Four

Deliveries and Gossip

There were people who thought the magic had appeared after Aldermere was founded. They were wrong—Aldermere had been founded because of the magic.

No one knew where the magic came from. One of the older lumberjacks, Frank, claimed it was to do with magnetic poles. Some shift in the world, a glitch that made impossible things possible. Others said it was because this place was untouched by technology—which was a lie. Fin knew nearly every house had a landline and most had computers.

There had been a previous town farther inland—Redfern. That town had been abandoned in the early eighties when its magic had vanished and reappeared ten miles west. Aldermere had been built up around the displaced magic. Aunt Myrtle had mentioned that Gas Station Nick had mapped out the new boundaries of the magic—Fin wasn’t sure how. He had discovered that the magic flourished in an area of about seven square miles, most of it reaching into the redwood forest.

Magic wasn’t like in the movies. There weren’t any spells or chanted words. No, the magic of Aldermere was strange and uncontrolled—but those who had lived within the boundaries of the town had figured out some of its quirks.

If the ravens of Aldermere weren’t given a shiny trinket, or bread or some other tasty treat each week, they’d go hunting for their own treats in the offender’s garbage bins. Often the contents would be strewn about the street, making for an unsightly mess. Mayor Downer had once put forth the idea of trying to drive the ravens out of Aldermere, but everyone else agreed it would be an exercise in futility.

Then there were the doors. Unlabeled doors could lead anywhere. Fin hadn’t believed that until she’d tried to use the restroom at the coffee shop, not having noticed that the bathroom sign had fallen off. She had stepped through and found herself in a broom closet at the inn. Eddie once commented it was a lucky thing that people could only go astray within the boundaries of the magic, or else they’d be popping up all over the world.

There were other things, as well: prophecies supposedly always came true; something that lived in Bower’s Creek would occasionally eat wandering pets; the tea shop vanished and reappeared; drinks had to be consumed in less than six hours or they’d turn into kombucha; the abandoned toll bridge had a price but no one knew what it was; and if a person cut themself on a knife, the blade would try again. Sometimes people would exchange used knives for holidays, to avoid bad cuts—or if they had the money, buy a new knife. Luckily other utensils didn’t seem to have any particular taste for human blood.

None of this was ever explained to the tourists.

Three types of tourists visited Aldermere: the cryptid/magic hunters, the hikers, and people who needed a place to stop while road-tripping along Highway 101.

The first type were the most worrisome. They came to find Bigfoot and other mythological creatures, often armed with cameras and compasses. Some believed in magic, while others simply wanted to believe. They came for tales of cryptids, for redwood carvings, for plush squirrels with antlers, for the tiny magic shop that sold crystal balls and card tricks and tarot readings. Most of Aldermere’s residents scoffed at those who came to town looking for magic and walked away with postcards instead—but no one stopped selling those postcards, either.

As for the hikers, they were good to have around. They sported athletic wear, bought maps of the local trails, stayed at the inn, and didn’t spend too much time within the town itself. And the road-trippers were usually bleary-eyed, drank plenty of coffee, and asked where the nearest public restroom could be found.

During the summer months, there was a steady flow of people coming in and out of town. Some locals complained, while others welcomed them. Because like it nor not, most of the town’s businesses were kept afloat by such visitors.

When Fin was ten, her aunt had asked her to deliver a package to Harry Hardin—the owner of the town’s only grocery store: ALDERMERE GROCERY & ACK. It was probably supposed to say GROCERY & TACKLE, but the other letters had long since rusted away. It had become town shorthand to say “the Ack” instead of “grocery store.”

In addition to reading tarot and fashioning wind chimes out of broken abalone, Aunt Myrtle also painted watercolor postcards and sold them all over town. “Would you be a dear and run this over to the Ack?” Aunt Myrtle had said as she handed over the package.

Fin had carried the box to the grocery store. She would have asked Eddie to go with her, but he’d found a fallen birds’ nest and was trying to put it back in a tree. Mr. Hardin was behind the counter, and he had smiled at her when she’d slid the box onto the counter.

“Cheers,” he had said. He had a faint British accent and wrinkles etched around his mouth. He had lived in Aldermere for years now, a permanent fixture behind the grocery store’s counter. “Would you mind doing another errand? Mrs. Liu needs a prescription, but I haven’t had time to run it over to her. Her hip’s acting up again.”

