1
LYRA
The GPS had been lying to Lyra for the past forty minutes.
"Recalculating route," the mechanical voice announced for the seventh time, its tone somehow managing to sound both apologetic and smugly unhelpful. The little blue dot on her phone screen spun in confused circles before settling on a road that definitely hadn't existed three seconds ago.
"Oh, for the love of sage and sulfur," Lyra muttered, looping a strand of copper hair around her finger as she squinted through her windshield. The mountain road ahead curved into mist so thick it looked like someone had dumped cotton batting across the asphalt. Her ancient Honda Civic, packed to the point where she could barely see through the rear window, chugged up the incline with all the enthusiasm of a dying lawnmower.
The fog parted like theater curtains as she drove through it, revealing glimpses of towering pines and moss-covered stone formations that seemed too perfectly arranged to be natural. A wooden sign materialized from the gray: "Welcome to Mistwhisper Falls - Population 847 - Elevation 3,200 feet -Founded 1847." Someone had added graffiti beneath in elegant script: "Where magic meets reality and buys it coffee."
Lyra snorted a laugh. "Well, at least they have a sense of humor."
Her phone chimed with a new message from her mother: "Sweetheart, are you sure about this? It's not too late to come home. Your old job at the gallery is still—" Lyra swiped the notification away without reading the rest. She'd heard variations of that speech for the past month, ever since she'd announced her plans to renovate the inn her grandmother Vera had left her.
The same grandmother who'd died without speaking to her for eight years. The same grandmother whose final letter had been three sentences long: "The inn is yours now. Fix what I couldn't. The town needs you more than you know."
Cryptic old witch. Even in death, Vera couldn't resist being mysterious.
The road widened as Lyra entered what had to be the town proper, though "proper" seemed like a generous term. Mistwhisper Falls looked like someone had taken a postcard from 1950 and dunked it in supernatural ambiance. Victorian houses with gingerbread trim lined streets that curved with no apparent logic, their painted facades so vibrant they seemed to glow against the perpetual mist. Streetlamps flickered to life despite the fact that it was barely past noon, casting pools of warm amber light that made the fog dance.
A hand-painted sign pointed toward "Downtown District & Supernatural Services," which was either delightfully honest or the best tourist trap she'd ever seen.
Lyra parallel parked in front of Hartwell & Associates Law Office, a narrow building wedged between a crystal shop and a place called "Moondrip Market" that had produce stacked outside despite the mist. Her amber eyes lit up as she spotted thevegetables—tomatoes that gleamed like rubies, carrots so orange they practically hummed with color, and herbs that made her magic tingle just looking at them.
The law office door chimed when she entered, a sound like tiny silver bells that seemed to linger longer than physics should allow. The receptionist, a woman who looked to be in her sixties with steel-gray hair and knowing eyes, looked up from her computer.
"Lyra Whitaker, I presume?" The woman's smile was warm but assessing. "I'm Margaret Hartwell. We've been expecting you."
"Have you now?" Lyra set her oversized purse on the counter, accidentally knocking over a pen holder. Three pens rolled across the floor, but instead of scattering randomly, they formed a perfect triangle. "Sorry, I'm like a walking chaos magnet. Always have been."
Margaret's eyebrows rose slightly. "Chaos magic. How refreshing. We haven't had one of those in town since—well, since your grandmother."
"Vera was a chaos witch?" Lyra blinked. That explained a lot, actually. The woman had always seemed to exist in the eye of some invisible storm, surrounded by beautiful disasters that somehow always worked out in the end.
"Among other things." Margaret pulled out a manila envelope thick with papers. "Here are the keys to the Mist & Mirth Inn, along with the deed, insurance papers, and a list of local contractors who specialize in supernatural-friendly renovations. You'll want to call them sooner rather than later—the inn has been empty for two years, and old buildings with that much magical history tend to get... temperamental when neglected."
Lyra accepted the envelope, and the moment her fingers touched it, she felt a small shock of recognition. Magicrecognized magic, and whatever was waiting for her at the inn had been calling to her long before she'd known she was coming.
"Is there anything I should know about the town? Any local customs or—" Lyra paused as a soft chiming filled the air. It wasn't coming from the door. Margaret was stirring her coffee with a spoon that glowed faintly blue.
"Just the usual small-town quirks," Margaret said, as if glowing cutlery was perfectly normal. "Most folks here are friendly enough, though we do value privacy. The supernatural community is well-integrated, but we prefer to keep our business... internal. I'm sure you understand."
Lyra nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure she did. Her magic had always been more instinct than education, much to Vera's frustration. "Is there somewhere I can grab lunch? I've been driving for hours, and my car's making sounds that suggest it might need a priest more than a mechanic."
"The Spellbound Sip is just down the street. Junie makes the best comfort food this side of the mountains, and her welcome muffins are legendary." Margaret's smile turned slightly mischievous. "Tell her I sent you. She'll take good care of you."
Twenty minutes later, Lyra pushed open the door to The Spellbound Sip and immediately felt like she'd stepped into someone's favorite dream. The café was all mismatched furniture and hanging plants, with exposed brick walls covered in local art and enough candles to make a fire marshal weep. The air smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and something indefinably magical—like the moment right before a thunderstorm, all potential and promise.
"You must be Vera's granddaughter."
Lyra turned to find a woman approaching with a coffee pot in one hand and a plate in the other. She was maybe forty-five, with kind brown eyes and graying brown hair pulled back in a messybun secured with what looked like knitting needles. Her apron read "Blessed Be and Eat Your Vegetables" in cheerful script.
"Junie Matthews," the woman continued, setting the plate down at a corner table without being asked. "And before you say anything, yes, I knew you were coming. Word travels fast in a town this size, and Margaret called ahead. Sit, eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."
The muffin on the plate was enormous, studded with what looked like blueberries but sparkled slightly in the candlelight. Lyra took a cautious bite and immediately felt tears prick her eyes. The muffin tasted like her childhood kitchen on Sunday mornings, like her mother's laugh and the safety of being small enough to believe nothing bad could ever happen.
"What did you put in this?" Lyra managed, setting the muffin down before she started crying in earnest.
