Missing me until it made her angry and sullen. Sullen until it made her lonely.
It’s unbearable. I want to throw them into the fire. I want to clutch them to my chest and never let them go.
I hear her voice in every line, stubborn and tender. Asking for nothing but my presence. I don’t know what to do with that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t demand, only waits.
And then, slowly, the letters begin to change.
Letter Seventeen
Elsie,
The boy is here again—the one with the quiet eyes and the dark blond hair. He carries himself differently now, taller, stronger, but I still see the fox in him. You would’ve noticed it, too.
E
Letter Twenty-Five
Elsie,
I fear I’m getting too old to run this place the way it needs. I’ve closed the inn for now, until I can decide what’s best. Maybe one day you’ll come back and open it again. Maybe not. That choice belongs to you.
Grandma
Letter Thirty
Darling,
The fox is still here. He’s clever, quiet. Blonds gone scruffier, though. I like the way he fixes things without being asked. Reminds me of someone else who once stayed under this roof, someone who mattered more to me than she realized.
E
My pulse stutters. Is it possible? Did Wells ...?
I shove the letters aside. The wine sloshes over the edge of the glass, but I don’t stop. Hallway, stairs, landing—I don’t even feel my feet. I find him where he often is, when I need him without meaning to: standing near the dormer, book in hand, brow faintly creased in thought.
I barrel straight into him. His hands catch my wrists before I face-plant into his chest.
“Elsie,” he says, startled. “What—”
“Do you remember your first kiss?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your first kiss,” I repeat, breathless. “I think mine was yours. No—yours was mine. There was a plum tart. I thought I imagined it, or lost it in the bog, but—was it you?”
His hands fall away. His eyes search mine like he’s afraid to find the answer.
“You’re drunk,” he says quietly. “And you’ve been—crying.”
“Yes. Obviously. Irrelevant.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Did my grandmother call you anything? A nickname?”
He hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck. “She called me the fox. Sometimes. I never—”
That’s it.
I launch myself at him.
The kiss is clumsy, teeth and breath and relief. He grunts my name against my mouth, steadying my waist, afraid I’ll topple us both. Then he groans—low, guttural—and kisses me back with something that feels older than both of us.
