Chapter 9

I was wiping down the counter after closing when I noticed a brown paper bag on the bar.

The front desk said someone had dropped it off in the afternoon. They only left a note: "Please pass this to Wren."

I opened it and looked.

My heart skipped.

The Hearth Keeper's Journal.

More complete than the last time I had seen it.

Some of the pages that were gone — found somehow — had been pressed flat between sheets of tissue paper, fold lines and water stains still there, but preserved.

The cover lettering had been traced over again in ink.

The handwriting was clumsy. Not my grandmother's.

But every stroke was careful.

No name left.

No number.

I flipped to the last page. In the lower right corner of the blank page, a single line in small print.

"These I'm giving back. What else I owe you, I can't repay."

I closed the journal and held it in my hands for a moment.

Rain tapped against the glass.

The old sign light above the door cast a warm yellow glow through the mist.

Then I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and set it on the shelf beside the condiment rack, next to the new recipe books I'd bought.

Even. Ordinary.

Right where it belonged.

Ivy leaned in from behind, saw the journal, and started to ask something.

I didn't answer.

I pulled out my phone and showed her a photo instead.

A hand, close up. A very thin ring on the index finger.

Rose gold. A small stone set in it, easy to miss.

Not expensive.

But beautiful.

"Who is that?!" she shrieked.

"The Alpha next door. Rowan Hayes."

I turned my phone off.

"We're doing the Bonding Ceremony early next year. Coming?"

She jumped up.

"Yes! Yes! What's the gift range?"

I laughed.

I dried my hands on the dish towel, untied my apron, and hung it on the hook behind the door.

Lights off. Pull down the rolling shutter.

The rain had stopped.

The street lamps were on.

The air smelled like wet tropical plants, cleaned by the rain.

I stood in the doorway and stretched.

The sleeve on my right arm slid up. The scar showed in the lamplight.

Dark brown. Sitting quietly.

I didn't cover it.

I walked home.

On the way, my mom sent a voice message.

"How did the noodle sauce turn out today? I thought it was better than last time."

I sent one back.

"Pretty close to Grandma's now."

She replied in seconds.

"That's good. If she knew, she'd be so happy."

I smiled, turned off my phone, and slipped it in my pocket.

A warm breeze came off the coast.

I passed a shoe store.

In the window, a pair of pink house slippers. The tag said size 6.

I glanced at them.

Then I kept walking.

No pause.