Fin hadn’t known how to refuse, even though the idea of another delivery made her stomach tight with nerves. So she had taken the paper bag and the address and walked out of the store. The walk was a short one—all walks in Aldermere were—and soon Fin found herself on the doorstep of a simple white cottage, with an ancient woman pressing a wrinkled five-dollar bill into her hand and saying how much Fin looked like her mother, and how dear it had been for Fin to bring an old woman her medicine, and—

Fin had slipped away before the older woman could invite her in for cookies and conversation.

And so, when Fin had gone into the grocery store a few days later for milk, Mr. Hardin had asked if she would take a bag of food to another one of the town’s older residents. “How about this,” he had said. “Your mother’s got an account here—I’ll add a little bit to it for every delivery. Sound fair?”

Mom worked at the inn. She often came home a little tired and worn, but it was better than the other places she’d worked for. A few times, Fin overheard Mom talking to Aunt Myrtle about trying to save money, but the inn didn’t pay much. If running errands for Mr. Hardin helped her mom, Fin would do it.

And so for a year now, Fin had stopped by the grocery store on Tuesdays and delivered packages for Mr. Hardin. Most of the time it was small stuff: medicines, favorite cookies, special orders of fishing equipment, and letters that mistakenly came to the store. Mail had a tendency to go astray in Aldermere. They were normal deliveries—until they weren’t. Once, Mr. Hardin gave her a live rabbit to be brought to a young man at the edge of town; another time, a sealed paper bag was to be left in the woods behind the coffee shop.

Everyone became accustomed to seeing Fin flit about town, running errands for Mr. Hardin. Knocking on unfamiliar doors never became any easier, but she did like the sense of purpose. It made her feel like she could belong in Aldermere. And the extra money for groceries helped too.

The Ack looked like most of the businesses in town. The buildings were all reclaimed redwood, with uneven floors and windows with old-fashioned panels. She’d once asked Mr. Hardin why so much of the town looked like a Wild West film. “Tourists expect it,” he said. “The biggest Northern California exports were logging and history. Now, we’ve mostly got the latter.”

Today she stepped through the doors of the grocery store and found Mr. Hardin on a stepladder, replacing an overhead light bulb. A cat was winding around the lowest step, making plaintive sounds. “—just fed you,” Mr. Hardin was saying.

The cat glared, tail twitching. Then it hunched over and made a hacking noise.

“No,” said Mr. Hardin, alarmed. “Do not do that in the store!” He began to clamber down the ladder.

Fin stepped back, disgusted, as the cat coughed something onto the floor. It looked like a dead mouse—or it would have, if the creature didn’t have ten legs sticking out of its tiny, furry body.

Mr. Hardin reached down to scoop up the creature with a paper towel. “I told you to stop hunting the whintossers,” he told the cat.

“I thought those things stayed underground,” said Fin, wrinkling her nose. Of all the strange creatures in Aldermere, the whintossers were among the most harmless. They used all of those feet to dig intricate tunnel systems, then nibbled the roots of ferns. Sometimes they got into people’s gardens, but a sprinkle of cayenne pepper usually sent them scurrying away.

“They do, for the most part.” Mr. Hardin dropped the towel and dead creature both into the trash. “But the cat keeps bringing them inside. Last week a tourist saw him chewing on one and thought we’d glued extra legs on.”

Fin glanced at the cat. “Have you named him yet?”

He shook his head. “Moment we name him, we’ll be his.”

She frowned. “Wouldn’t he belong to you?”

Mr. Hardin let out a breath that was half huff, half laugh. “Maybe with a dog. With cats, it’s the other way around.”

Fin didn’t argue; she’d never had any pets—besides a potted plant that she’d left behind in Modesto. And she was pretty sure succulents didn’t count. “Do you have anything for me today?”

Mr. Hardin vanished into the stockroom, then returned with three small boxes. “Two for Mr. Madeira. They were supposed to go to his house, but my wife found them near the gas station. Along with some feathers.”

Sure enough, two of the boxes had a few ragged holes in the side—about the size of a raven’s beak.

“And this one is for your mom, actually,” he finished.

Fin took the three boxes, stacking them from biggest to smallest. Eddie kept joking about her using a little red wagon or something to carry her deliveries, but so far she’d managed.

Mr. Madeira only lived two doors down from the big house. He cooked for the inn and often gave her scones instead of tips. This time of the day, he would be working in the kitchen, which meant she’d only have one stop: the inn.

