I cock my head, studying the innocent-looking stream. “Huh,” is all I can manage as I stand there a moment longer, watching and waiting, but nothing else happens.
The faintest pulse warms low in my chest again, a flicker, a stir, like a candle flame in a gentle breeze. Then it fades like it always does, leaving me with the familiar ache of almost but not quite.
I shake my head in disappointment, the moment of possibility slipping away. For just a second there, I thought maybe this time would be different, maybe Ruby Springs would be the place where my magic finally decided to make an appearance.
“Not today,” I tell the river firmly, straightening my shoulders with false confidence. “It’s too early in the morning to unpack whatever just happened.”
With that declaration, I turn and follow the scent that has been calling to me since yesterday.
The Cackling Hen Café.
The hand-painted wooden sign swings cheerfully above a bright red door, decorated with two cartoon chickens leaning in to whisper gossip to each other, both of them laughing uproariously with their beaks open wide. Ivy trails around the large windows in carefully tended spirals, and the sound of actual human laughter spills out onto the sidewalk, mixing with the faint strains of music that definitely isn’t the folk acoustic I was expecting.
I step inside and the warmth of the place hits me first, not just temperature, but emotional warmth, the kind that comes from a space that’s been loved and lived in. Following immediately is my awe at the plants. This isn’t decoration; it’s a horticultural masterpiece that somehow manages to be both wild and carefully curated.
The plants aren’t just sitting in pots, they are part of the architecture, living and thriving as integral elements of the café’s design. Massive ferns drape from ceiling hooks like natural chandeliers. Flowering vines weave along exposed woodenbeams in spirals of green and purple. A small lemon tree grows boldly in one corner, its branches heavy with bright yellow fruit that looks ready to be plucked and added to someone’s tea.
Soft leather couches in warm brown and burgundy cluster near floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with actual books. Mismatched wooden tables host customers sipping from oversized mugs and reading newspapers or novels, the scene so deliberately cozy it borders on parody.
Threading through it all is British punk rock humming from cleverly hidden speakers. The JamThat’s Entertainmentseems almost too appropriate for my current mental state.
I stop just inside the door and grin despite myself. “I was expecting folk music,” I admit to no one in particular.
From behind the counter, a woman with cropped bright pink hair and a vintage Clash t-shirt looks up from an impressive espresso machine. Her blue eyes sparkle with mischief and what might be approval.
“Disappointed?” she asks, wiping her hands on a towel covered in tiny skulls and roses.
“On the contrary,” I reply, taking in her studded leather bracelet and the chain hanging from her pants. “I respect a café that serves scones and rebellion in equal measure.”
She smirks, and I can tell I’ve just passed some kind of test. “Yeah, you’re going to be just fine here, girlie. Name’s Toni. With an I, not a Y, because I’m not a cheerleader from the suburbs.”
“Of course it is,” I say, my smile widening. Toni looks like a woman who takes absolutely no shit from anyone, and I’m already loving her energy.
Beside her stands a woman who couldn’t be more different if they’d planned it. Long black hair woven with colorful beads cascades over shoulders, draped in layered rainbow skirts that brush the floor when she moves. A delicate pince-nez perches on her nose, clearly for show rather than function, and she studiesme with warm, knowing eyes that seem to see more than they should.
“Lin,” she says gently. “Welcome to The Cackling Hen. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The way she says it makes me think she means more than just this morning.
I step up to the counter and glance at the chalkboard menu written in flowing script. Everything sounds either comforting or magical, sometimes both. “Alright, ladies. What’s life-altering in here?”
“Honey, everything we make will change your day,” Toni answers immediately, gesturing at the display case filled with pastries that look like they belong in a French patisserie. “But the honey-lavender scones and chocolate croissants are town favorites for good reason.”
“And don’t forget the house roast,” Lin adds, touching the gleaming espresso machine with obvious affection. “Most important drink of the day, especially for someone adjusting to new circumstances.”
“Sold,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “One coffee, one croissant. Because I believe in maintaining balance between caffeine and carbohydrates.”
Toni works the espresso machine with the efficiency of someone who’s been perfecting their craft for years, steam hissing and milk frothing with precise timing. “So, you’ve moved into Thorne Manor,” she says conversationally, as if discussing the weather.
“News travels fast in a small town,” I observe, watching the way the ivy beside her seems to sway to its own private breeze despite the absence of any air circulation.
“This town is small,” she replies, focusing on creating what appears to be elaborate latte art. “And dramatic arrivals are rarely subtle around here.”
“Yeah, I guess everyone saw me being paraded through town yesterday like some kind of refugee,” I say, shaking my head at the memory. “Riding on Lucien’s lap in Maceo’s tow truck probably wasn’t the most dignified first impression.”
“Oh, it was definitely interesting,” Lin chuckles, her pince-nez catching the light as she arranges pastries in the display case. “The town’s been talking about nothing else since yesterday evening.”
My coffee arrives in a substantial ceramic mug, rich and fragrant with a perfect foam leaf design floating on top. I take a sip and flutter my eyelids closed in pleasure, it’s everything I hoped for and more.
