Inside, it smells like warm spices and old paper. The air has weight, soft and heavy like blankets pulled from storage. Shelves climb up the walls with neat stacks of books, jars, bundles of dried herbs tied with string, and a curious collection of bird skulls displayed like fine china.
A woman leans on the counter near the back, thin and pale with short-cropped hair the color of river stones. Her eyes are a little too light. Not creepy, just... bright. She watches us like she’s been waiting.
“You’re new,” she says, without moving.
“I’m guessing that’s easy to spot around here.”
She smiles, slow and wide, and gestures toward a bowl of wrapped candies on the counter. “I’d offer you tea, but I don’t keep anything hot after noon. The wind turns after midday. Makes steeping go weird.”
I blink. “Okay. Noted.”
Mari helps herself to a candy. “This place smells like Grandma Jo’s basement.”
“Sharp nose,” the woman says, clearly amused. “I used to sell at the Saturday market. Johanna always said my cinnamon bundles smelled like history and sin.”
My spine stiffens. “You knew Johanna?”
She nods, stepping out from behind the counter. She’s taller than I realized, moves like someone used to walking in silence. “Everyone knew her. Or thought they did. She was... complicated.”
“I’m starting to get that impression.”
She holds out a hand. “Delphina. I do charms, readings, occasional pet retrievals. If something of yours wanders off, I usually know where it went.”
“I’m Krista. This is my daughter, Mari.”
Delphina crouches slightly, giving Mari a look both curious and kind. “Nice to meet you, little spark.”
Mari beams. “I like your bird bones.”
Delphina grins wider. “Me too.”
We chat a few minutes longer. She’s warm in a way that doesn’t demand anything in return, and I find myself relaxing without meaning to. When we leave, she presses a small sachet into my palm—lavender and something slightly metallic.
“For dreams,” she says. “Yours are loud right now.”
The paththrough town curls like a question mark. There’s no grid, no layout that makes any logical sense. The buildings feel arranged by feeling, not function, like the town built itself one room at a time.
We pass a man seated on a bench near the square. He’s dressed in full Victorian regalia: waistcoat, pocket watch, tall polished boots. His skin is paper-pale, and he tips his hat when he sees me. The way his eyes linger is sharp but not threatening. Just observant.
“You’ll want to talk to Elder Vess eventually,” he says, unprompted. “Council likes to know who’s breathing in the leyline dust.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmur.
He returns to his book. It’s bound in something that looks suspiciously like black leather and smells of cloves. Mari tugs on my sleeve.
“He’s not cold,” she whispers. “But he should be. His coat’s too thin.”
I don’t answer. I just keep walking.
Later,after we’ve wandered through half the Hollow and Mari’s stuffed her pockets with leaves, feathers, and two pieces of enchanted candy (her words, not mine), we stop at a place calledThe Tumbled Wyrmfor hot cider. It’s part tavern, part cafe, part secondhand bookstore, with tables carved from whole tree stumps and booths made of patchworked velvet cushions. The bar is run by a shifter woman named Sariah, all coiled copper curls and amused eyebrows.
“Thought I smelled outsider,” she says with a grin. “Don’t take offense. We don’t get many with soft boots and big eyes.”
“My boots aren’tthatsoft.”
She raises a brow at Mari, who’s trying to climb into a seat that’s too tall. “You let her eat the honey bark yet?”
“No.”