She gave the cat a scratch under his chin, then carefully walked out of the grocery store. She liked Aldermere best in the hour that most people were having dinner—it was quieter, fewer people walking about. It was why Fin picked this time to do her deliveries; there was less chance of running into anyone.

“Hey, Fin!”

Cedar was sitting outside Brewed Awakening. Fin liked delivering things to the coffee shop. Mr. Carver had warm brown skin, an easy smile, and tattoos on both forearms. His shirts were always rolled up to the elbow as he pulled shots of espresso and chatted with customers. He would offer Fin a hot chocolate whenever she brought her deliveries. Mrs. Carver was taller than her husband, her blond hair always short, and she jogged the length of Aldermere every morning.

Cedar looked more like her dad. Her dark hair was chin length, and it reminded Fin of old movie stars. She always looked effortlessly comfortable with herself, which only made Fin feel more awkward. Now Cedar waved at Fin, gesturing her over. Fin pasted on a smile.

Fin didn’t not like people. She just liked them best at a distance. She found far more comfort in her own company, in the mystery books she checked out from the school library, even in the games she sometimes played on Eddie’s computer. Pages and pixels were easier to deal with. She didn’t spend hours afterward worrying that she’d said the wrong thing.

“Hi, Fin,” said Cedar. “You have deliveries today?” She nodded at the packages in Fin’s arms.

Fin nodded. “Yeah, it’s Tuesday.” Then she cringed because it was such an obvious thing to say. But if Cedar noticed Fin’s awkwardness, she didn’t say anything. Fin took half a step back, but Cedar didn’t notice that, either.

“Anything for us?” Cedar asked.

“Not today,” said Fin.

“You have any plans for after you’re done?”

Fin hesitated. This sounded like a leading question, but Fin wasn’t sure where it was leading to. Maybe Cedar was trying to get out of working in the coffee shop, or maybe she wanted to know if Eddie was around. People liked to hang around with Eddie at school; he was always cheerful and friendly.

“Homework,” Fin finally said, because it was the truth. “Math. And I need to talk to Eddie about our science fair project.”

Cedar looked crestfallen for all of a heartbeat. Then her face was smiling and natural, her posture relaxed. “Ah. Of course you’re paired up with Eddie—you two are best friends, right?”

“He’s my cousin,” said Fin.

“Still,” said Cedar, her smile a little wistful. “Must be nice.” She gave Fin one last nod. “I’ll see you at school, okay?”

“Yeah.” Fin turned and hurried toward the inn. She breathed a little easier when she was on her own.

The inn was Aldermere’s biggest business. It had been bought by some far-off wealthy businessman from San Francisco a few years back. He’d renovated the old buildings, employed a few more of the townspeople, and made the occupants of Aldermere simultaneously grateful and resentful. Mom had worked there ever since moving to Aldermere—first at the front desk, then as a manager. The hours were long, but it was a steady job, Mom liked her coworkers, and there was a free meal every day.

Fin carried the boxes up to the front doors, balancing them on one knee as she struggled to reach for the handle.

The door swung open, and Fin looked up.

Bellhop Ben stood over her. He was tall and lanky, with ash-blond hair and eyes more dishwater gray than blue. “Finley,” he said with a smile. “Need some help?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, but she allowed him to hold the door open for her. She shifted the packages, trying to take a tighter hold on them. “Is Mr. Madeira working tonight?”

“He’s in the midst of the dinner rush at the moment,” said Ben. Then he shrugged. “Or what counts as a rush in September. I think there’s like three guys in the dining room.”

When Fin first met Ben three years ago, she had thought him like any adult. Only recently had she realized he couldn’t be much older than the kids who went to high school on the bus with her. From a few scattered conversations, she knew he’d grown up in Aldermere with a single mom. He’d gone off to Santa Rosa for community college, but when his mom got cancer, he returned without graduating. After his mom passed away, he’d remained in Aldermere and started working at the inn.

“I can take those boxes,” he said. “It isn’t like I’ve got a lot to do around here.”

Fin shook her head. “I’ve got it,” she said again. She knew the inn as well as her cottage; sometimes she did homework in the staff lounge or helped her mother fold towels. It was something to do, and she got to see Mom.

Ben nodded. “So, everything all right?” Something in his voice made her think it wasn’t a casual question.

