Page 5

CORA

T wilight draped Hollow Oak in velvet hues of blush and plum.

Cora drifted along the cobbled lanes with no destination in mind, toes sinking into worn leather boots that felt lighter than they had in years.

Each breath tasted of woodsmoke, river stone, and honeysuckle, the blend looping around her pulse like music.

A baker closed his shutters as she passed, yet paused long enough to hand her the heel of a cinnamon loaf.

“Fresh from the brick,” he murmured, cheeks ruddy from heat.

She thanked him, tore off a bite, and frowned when sugar dusted her chin.

She could not recall the last time a stranger offered kindness without wanting coin or secrets.

The square revealed itself in lazy turns.

Lanterns flickered awake, stitched together by looping strands of glowing witch-light that bounced off painted shop signs.

The Hollow Mercantile smelled of beeswax and curiosity.

Outside its door, two men who looked like brothers, argued about moon phases while enchanted feather quills circled their heads like opinionated birds.

Farther along, Maeve Cross, who she had met briefly at the Council meeting, propped the tavern windows wide, letting music tumble into the street, and called a dare at Luka Ashe to try her newest blackberry stout.

Luka grumbled yet reached for the pint, shoulders the size of oak trunks crowding his work apron.

Cora’s chest warmed at the ordinary magic of it all. A place where shifters and witches bickered over drinks instead of blood and where fae girls with shaky curses could breathe without flinching.

She stepped around a tangle of children playing hopscotch. Their chalk squares glowed until a sprite dove at the pattern and scrambled it into giggles. A boy with shaggy hair and wolf-bright eyes looked up. “Evening, miss,” he chirped. “The forest likes you.”

Her lips parted. “The forest told you that?”

“Sort of. It hummed at me.” He grinned then skipped off.

She tugged her braid, bewildered and delighted in equal measure.

On the far corner the Griddle and Grind waited, low roofline sloping beneath a cascade of ivy and fairy lanterns. The café windows steamed in soft amber, silhouettes dancing behind mottled glass. A carved placard over the door read, Come hungry, leave with stories.

Cora hesitated on the threshold. The bell above chimed as though beckoning, so she slipped inside.

Warmth swallowed her. Marmalade light. Tables scattered like constellations. A fireplace snapped in greeting. The air carried nutmeg, strong coffee, and something older, maybe stardust swirling in sugar. Several patrons waved without breaking their conversations, as if she had always belonged.

Behind the counter Twyla Honeytree spun, skirts swooshing in layered pastels. Her hair, a tumble of wheat colored curls, twinkled with pinpricks of light that might have been fireflies or pure fae mischief.

“There you are,” she said, voice bright and watered with laughter. “I set aside the window seat for the girl who smells like lilac storms.” She pointed with the spoon she was stirring into a silver teapot.

Cora blinked. “I, um, hope that is me.”

“You and no other, sugar.” Twyla poured pale green liquid into a pot that shimmered between every shade of dawn. “Sit. Your tea needs your thoughts to finish steeping.”

Still bemused, Cora slid into the corner booth. Cushions sagged in just the right places, tender on her bruised knee. Outside, dusk stretched catlike across the square, but inside the world glowed.

Twyla arrived with a wooden tray. Two cups joined a plate holding a tart arranged in rose-petal spirals. She set everything down with a flourish.

“Elderflower, lemon balm, and a whisper of catnip,” she said. “Catnip lifts burdens no healer sees.” She eased onto the bench opposite. “Tell me what weighs you.”

Cora wrapped palms around the mug. Steam kissed freckles on her nose. She wondered how Twyla always seemed to command honesty. Maybe it lived in those amber eyes that sparked like candleflame on water.

“I have run for a long time,” Cora said, voice small. “Run so far I forgot my own rhythm. Then I landed here, and every sound feels like a heartbeat I almost recognize.”

Twyla nodded as if she counted on that answer. “Hollow Oak hums in first person. Folks who listen find themselves humming back.”

“I should keep moving,” Cora admitted, though heat rose in her cheeks when she realised how feeble the words sounded. “Trouble follows me.”

