“What in the magical hell,” I whisper, and my voice carries a note of awe alongside the bewilderment.
The floors gleam softly beneath my feet as I venture deeper into the transformed house. Every piece of furniture is exactly where it should be, but now I can see the careful arrangement, the way each room flows into the next with practiced precision. This isn’t just a house. This is a home that knows exactly what it is and takes pride in presenting itself properly.
In the kitchen, I find changes that make my breath catch. A small wooden bowl sits on the granite counter, holding three bright red apples that look like they were just polished, their skin gleaming. Beside it, a crystal pitcher filled with water beads gently with condensation, as though someone just retrieved it from the refrigerator and set it out in quiet welcome.
It’s not an abundant spread or anything extravagant, no feast materializing from thin air or magic banquet appearing. Just simple hospitality, the kind of small offering that says “welcome home” without overwhelming the guest.
“You are seriously showing out now,” I tell the empty room, though my voice lacks any real irritation. How can I be annoyed with a house that’s trying this hard to make me comfortable?
The house hums faintly around me, a sound I feel more than hear, with a satisfied sigh. Like it’s pleased with my reaction and proud of the presentation.
I retrieve my phone from where it now sits on a small end table, fully charged despite having been plugged in for maybe a few minutes total. The charging cable is neatly coiled beside it. I stare at Maceo’s number written on my palm in his careful handwriting, the ink already starting to fade from my earlier adventures, and for a long moment I consider calling him immediately and describing every impossible detail of the last hour.
Instead, I start with a text, testing the waters.
Me: Wolfie (smiling face emoji)
His response comes so quickly I wonder if he was sitting there waiting for his phone to buzz.
Wolfie: (Wolf emoji) (winking emoji) That was fast. Settled in? Need anything?
I glance around at the polished floors that gleam like they were just waxed, the uncovered furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine, the bowl of perfect apples that definitely weren’t there an hour ago. My magical inheritance apparently comes with housekeeping services provided by unknown supernatural entities.
I smile, because despite the impossibility of it all, I genuinely am good. Better than good, actually.
Me: The house is. . .interesting.
Wolfie: Interesting good or interesting bad?
Maceo replies immediately, and I can almost see that handsome face pinched with concern, his eyes serious and focused. The thought of him worrying about me sends a little warm flutter through my chest that I’m not quite ready to examine too closely.
I walk back through the kitchen, taking in details I missed in my initial shock. Hand-painted tiles behind the stove, copper pots that shine like new pennies, herbs growing in small pots on the windowsill that definitely weren’t there before. I look toward the staircase, where I know my luggage waits patiently in the master bedroom, probably unpacked and organized by now if this house continues its pattern of helpful magic.
I take in all the quiet warmth that seems to wrap around me from every corner, the sense of belonging that I haven’t felt in. . .maybe ever. Then I type my response.
Me: Just interesting. But I think the house wants to keep me.
Wolfie: . . .
I laugh at his response. Three little dots that somehow perfectly convey his confusion and concern. My finger hovers over the call button, and I want desperately to call this man I just met and tell him everything in all its mystical, impossible detail. I want to describe the moving luggage and the vanishing sheets and the magical housekeeping. I want to hear his voice, steady and warm, probably offering to come over immediately to investigate supernatural phenomena or fight magical entities on my behalf.
I hesitate, because this moment, this impossible welcome from a house that seems determined to claim me, this feels like something that’s just for me. Something private and strange and wonderful that I need to understand before I share it.
Me: I think the house and I are going to get along just fine.
As I hit send, I realize I mean it completely. Whatever this is, magic, madness or the most elaborate housewarming party in history. I’m staying to see how it plays out.
Chapter
Four
APPARENTLY, I’M HEADLINE NEWS
My first morning in Ruby Springs does not crash into existence. It unfolds as I open my eyes, blinking away the sleep haze that clings to my consciousness.
I wake slowly, languorously, the way you do when the world outside your window is not honking, shrieking, or vibrating from underground trains thundering through concrete tunnels. My usual chaotic rush-hour alarm, client emails, campaign deadlines, and a digital marketing job I was very good at and completely over, is replaced by profound quiet, broken only by the occasional melodic birdsong. Sunlight filters through tall curtains in warm golden ribbons, casting dancing patterns across the polished hardwood floors, and for three blissful seconds I forget where I am.
My eyes widen when I see the intricately carved canopy above my head, all delicate roses and thorny vines worked into the dark wood and remember that I now live in a Victorian mansion that rearranges furniture, fluffs pillows, and organizes my shoes without asking permission. Reality clicks into place. This is Ruby Springs. This is Thorne Manor.
