Half Caff Press 

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A Thread of a Curse

Chapter One

Rowan Miller eased her battered station wagon to a halt, the engine sputtering out with one last defiant rattle. The silhouette of Spinner’s End loomed before her, its ivy-draped turrets and weathered stone façade cloaked in the fading autumn light. The surrounding woods, ablaze with fiery reds and golds, pressed close, their shadows long and restless in the breeze.

She stepped out of the car, shoving the keys into her coat pocket, and stood still for a moment, taking in the mansion’s imposing bulk. It was the kind of place that practically begged for secrets—a house that wore its age and mystery like a second skin. A sudden gust of wind carried the scent of damp leaves and something faintly metallic, raising goosebumps on her arms despite her coat.

“Well,” she muttered, adjusting her scarf as if it could shield her from the house’s oppressive presence. “Home sweet home.”

She pushed open the gate with a creak that echoed across the grounds and made her way up the cobblestone path. The crisp autumn breeze nipped at her cheeks and rustled the hem of her coat.

Rowan glanced back at the mansion. Sunlight glinted off the warped glass windows, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw a shadow pass by one of the curtains. She shivered, but it was just a trick of the light. It had to be.

She had just stepped onto the porch when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished it out and smiled as her mother's name flashed across the screen.

"Hi, Mom," she answered, tucking a loose strand of copper hair behind her ear as she leaned against one of the porch columns.

"Rowan, sweetheart! I just got home from work and saw your car was gone. Did you make it to the mansion already?"

Rowan glanced back at the imposing structure and swallowed. "Yeah, I’m here.”

Her mother sighed. “You don’t sound very excited.”

“Probably because I’m not.” Rowan pushed off the column and wandered back down the path a few steps. “Mom, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Maybe we should just sell the place and—”

“Rowan, we’ve talked about this.” Her mother’s gentle but firm tone came through the line. “This is a part of your heritage. It’s an opportunity to learn about your family history.”

Rowan let out a breath and slumped against one of the stone pillars lining the walkway. “I know, but…”

“Sweetheart, I know it’s not easy. But you’re strong and capable. Remember how excited you were when you first told me about this?”

“Excited” wasn’t exactly the right word. Her mother had always been more enthusiastic about this venture than she was. For most of Rowan’s life, it had just been her and her mom. Her father had walked out before Rowan was even born, leaving behind only a terse note and a ring he’d forgotten to take off the dresser. He’d married her mom thinking they’d never have kids; her mom had struggled with infertility for years, a painful reality shared by her own mother, and her grandmother before that.

The cycle of adoption in their family had been so consistent it felt like tradition. Rowan’s grandmother had been adopted, as had her great-grandmother, and everyone after. When Rowan was old enough to notice the pattern, she’d started asking questions.

“Where’s my adoption file?” she’d asked one summer afternoon, rifling through the drawer where her mom kept all their important documents.

“You don’t have a file,” her mom had replied, lip twitching into an amused smile.

Rowan had frowned. “What do you mean? Everyone else in the family has one.”

“That’s because they weren’t grandma’s biological kids,” her mom had said gently.

Rowan hadn’t believed her. Not until her mom had pulled out Rowan’s birth certificate, pointing to her name on the “mother” line as undeniable proof. “You’re mine, Rowan. My miracle baby,” she’d said, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Her mom never stopped calling her that—“miracle baby.” It was said with love, but also with an edge of awe that made Rowan feel a little like a puzzle missing its final piece.

Growing up, Rowan had never wanted for much. She liked the familiar rhythm of her life—school, summers by the lake, quiet nights in with her mom. She’d never dreamed of leaving until her childhood nest friend Ruby had started planting the idea, begging her to come to Fablefern after she inherited the mansion so they could finally be in the same place again.

“You’ve been talking about it for years,” Ruby had insisted over video chat one night. “Spinner’s End is practically begging for you to move in, and we could hang out every day like old times!”

Her mom had joined in on the campaign, encouraging her with a wistful smile. “You need to spread your wings, sweetheart. This is a chance to learn about your heritage, too. Your roots.”

Rowan hadn’t been convinced, but she couldn’t say no to the two most important people in her life. So, with her mom’s blessing and Ruby’s relentless persistence, she’d packed up her life and made the move.

“You’re mine, Rowan. My miracle baby,” her mom had said, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Her mom never stopped calling her that—“miracle baby.” It was said with love, but also with an edge of awe that made Rowan feel a little like a puzzle missing its final piece.