Fin froze in mid step. “Are you talking about Mrs. Brackenbury?”

Ben’s gaze was steady on her. “No, I mean, I was on my way to work when I saw ambulance lights. You and your cousin were talking to some EMTs near the tea shop. I thought someone must’ve had an accident or something.”

A chill slipped down her ribs, settling in Fin’s belly. “Oh,” she said. “I—yes.”

Ben leaned against the front desk. “What happened?”

It was natural that he’d want to know, Fin told herself. It was town gossip, the kind that everyone loved to indulge in. But even as Fin tried to remind herself that she’d done nothing wrong by going into the shop, she felt as though he’d shone a spotlight down upon her. She squirmed a little, her gaze going to the far wall. “Talia fell,” she said. “A stool broke.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding. “My great-aunt once broke her hip in a fall and had to stay in the hospital for a week. You know if Talia broke any bones?”

Fin shrugged. “No idea.”

“Well, I hope she comes back soon,” said Ben. “I know a lot of people around here depend on her tea.” He stepped back behind the desk as a woman wearing hiking boots and carrying a backpack walked into the lobby. Ben flashed Fin one last smile and then turned to the tourist.

Grateful for the reprieve, Fin hurried down the hall toward the kitchen. She could hear the clanging before she nudged open the door with her foot. It swung open easily, and the smell of garlic mashed potatoes and roasted meat made her stomach grumble. She almost regretted not taking one of those protein balls from Eddie. Almost . . . but not quite.

Mr. Madeira was barking orders to a server, but when he saw Fin, his face softened. “Finley! Those for me?”

“These two,” she said. “Where can I put them?”

“Just set them under the table behind you,” he said. “If those are the knives I ordered, I can start cleaning them tonight.”

“More knives?” asked Fin.

Mr. Madeira scoffed. “We’ve got a new hire. Didn’t realize that knives are a one-use thing if they cut you. Kept right on using it.”

Fin winced.

Mr. Madeira nodded sympathetically. “She’ll be all right. I mean, we found the finger in time.” He kept right on working as he talked, throwing salt and pepper onto a steak. “Didn’t know which knife it was. Couldn’t risk another accident, so I had to buy new ones.”

Fin set the two heavy boxes down, her arms aching with relief. Her mother’s package was light, at least.

“Wait!” Mr. Madeira nodded to one of the servers—a harried-looking young woman. “Put together a to-go box. Roasted chicken, potatoes, asparagus.” He looked to Fin. “That all right?”

“You don’t have to,” she began to say, but the server was already moving. Her fingers were a blur as she packed up the box, then slipped it into a paper bag. She held it out to Fin.

Fin hesitated, then took it. Technically, both she and her mom got one free meal a day from the inn—but it was normally day-old leftovers, not fresh dinner fare. And while Fin didn’t like the feeling of charity, the thought of cold lasagna back at home wasn’t quite as appealing as herb-roasted chicken and vegetables. “Thanks,” she said.

“Thank you for the knives,” he said with a grin. “Now I can stop using these dull things I dragged out of storage.”

Fin hastened out of the kitchen, letting the doors swing shut behind her. She left behind the clanking of dishes and the sound of Mr. Madeira grumbling at the steak, and set off toward the back offices.

Fin wasn’t quite sure of all the things Mom did as assistant manager—some days she helped out with laundry, others, she soothed customer complaints, and sometimes she lurked in the office for hours at a time with stacks of paper. The door was labeled with a metal nameplate: ASSISTANT MANAGER OFFICE. Fin knocked, then opened the door. Mom sat behind the desk, typing at her computer.

She looked up at Fin, a brief smile tugging at her mouth. Then her lips pulled taut, and it reminded Fin of when she helped out at the inn sometimes, of making beds and pulling sheets tight across the mattress.

“Hey, Mom.” Fin set the package on the desk. “Delivery.”

Mom picked it up, turned it over. “Ah, good.”

“What is it?” Fin asked, hoping maybe it was something exciting.

“New business cards,” said Mom. Fin’s shoulders slumped a little. “Let me guess—you were hoping books?”

Fin shrugged. “We haven’t gone to the bookstore in a while.”

“I know.” Mom’s lips pursed. “And I will make time, once Sofia gets back from maternity leave. Until then, I’m running the inn.” She sat a little straighter, her fingers folding together. “Fin, you should know that Frank came to the inn to speak with his niece. She’s working as a server.”

