The Inn at the End of Spells

How it begins

The first guest was a kettle that had forgotten how to boil.

Cora gave it the room nearest the stove.

"You don't have to work," she explained.

The kettle's lid trembled.

"Not even breakfast?"

"Especially not breakfast."

She had opened the inn three days earlier with six rooms, one unreliable chimney and a sign promising rest for exhausted enchantments.

So far she had received two complaints about the wording and a broom asking whether stairs were compulsory.

The kettle seemed a promising start.

Cora carried its suitcase upstairs.

Inside were a folded tea towel and a photograph of a kitchen she recognized.

Her own.

From twenty years ago.

She set the suitcase on the bed.

"Where did you get that?"

The kettle looked toward the window.

Downstairs, the front bell rang.

Cora closed her eyes.

She knew the weight of that knock. Some memories survived perfectly well without magical assistance.

Silas stood in the doorway holding the inn's advertisement.

"You never mentioned this."

"We haven't spoken in eight years."

"I meant the rooms."

"So did I."

He looked past her toward the stairs.

"Has anything arrived?"

"Several things."

"Anything from the house?"

Cora folded her arms.

The old house had been sold after their separation. The furniture went first. The books took longer. Neither of them had discussed what happened to the small spells that made living together easier until living together became impossible.

Silas looked at the advertisement again.

"It says no object will be returned without agreement."

"That is correct."

"Whose agreement?"

Cora waited.

From upstairs, the kettle's small voice reached them.

Mine.

Silas put down the advertisement.

For a moment he looked exactly as he had the day they unpacked their first kitchen, before either of them knew how much a household could ask of the things inside it.

"Then," he said, "may I make a booking?"