Growing up, Rowan had never wanted for much. She liked the familiar rhythm of her life—school, summers by the lake, quiet nights in with her mom. She’d never dreamed of leaving until her childhood nest friend Ruby had started planting the idea, begging her to come to Fablefern after she inherited the mansion so they could finally be in the same place again.

“You’ve been talking about it for years,” Ruby had insisted over video chat one night. “Spinner’s End is practically begging for you to move in, and we could hang out every day like old times!”

Her mom had joined in on the campaign, encouraging her with a wistful smile. “You need to spread your wings, sweetheart. This is a chance to learn about your heritage, too. Your roots.”

Rowan hadn’t been convinced, but she couldn’t say no to the two most important people in her life. So, with her mom’s blessing and Ruby’s relentless persistence, she’d packed up her life and made the move.

“Just promise me you’ll give it a fair shot,” her mother continued. “And if after some time you still want to leave, you still want to leave, we can discuss other options.”

Rowan nodded, even though her mother couldn’t see it. “Okay, Mom. I promise.”

“Good. Now go unpack and make yourself at home. And remember, I’m just a phone call away if you need anything.”

“I know. Thanks, Mom.”

“Take care, darling. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended, and Rowan slipped her phone back into her pocket. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and glanced back at the mansion.

As she made her way up the creaking steps, she fished the heavy iron key out of her pocket and inserted it into the lock. With a twist and a shove, the door groaned open, revealing a dim and dusty foyer.

***

Rowan stepped over the threshold, and a chill crawled up her spine. She glanced around, taking in the faded elegance of the high ceilings, ornate woodwork, and peeling wallpaper. Dust motes danced in the slanted beams of light filtering through the tall windows, and her footsteps echoed on the scuffed wooden floors.

Despite the chill, a bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She had no idea how she was going to afford the upkeep on a place like this, let alone the extensive renovations it so clearly needed.

"Get a grip," she muttered, shrugging out of her coat. She draped it over the banister of the grand staircase and set her bags down. "The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can—"

A sudden thud echoed through the silence, cutting off her rambling. Rowan froze.

"Hello?" Her voice wavered slightly as it bounced off the walls.

Silence.

She took a tentative step forward and cringed as the floorboard creaked beneath her weight.

“Is someone there?”

She held her breath and strained her ears, but all she could hear was the faint whistle of the wind as it wound its way through the eaves.

“Get a grip, Rowan,” she scolded herself. “It’s just an old house. Old houses make noise.”

Still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Rowan wandered through the main hall, her footsteps echoing on the scuffed wooden floors. Despite the chill, a bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She had no idea how she was going to afford the upkeep on a place like this, let alone the extensive renovations it so clearly needed.

As she passed by the dining room, a breeze brushed against her cheek, ruffling a stack of papers on the table and filling the air with the musty scent of old fabric.

Rowan frowned and made her way over. She picked up the topmost paper, and her eyes widened.

“Welcome home, Rowan,” it read in neat, spidery script. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Okay,” she muttered, placing the paper back down. “That’s not creepy at all.”

A sudden growl reverberated through the air, and Rowan jumped, spinning around to face the shadowy corner by the door.

"Who’s there?"

A small, copper-furred dog with sharp, fox-like ears and intelligent amber eyes stepped into the light. It bared its teeth, but the growl quickly faded into a soft whine.

“Oh,” Rowan breathed. “Hi, there.”

The dog tilted its head, and Rowan slowly crouched down, holding out a hand. “Where did you come from?”

The dog sniffed her hand, then licked it before sitting back on its haunches.

Rowan smiled. “You’re friendly.” She glanced around the room, but no one else appeared. “Are you all alone?”

The dog padded closer, its movements cautious but not unfriendly. It sniffed at her boots before sitting back on its haunches, staring up at her with an almost expectant air.

“Do you live here?” she asked, crouching slightly. The dog didn’t respond—of course it didn’t—but it stayed where it was, watching her with an intensity that made her feel absurdly self-conscious.

She reached out her hand, palm up, and the dog sniffed it before giving her fingers a tentative lick. “Well, you’re not a ghost,” she said, a shaky laugh escaping her. “That’s something.”

The dog’s ears twitched, and it stood, turning abruptly to trot down the hall. Rowan hesitated before following, her boots clicking softly on the dusty floor. The dog led her to a room just off the entryway—what must have been the kitchen, though it had seen better days.