Fin blinked, surprised. “She wasn’t the one that lost a finger, was she?”

“No,” said Mom. “She’s fine.”

“Well,” said Fin, “that’s good.” For all that the town was small, sometimes she had trouble parsing the tangled threads of relatives and friends—everyone was connected to everyone somehow.

Mom nodded. “Frank said that Talia had an accident—that Eddie ran over to ask him to call an ambulance.”

Ice formed in Fin’s stomach. She forced her face to remain impassive.

Mom fixed Fin with a stare as piercing as one of those needles that were shoved through dead insects. It made Fin want to look away, to spill every secret she’d ever had. Mom let the silence stretch out until it was painful.

“You went to the tea shop,” said Mom, finally. “Again.”

Fin winced. “It was only . . . I had a delivery and—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Mom’s voice went a little ragged. “I know why you went there. I know why everyone goes there.” She rose from her seat and walked around the desk. She took Fin by the shoulders and squeezed gently. “I know why. But you can’t. It’s dangerous, sweetheart. It costs too much—and it isn’t going to help anything.”

Fin bit down on the tip of her tongue.

Mom didn’t understand. Mom had no fear of picking up phones or answering doors. She was . . . she was . . .

Normal.

Fin forced herself to think the word.

“Listen,” said Mom, more gently. “I want you to go home, okay? Did you hear about the mugging?”

Fin nodded, glad that the subject of the tea shop had been dropped. “Aunt Myrtle told us.”

Mom reached out, pushed a strand of Fin’s hair behind her ear. “Good. If you want to have dinner with Myrtle and Eddie, I’m sure it’d be all right.”

Fin held up the paper bag. “Mr. Madeira gave me takeout.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” said Mom, a little too wearily. Fin hated when she sounded like that: worn thin with exhaustion and worry. Fin wanted to fix it, but she didn’t know how.

“I’ll see you later.” Mom kissed Fin’s forehead, giving her shoulder a squeeze. It made Fin feel a little better.

Fin slipped out of the office. Her steps were quick, her eyes focused straight ahead. The day pressed down on her, and all she wanted was the familiarity of her cottage. Her heartbeat was unsteady, her hands clammy around the paper bag’s handle.

She half walked, half jogged through Aldermere, past the familiar broken sidewalks and watchful ravens. There was a path around Aunt Myrtle’s home, and she took it rather than going through the house itself. A glance at the window, and she saw Eddie and Aunt Myrtle sitting at their dining room table. Fin knew that table: it had been built of an old door, the knob taken out and the square edges polished soft. It was heavy and dented and comfortable, and if she walked inside, they’d ask her to sit down and join them. She didn’t.

She walked down the darkening path, across the backyard with its ferns and moss, to the guest cottage that had been Fin’s home for three years. The paper label from that first night had been exchanged for a metal one: ANGELINA & FINLEY’S HOME. It was reassuringly permanent, and Fin let her fingers trail over the lettering. Part of her was still scared to love this place, because to love a place meant hurting more the next time they moved.

She unlocked the door, then stepped inside. Her hands moved on reflex—locking the door behind her, flicking on the light, and shrugging out of her light jacket.

The cottage was small, an A-frame with a single bedroom, a little kitchen where she dropped the bag of food, a cozy living room with a tiny woodstove, and a loft. Mom had the bedroom and Fin had the loft. Mom said she didn’t want to climb down a ladder every time she needed to use the bathroom, and Fin had been glad to take the space. It was private and hers, a safe sanctuary with bookshelves built into the walls and a window overlooking the forest.

Fin climbed up the ladder, and something pinched along her hip, poking through her worn jeans pocket. She reached into her jeans pocket and withdrew a key. She blinked in surprise.

Talia’s spare key. The one for the tea shop. For a moment, she thought wildly of tossing it into the woods, of chucking it as far as she could. If her mother found it, she’d be angry.

Reason reasserted itself, and she forced herself to take a few breaths. The key was unmarked; Mom wouldn’t know what it was for. And besides, it wasn’t like Mom searched her things. She could put the key on one of her bookshelves until Talia returned from the hospital. She remembered what Ben had said about his great-aunt staying in the hospital for a week with a broken hip. A week wouldn’t be so bad. Fin could last a week. Then she could return the key to Talia, buy her cup of tea, and remember what it felt like to be fearless.