feel like the kind of place where a manlives alone by a bog, stewarding an enchanted harvest passed down through generations.
Beau disappears into the kitchen and returns with two glasses—one filled with a deep garnet red. He offers it with a roguish smile.
“Wine?”
“No, thank you,” I say, still clutching my notebook like it might protect me from saying the wrong thing.
He arches a brow. “Something stronger, then? Rum? Whiskey? I’ve got a bottle of brandy that’s older than I am.”
“Just tea if you’ve got it. With cinnamon. Or achehoney if there’s any in the pantry.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You in pain, Elsie?”
“It tastes better,” I answer. But the truth is my shoulder’s been aching since morning, and the fingers on my writing hand keep curling when they shouldn’t.