A massive stone hearth dominated one wall, its bricks darkened by soot. The wooden table in the center of the room was scarred from years of use, but its sturdy legs held firm. Mismatched chairs were pushed haphazardly around it, their faded paint hinting at once-brighter days. Despite the gloom and grime, the kitchen felt oddly inviting, a small pocket of warmth in the otherwise cold, unfamiliar house.

The dog sat near the hearth, its tail thumping once against the floor as it looked at her.

“You’re awfully good at making yourself at home,” Rowan said, shaking her head. She set her bag down on the table and exhaled, trying to push back the sense of unease that had followed her since she’d arrived. As she turned to take in the room, her gaze landed on a bowl tucked in the corner near the hearth. It was chipped ceramic, half-filled with water. Beside it lay a small blanket, rumpled and fur-lined.

Rowan frowned. “So, you really do live here,” she said softly, glancing back at the dog. It met her eyes steadily, as if daring her to question it.

“Well, I guess that makes two of us,” she said with a shrug, lowering herself into one of the rickety chairs. “I just hope you don’t snore.”

The dog huffed softly, curling up on its blanket, and Rowan let herself smile for the first time since she’d arrived.

Rowan leaned back in the chair, her gaze drifting to the scruffy dog as he circled his blanket a few times before settling down with a sigh. “So,” she said, resting her chin in her hand, “do you have a name?”

The dog’s ears twitched, but he didn’t lift his head, merely peering up at her with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and skepticism.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Rowan said, tapping her fingers on the table. “Or maybe you just don’t like to share it. Either way, I can’t keep calling you ‘the dog.’ You need a name.”

He tilted his head slightly, his amber eyes locked on her, as though considering her words.

“Alright, let’s see...” Rowan sat up straighter, rubbing her hands together. “How about Max?”

The dog blinked at her, unimpressed.

“No? Too simple? Okay, what about... Rufus?”

This earned her a soft huff, and Rowan couldn’t tell if it was a sneeze or a laugh.

“Alright, Mr. Particular, how about Baxter? Buddy? Charlie?”

At the mention of each name, the dog gave some subtle sign of disapproval—an ear twitch, a snort, a pointed look at the floor.

Rowan sighed dramatically, throwing her hands up. “You’re tough to please, you know that? Fine. We’ll go with something creative. How about... Sir Barksalot?”

The dog groaned softly, burying his nose in his paws.

Rowan chuckled, the sound bouncing off the walls of the quiet kitchen. “Okay, okay, I get it. No titles. You’re clearly the strong, silent type. Hmm...”

She leaned forward, squinting at him as if sizing him up. “You’re scruffy, kind of crafty, and you look like you’ve seen some things. What about Stitch?”

The dog lifted his head slightly, one ear perking up as if intrigued.

“Stitch,” Rowan repeated, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You know, like stitching things together—resilient, reliable. It suits you.”

He gave her a long look, then rolled his eyes in a way that felt almost deliberate before resting his head back on his paws.

Rowan grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes. Stitch it is.”

The newly christened Stitch gave a soft huff, his tail thumping once against the floor before he closed his eyes.

“Good,” she said softly. “Now that we’ve settled that, I guess we’re officially stuck with each other.”

Stitch gave another huff, but it sounded more content this time. Rowan smiled and leaned back in the chair, her gaze drifting around the room.

As much as she hated to admit it, being here was bringing up memories she’d rather keep buried. Ever since she’d inherited the place, all her thoughts had been wrapped up in her father’s family. But her mother’s side had been filled with seamstresses and tailors for as long as she could remember. Her mom had been a fashion designer before she’d been born, and now she was a costume designer for the local theater. She’d taught Rowan to sew as soon as she was old enough to hold a needle.

Thinking of it made her hobby made her heart ache. She’d brought her sewing machine and a few projects along with her, but she hadn’t the first idea where to set them up.

The dog groaned, lifting his head and glancing toward the door.

“What?” Rowan asked, standing up. “Did I say something?”

Stitch hopped to his feet and bounded out of the room. Rowan’s eyes widened as he paused in the hallway to look back at her.

“Do you know where to set up?”

He barked and took off down the hall. Rowan scrambled to grab her bag and follow.

He led her through the house to a large room with huge windows and a vaulted ceiling. A few easels and painting supplies were scattered around, and the furniture was covered in drop cloths, but it was otherwise empty.

“Perfect,” she whispered, stepping inside. “How did you—?”

The dog padded over to a chair in the far left corner of the room, where a few spools of thread were stacked on top of some bolts of fabric. He nosed the top spool and it rolled across the floor. Rowan caught it with her foot.

