Page 63 of A Wolfe in the Woods

My gaze traced the slope of her neck, the way her lips parted like she was about to speak but hadn’t yet decided what to say.

Desire stirred. I pushed it down, not out of disinterest but caution.

“Wow,” she said. “You clean up.”

I raised a brow. “Bad?”

She laughed—a softer, looser sound than I’d expected. “No. Just…different from the way I met you. You look very nice.”

“Thanks,” I said, stepping forward to take her bags. “You do too.”

We fell into step quietly, the trail winding ahead of us. I guided her past her old cabin—the one she’d stayed in before—without comment and almost didn’t notice when she slowed beside me. Her eyes had flicked to the left, toward another cabin farther down the path. A smaller structure, freshly painted, tucked back just enough to feel private.

Blanche stopped walking altogether when her gaze landed on the little wooden placard staked in front of the kitchen window. Carved into it was a silhouette of a woman standing against a painted forest, the trees done in black walnut, her hair and dress in deep crimson, a soft white moon rising behind her. Mushrooms ringed the bottom edge like a storybook border.

She stared at it.

Then blinked.

“This isn’t where I stayed before,” she said slowly.

“Nope,” I answered. “This one’s newer. Thought it might suit you more.”

Her head tilted as she took it in. “I don’t remember this cabin.”

“That’s because it didn’t look like this last time you were here. I repainted it.”

“Right…it was blue, wasn’t it?”

“Good memory,” I said, pushing the door open.

She lingered on the threshold a moment before stepping inside, eyes sweeping the space slowly.

The interior was warm and inviting. Walnut floors, maroon accent walls, and soft golden lamplight casting a cozy glow across the room. But it wasn’t just the lighting or the fresh paint that held her still.

Vintage prints of Everwick’s annual Summerlight and Moonshade Berry Festivals hung over the dresser…the kind sold at roadside stands and ferry stalls, their edges curled and sun faded with time. On the table, a basket was waiting. Inside were two still-warm fig-and-cream scones from Dahlia’s Oven, the bakery off Seaside Row that always sold out by noon. Beside them sat a bag of her favorite coffee blend: Lighthouse Bloom, the seasonal roast from Mist & Ember Café. Only made in summer, brewed with Everwick sea salt and toasted coastal blood-orange peel. It came in small batches, sold only in-store—and people lined up for hours to get one. She blinked at it like it was a mirage.

Her eyes caught on a patchwork quilt folded neatly at the end of the bed, stitched with shades of coral, cream, and lavender. “My grandmother made one like that,” she murmured. “Mine had…little foxes.”

I said nothing. Just waited.

Not a moment later, she gasped softly. On the chair by one of the windows sat a gently worn, leather-bound book with gilded edges.

She approached it slowly, fingers brushing over the cover before she opened it.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered. “Wings of Ember.” Her voice caught just slightly on the name. “This was my favorite story. Grandma used to read it to me all the time,” she said softly, almost to herself. “When I moved to Graymore…my copy got lost. But it was just a battered old paperback.”

“This one’s nicer. Special edition,” I said, eyeing the leather bound book. “Figured you might like an upgrade.”

She traced the insert page, her fingers moving over the artwork: a girl silhouetted against a burning sky, standing on a crag with her dragon circling above, its wings trailing cinders.

She looked back at me, wide-eyed. “This must’ve cost a fortune. Jonathan, where did you…?”

“Cliff over at Tales & Tomes nearly got conned into a twenty-thousand-dollar roof replacement when all they had was a cracked shingle. I fixed it in under an hour. So, we made a trade.” I gestured toward the book.

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. “How could you have known all of this? The posters? The coffee? The book…”

I kept my voice even. “June kept you close, even when you were far. I think she left some clues behind for me and some things for you.”