“Trouble bites at all soles that wander. Some folk keep walking, some spin and bare fangs.” Twyla sipped her tea. “Which do you plan to be?”

Cora chewed her lip. In the firelight she caught her reflection in the window, eyes bright with wonder she had not seen since childhood. The sight pressed tears against her lashes.

“I do not want to run anymore,” she whispered.

“Then do not.” Twyla reached across, warm fingers brushing Cora's. “Some magic finds you when you are meant to be found.”

The phrase settled like a rune on her heart. “You sound sure.”

“I watch patterns,” Twyla said. “Stars, tea leaves, sideways glances. Tonight I watched a stern lion pause by this window, checking the path until you arrived.”

Cora’s breath tangled. “Callum?”

Twyla grinned. “Man circles the café like a thundercloud when you are near. He calls it patrol.” She twirled her spoon. “Take your time, sugar. Finish that tart. When you step outside, he will still be there pretending to inspect lamp posts.”

Heat spread through Cora’s cheeks, but she did not hate the thought. Callum rough around the edges, heart tucked behind granite, had steadied her on the stairs earlier with hands gentle as moss. The memory pressed against her ribs, sweet and aching.

Twyla sliced the tart. The crust flaked under the knife then melted on Cora’s tongue, apple and rose dancing together in a song about late summer orchards. She closed her eyes, let herself taste joy without apology.

Fire popped, scattering amber sparks. Over by the mantle a witch drew sigils in the air, coaxing cinnamon sticks to form a tiny carousel atop her latte foam. Two teenagers giggled when it spun. A tabby cat trotted across the floor trailing golden ribbons that vanished when swatted.

Cora opened her eyes again. “How is everything here so… bright?”

Twyla shrugged, rings glittering. “Bright exists everywhere. Most places forget to switch the lantern on.”

Cora laughed, the sound shaky yet real. “And if darkness knocks anyway?”

“We answer together.” Twyla squeezed her hand. “The Veil protects, but community anchors. Remember that when shadows show teeth.”

Cora thought of Elric’s face, pale with obsession. Fear flicked its tail. Yet Hollow Oak’s heartbeat thudded louder, as if daring fear to cross.

She finished the last crumb. “Thank you. For listening.”

“Anytime. Now off you go. The inn lights your path, and I suspect a lion lurks in the trees dying to walk you home.”

Cora slid from the booth. “He’d deny it.”

Twyla’s eyes twinkled. “Let him. Cats prowl, hearts pounce.”

Outside, night had bloomed full. The sky shimmered with more stars than she remembered existing. Crickets sang harmony with distant fiddle notes from the tavern. Midway across the square she sensed movement, subtle as breath.

Callum leaned against a lamppost, arms folded, silhouette carved in silver. When her steps drew close he straightened.

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.” He cleared his throat before adding, “Thought you might get lost,” he grumbled.

“The square is seven shops long,” she teased.

“Could have tripped.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Roads twist here at night. Better to have company.”

She lifted a brow. “Safeguarding the Veil, are we?”

He answered with a soft grunt yet offered his arm. She slid her hand into the crook, and his warmth seeped through cotton and skin.

The walk back to Hearth and Hollow stretched only two blocks, yet each stride felt like settling roots. Fireflies bobbed above hedges. Somewhere a fox called to its mate. Callum kept pace slow so her knee did not twinge. She liked the quiet between them, not empty but filled with shared breaths.

On the inn steps he stopped. Lantern light cast gold across the stubborn slant of his mouth.

“Town suits you,” he murmured.

“And you seem less inclined to growl tonight.”

His lips curved, almost a smile. “Maybe the forest is rubbing off on me.”

Cora held his gaze, felt her heartbeat sync with his quieter, steadier one. In that hush Twyla’s words returned. Some magic finds you when you are meant to be found.

“Good night, Callum.”

“Night, Cora.”

She slipped inside. He lingered on the porch until the door latched, as if keeping watch. Upstairs in her cozy room, she pressed a hand to her heart. It beat strong, not frantic. Outside, the town dreamed on. And for the first time in ages, she did not dread morning.