“Thanks,” she said, scratching his ears. “I guess I’ll go get my stuff.”

As the dog settled down on a paint-specked pillow and watched her, Rowan grabbed her things and began setting up. She placed her machine on the work table and stacked some fabric on the chair next to it. Once she was satisfied, she sat down and pulled out the first pile of fabric, a pair of pants with a rip in the knee.

“Let’s see, what did I bring?” she mused, pulling a few different materials from the stack. “I’ll need something sturdy to patch this up.”

The dog stretched and rested his head on his paws as she sorted through the pile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be done in no time.”

As she dug through the stack, her fingers brushed against something rough. She pulled it out to reveal a swatch of burlap-like material. She frowned, running her fingers over it. It felt almost sticky, and as she turned it over, the light caught on something woven into the fabric.

“What the?”

Squinting, she held it up to the light. A pattern of tiny, intricate wheels was sewn into the fabric. They seemed to shimmer as she turned it over in her hands, and she swore she could feel a faint warmth radiating from it.

“Where in the world did this come from?” she muttered, glancing over at Stitch. “Have you ever seen this before?”

The dog shook his head, his ears flattening against his skull. Rowan sighed, setting her project down and standing up.

“Well, I’m not using it,” she said, walking over to the wastebasket. “It’s giving me the creeps.”

As she went to throw it away, her hand paused. On the back of the fabric, embroidered in tiny, delicate lettering, was a phrase:

“To sew the fabric of fate.”

Rowan shook her head and stuffed it in the trash. “Nope. Uh-uh. I’m out. Last thing I need is more weird magic.”

She headed back to her table and sat down, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the fabric out of her mind. What was it doing here? And why did it seem to be following her? With a frustrated sigh, she got up and went to fish it out of the trash can.

“Better keep it. Maybe I can pawn it off on someone in town.”

Stitch growled and got up, nosing her basket of notions.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning. “I’ll be right back.”

He whined and pulled a spool of thread from the basket, making it clatter to the floor.

“Hey!” Rowan said, walking over to take it from him. “What are you doing?”

The dog barked and nosed the spool closer to the machine.

“What?” she asked, picking it up. “You want me to use it?”

He wagged his tail and followed her as she sat down at the machine. “Okay. I’ll use it.”

She undid the spool already in place and threaded the new one.

“Here goes.”

She pressed her foot to the pedal and began stitching. But when she turned the fabric over, her jaw dropped. The wheels sewn into the fabric matched the ones in the swatch. A few of them were missing spokes, and the stitches were uneven, but they were there.

“What the…?”

Stitch got up and padded over to the fabric in the trash can, pulling it out and nosing it closer to the machine. Rowan got up and took it, sitting down again. “No way. There’s no way this is real.”

She shoved the spool of thread in her pocket and undid the stitching, then retreaded the machine with the original spool and tried again. This time, the patch was perfect.

The dog whined and curled up next to the fabric. Rowan stood up and turned it over. It was blank. No wheels, no spokes. Nothing.

“What the heck?” she gasped. “What’s going on?”

Stitch whined and sniffed the patch. Rowan sighed and got up, heading for the trash can. “I knew this was a bad idea,” she mumbled, pulling the spool from her pocket and dropping it in the basket. “I’m going to bed.”

The dog got up and followed her as she headed for the door.

“Come on, let’s go.”

He stayed behind, resting his head on the fabric. Rowan sighed and turned back to the door. She reached for the knob, but a shock zapped her hand. She gasped and stepped back. “What?”

The dog got up and padded over to the window, where a glimmer had caught her eye. “What is it now?”

He scratched the floorboards until a gold glint shone through. Rowan’s mouth dropped open.

“A golden sewing kit?” she asked, picking it up. “What is going on?”

The dog barked and nosed the spool of thread. Rowan opened the kit and placed it inside, along with the fabric.

“I guess it goes in here,” she said. “Come on, it’s late.”

She dropped the kit in her bag and headed for the door. This time, it opened with no trouble.

***

The next morning dawned gray and cold, the thin light filtering reluctantly through Spinner’s End’s grime-covered windows. Rowan sat at the kitchen table with a second cup of coffee in hand, her bag open in front of her. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, unable to shake the image of the locked door and its strange carvings. What am I even doing here? she thought, digging through her bag for the map she’d found in the library. I don’t belong here. I should’ve gone to Fablefern with that dye.

The dog gave a soft bark and got up from where he’d been lying on the floor, coming over to rest his head on her knee. She smiled and scratched behind his ears. “But I couldn’t live here without trying to make it work.”

