Chloe hesitated. "I'm working on it."
Twyla smiled, slow and knowing. "Good. Then you can work on my Valentine's decorations while you're at it. I need garlands for the windows, something simple for the tables, and maybe a few of those dried flower arrangements you made for the autumn festival. Those were beautiful."
"That was just lavender and wheat stalks."
"Exactly. Simple. Elegant. Not a fern in sight."
Diana laughed. "She's got you there."
Chloe felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. This was why she stayed. Not because Hollow Oak was perfect—it wasn't—but because people like Twyla and Diana and Freya kept choosing to see her, even when others didn't.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not doing paper hearts."
"Deal." Twyla's grin was triumphant. "I knew you secretly loved this stuff. You act all practical, but I've seen the way you light up when you're arranging flowers."
Chloe ducked her head, suddenly warm. "You see too much."
"Fae blood, darling. It's a blessing and a curse." Twyla patted her hand. "Now drink your tea before it gets cold. And don't let the whispers get to you. This town has a long memory, but it also has a big heart. They just need time to see what I see."
"And what's that?"
Twyla's eyes softened. "Someone who only spreads warmth and good."
Chloe's throat tightened with the onset of tears of thanks, so she downed her tea to stop her eyes from watering.
When she stood to leave, she paused at the door. "Twyla?"
"Mm?"
"Thanks for the tea."
Twyla waved her off. "Come back tomorrow. We'll start on those garlands."
Chloe stepped out into the gray January afternoon, the cold biting at her cheeks. The whispers still echoed in her head—convenient, forest magic, can't explain—but she pushed them down where they belonged.
She'd dealt with worse. She'd survive this too.
And maybe, if she was lucky, she'd finally figure out what she was supposed to be.
4
CORIN
The Vane workshop smelled like sawdust and machine oil, the familiar scent of generations of bears who built things with their hands. Corin shouldered through the side door with a crate of damaged hive frames balanced against his hip, the wood warped and discolored in ways that made his stomach turn.
Elias was at the main workbench, running a plane along a length of oak with smooth, practiced strokes. He didn't look up when Corin entered, but his shoulders shifted with awareness.
That was Elias. He noticed everything.
"Frames?" Elias asked without turning.
"Yeah." Corin set the crate on the empty bench near the door. "Need to see if any of them are salvageable."
Now Elias looked. He set down the plane and crossed to the crate, wiping his hands on the rag tucked into his belt. At 6'6", he was the biggest of the Vane cousins—massive shoulders, deep black hair streaked with silver at the temples, and silver-gray eyes. Years of night guard work had carved him into something solid and watchful, the kind of man who filled a room without trying.
Corin had looked up to him since they were kids. Still did, if he was honest.
Elias pulled out one of the frames, turning it in his scarred hands. His brow furrowed. "This isn't weather damage."
