“I do understand where you’re coming from,” he continues. “Of course, I do. But since you’re not yet the legal owner of the house, my hands are tied.”
“Tied,” I repeat flatly.
“Tied up real tight. Triple-knotted.”
I stare at him.
Bobby is, somehow, both the mayor of Blue Willow and the manager of the hardware store. His coffee mug reads World’sOkayest Mayor, and he’s exactly as official as the title suggests. Strangely, I’m not comforted by his bureaucratic inflexibility.
“You can’t just ... expedite the transfer?” I gesture vaguely at the stack of forms between us.
“See, expedite is a real government word, and I try not to mess with those. Gets dicey. Last time I expedited something, the gazebo fell apart.”
I blink. “Fell apart?”
“Well, eventually. Not necessarily because of the expediting. But who’s to say?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Bobby, I’m trying to sell the inn to someone who has the time and energy to give it what it needs. Which I—unfortunately—do not. But I need permits to do that. A survey. A structural sign-off. A legal verification of probate transfer—”
“Oh, that’s the big one,” he says, nodding gravely. “The inn’s one of the town’s most beloved historical properties. People would riot if they knew you had plans to sell.”
Of course they would. The magical old house with the blue shutters and the ghost of good tea. It wasn’t just my grandmother who loved it—everyone who stayed there, visited, lingered too long in the front parlor with a scone and a story—they all loved it, too.
But that was then, and this is now.
Its magic is fading. You can feel it in the way the house creaks, how the broken furnace makes it impossibly cold inside, how the lights stay stubbornly off, no matter how many times you flip the switch.
I would know. I stayed there last night, and none of it—the small comforts, the uncanny warmth—none of it showed up. The house is angry, I think, or maybe just grieving. And I can’t blame it for that. But I don’t know how to fix something that clearly wants to be let go.
Hart legacy be damned.
“People?” I ask finally.
“The other town founders. Willa Mott. Definitely Mrs. Fallon, but we know she’s delicate. Still hasn’t forgiven me for the bench repainting incident of ’21.”
I drop my hands to my sides. “So, what can you do?”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I can staple things.”
I resist the urge to scream. Instead, I breathe. In. Out. Remind myself I just survived a frost-covered death march to get here.
Because, for the record, what looked like a charming blanket of snow from my bedroom window turned into a shin-deep slog by the time I was halfway down Wick’s Ridge. The pathway into town isn’t long—maybe half a mile—but when the snow reaches the top of your boots and turns your socks into frozen coffins, it feels like twenty.
You’d think the magic might help with that somehow. Maybe tuck the wind behind the trees, salt the path ahead of time. But not everything here is enchanted; some things are just stubborn and old.
Others, however, are steeped in it. The inn. The orchard. The apiary. The cranberry bog down at Copper Hollow, where I’m fairly certain I lost the memory of my first kiss, swallowed whole and fed to the reeds.
Four distinct places in Blue Willow, each rooted where the founding families once made their homes. Each filled to the brim with quiet, deliberate magic.
Even then, they carry it close to the chest—subtle enough that a stranger wouldn’t notice. Nothing too obvious or showy. Nothing that would make someone stop in their tracks. And maybe that’s why it’s lasted this long. Because it knows how to keep itself hidden.
Forgetting about it certainly helped me stay gone. Pretending it wasn’t here made it easier to believe I belonged elsewhere. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and somehow, I’ve been brought back to Blue Willow all the same.
Half-frozen, under-caffeinated, standing in front of a man who once tried to schedule “Emergency Duck Awareness Week,” and who currently holds all the power in this town.
“Listen, Bobby, you and I both know my grandmother left me the house. Her lawyer filed the will. I signed everything. You notarized something with a stamp that saidVery Official Documentin Comic Sans. The UPS man back in Ocala laughed out loud when he saw it.”
He winces. “I’ve since upgraded to Papyrus.”
