I did, in fact. It was long, but the most important item was listed first and in bold print: Don’t reveal the secret.
The secret being that Moss Hollow, the cutest town in Vermont, is a community of fae beings—specifically, entrepreneurial fae beings who have found a way to coerce humans to part with their money. The quaint town feels magical and oh-so-impossibly perfect because itis. But humans don’t know about the fae, and it’s best they think Moss Hollow’s enchantment is artificial.
“Humans usually blame the effects of pixie magic on hormones,” I explain. “Mood swings and such.”
“Aren’t mood swings supposed to make a person grumpy?”
I fish in my pocket for the key that came with the paperwork, my hand shaking when I retrieve it and slide it into the lock. “They can be happy, too.”
Unlike winter pixies, who often bring sorrow, or spring pixies, who spread romantic drama, I like to believe my magic is harmless. It’s a shot of serotonin, and who couldn’t use a little more of that in our grim world?
Not that I don’t share some traits with the other seasons. Like spring pixies, I’m good with plants. Like autumn pixies, it rains when I’m upset. I have nothing in common with winter pixies, as our magic is opposite and complements instead of boosts. But their gift of remembrance is a melancholy sort of magic that I find rather unappealing anyway.
I gingerly push the door open. It swings inward, giving me my first glimpse of my new home. The curtains are closed,making the room very dark, but there’s just enough light to make out the furniture. The space smells stale—not bad, but forgotten.
Hudson hovers in the doorway, his big presence drawing my attention. I look back, trying to smile even though I’m spooked to be in this house. I only met Laverna three times. Once, my family came here. The other two times, she came to visit us.
“How much do I owe you for the ride?” I ask him.
Though he’s no more than a silhouette with the light streaming in behind him, I can feel his frown. “There’s no charge this time, not for a new neighbor.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.” He shifts, looking a touch uncomfortable. “And I’m sorry about your aunt. I didn’t know her well, but she was a nice lady—used to give me peppermints from her shop when I was a kid.”
He’s giving off sweet puppy vibes, making me suspect he’s a canine shifter. Not a wolf—their manner is usually sharper, smoother, and a little intense. He’s probably a German shepherd, or maybe a St. Bernard. Something big.
“I think she’d like that you have that memory of her,” I say warmly, hoping he knows I appreciate the kind words.
I pull open the front drapes, bringing welcome sunshine into what appears to be a living room. But that feels like the wrong word in this fairy tale cottage.
Maybe it’s a parlor.
“I wish I’d known her better,” I add.
“You weren’t close?” Hudson pulls the suitcase inside the door.
“I’m afraid not.” I scan the room, my eyes landing on the needlepoint cushions on the couch.
“But she left you…”
“Everything,” I supply, feeling like an intruder in this house that must hold so many memories.
“Do you think?—”
Before Hudson can finish his sentence, there’s a strange noise. It’s like plastic and rubber meeting in a rattlingkerthunk. Then a screech comes from the other room, making me jump. It sounds like a bird trying to whinny, and I recognize the cry immediately from several videos I watched while preparing for the move.
Chester races toward the doorway and then stands his ground, growling even though no creature alive would find him intimidating.
“What was that?” Hudson demands.
“A screech owl.” I kneel next to Chester, petting the ruff around his neck to soothe him. “It’s all right.”
The dog obviously doesn’t believe me.
“An owl?” Hudson asks, sounding stupefied.
“He was Laverna’s. He comes with the house.”
