She takes in the jar, the tape, the band of gauze tangled around my knuckles, and sighs.
“Move over.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I trade seats anyway, letting her have the chair under the light.
She drags the table closer with a knee and reaches for my wrist without asking. Her fingers are warm. My pulse does a dumb thing that has nothing to do with the healing process.
I should be mad at her, and I am. But I also sort of missed having her around, snark and all. The rhythm of it. The way her presence fills the corners without trying. I didn’t like the disappearing act, so sue me.
“Is that new?” she asks, nodding at the jar.
“Picked it up from Isla this afternoon.” I tap the label with my thumb. Winslow’s tidy handwriting. PLUM SALVE—CUTS. “Small batch. She says I should make it last, butyousay I need to use more. Who should I listen to, Hart?”
She rolls her eyes. “Give me your hand.”
I do what she says. The old bandage unwinds under her touch, a hiss of fabric on skin. When fresh air hits the cut, it bites, bright and mean.
She winces and dips two fingers into the salve. They come up with a shine the color of a snapped dandelion stem, smelling of smoke and green and something like iron. The orchard translated into medicine. She touches the first bit to the edge of the cut.
It stings—reflex has me twitch—but her other hand tightens around my wrist and holds me steady. That’s somehow worse.
“Easy,” she murmurs. “This is why you don’t do things like this one-handed.”
I watch her work as she dabs, smooths, presses. The wound drinks it in. We both see it: the faint knit beginning at one end of the gash, as if an invisible thread is being drawn through me by a patient needle. The edges soften from angry to thoughtful. The line pales from garnet to rose.
“It never stops being a little wild,” I say.
“That I can be helpful or that the salve is magic?”
I laugh. “Yeah, all of it.”
She gives a reluctant smile before adding another thin stripe of salve. The knit travels, a zipper closing. I feel it as a pulse more than pain, a tug toward whole.
I never believed in fairy tales as a kid. Magic was for storybooks, for other people’s lives. When I showed up here as an adult, I thought the house—and Elspeth—were just peculiar and old. Little by little, she let me in on the secrets. First, the easy ones. Then, when she realized I was staying for good, the real ones.
The jam that never molded, no matter how long it sat. The recipe box that shuffled itself depending on what you needed—comfort, clarity, company. The guest ledger that turned up names before the doorbell rang.
And then the deeper things. How the inn listened when you spoke softly. How it learned your footsteps and seemed to trace them with lamplight. How the front door stuck for those Elspeth disliked (which were few and far between) but swung wide for those she admired.
And the thing is, it didn’t feel unbelievable. It didn’t feel cursed or strange. It felt inevitable. Right. But also quietlyastonishing, the way only a small miracle can be when it slips into your life and stays there.
Elsie and I don’t speak for the long breath it takes to watch the last of the seam stitch together. The line settles into a pink, smooth ridge. I bet there won’t even be a scar. It’s that clean, that sure of itself.
She sits back, eyes finally lifting to mine. Our knees touch. She doesn’t move away, and neither do I. My wannabe nurse is back, and I’m grateful for it.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she answers.
Her thumb lingers at the heel of my palm. I could say something about boundaries. I could make another joke at her expense. Instead, I pull my hand back slowly, reach for the gauze that tried to ruin my evening, and let her take it from me.
I missed my bossy nurse, and I’ve learned my lesson. It’s better to keep her close than push her off with a sharp word. That’s the best way to monitor the situation, to keep my control. Not only when it comes to the house, but also my slow-blooming affection for her.
“Here,” she says, gentler now. “Let me wrap it.”
She anchors the first turn with a neat fold, then circles the bandage in even lines that make my handyman brain hum with relief. She tears the tape with her teeth—of course she does—and smooths the edge with her thumb.
Once she’s finished, she keeps her hand still on mine, and I sit there like a fool who’s forgotten how to move. It’s probably just the sudden proximity after a week of distance that has my nerves tangled. That, and the fact that she smells like cold air and cinnamon.