He wagged his tail and she turned back to her bag. “I’m going to the town hall after this to look up some info on the shop. I need that map.”

Stitch followed her as she upended the bag and shook it out over the table. A few bolts of fabric, some notions, a couple of patterns, and the last of her savings, along with the sewing kit, clattered onto the table. The map was nowhere to be found.

“Where is it?” she mumbled, sifting through the pile. “I know I put it in here.”

The dog whined and nosed the kit, making it roll across the table. Rowan sighed and picked it up. “I swear, if this thing is following me.”

She opened the lid. The map was folded up inside. “How did it?”

Stitch barked and wagged his tail. Rowan frowned and shook her head. “Never mind, I don’t care. I’ve got to go.”

***

After dropping her things at home, Rowan headed to the town hall. She needed to find a shop to open up this business. She’d been to Fablefern so many times she knew the layout like the back of her hand. There was a shop on the corner of Main Street and the street leading to the square that had been abandoned for ages. If she could snag it, she wouldn’t have to worry about getting enough customers to stay afloat.

She spent the next hour looking through the records, but all of them were outdated. No one had owned the place in years. Frustrated, she asked the assistant behind the counter. He told her it was owned by the city now, and to come back tomorrow if she wanted to take it up with the real estate department. It was too late to do anything now.

As she headed home, she stopped at the hardware store for some supplies. She hadn’t been in Fablefern since she was thirteen, but it still looked the same. It was a picturesque, storybook-inspired village flanked by woodlands and rolling hills. Its cobblestone streets, painted shutters, and flower boxes reflected a charming, fairy-tale aesthetic. Magic was subtle but pervasive—window boxes bloomed year-round, local legends murmured in the breeze, and kind hearts found their efforts rewarded. Fablefern’s communal spirit meant everyone’s life gently interlaced, making secrets both hard to keep and tricky to uncover.

Rowan liked to think she was a little more practical than that. But as she made her way to the hardware store, she couldn’t help but notice the way everyone’s eyes followed her. She tried to ignore the way their conversations dropped off as she passed, only to be replaced with harsh whispers until she was too far away to hear them.

“Is that her? The Miller girl?”

“It must be. What other newcomer would dare show their face here?”

“I heard she’s already moved in.”

“What? To that house? Who would do such a thing?”

“Well, her father’s family left it to her.”

“Still. I can’t imagine stepping foot in that place, let alone living there.”

“Have you heard the rumors about it?”

“Of course I have. Who hasn’t?”

“Do you think they’re true?”

“Who knows? But mark my words, strange things are afoot there. They always have been.”

Rowan clenched her jaw and kept walking, her boots clicking on the cobblestones. Small towns were always like this, she reminded herself. Nosy, opinionated, and deeply suspicious of anything—or anyone—new.

Her spirits lifted the moment she reached Howling Good Eats, the cozy café owned by her best friend, Ruby Wolfe. Also known as the real reason she moved to Fablefern. She and Ruby had been inseparable as kids but her family relocated to Fablefern shortly after their fifteenth birthdays. They’d kept in touch via video calls, regular phone conversations and of course social media but nothing beat being together in person. When she first inherited Spinner’s End, her first call. She had no intention of accepting the inheritance when her mom first told her about it a few months back but Ruby had convinced her a change of scenery might be good for her.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon snapped Rowan out of her thoughts as she pushed open the door to Howling Good Eats. Her stomach gave a small growl at the smell of Ruby’s baking, a reminder she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Rowan!”

Ruby’s red curls bounced as she stepped out from behind the counter, a steaming mug in hand. Her smile was bright enough to banish the lingering shadows of Spinner’s End. She crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling Rowan into a warm hug.

“About time you showed up,” Ruby said, stepping back to look her over. “You didn’t run screaming from the mansion yet, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

“Not yet,” Rowan replied with a laugh, sinking into the nearest chair. “But give it a few more nights.”

Ruby placed the mug in front of her and took the seat across the table. “So? How bad is it?”

Rowan shook her head, cupping her hands around the mug. “Dusty, drafty, and weird as hell. There’s this locked door with carvings all over it—spinning wheels, threads, stars. It’s beautiful, but creepy. And don’t even get me started on the general vibe.”

She took a sip of her coffee and then added, “Oh, and did I mention the dog?”

Ruby blinked. “The what now?”

“The dog,” Rowan said, a small smile creeping onto her lips. “A scruffy little Finnish Spitz. He was just... there. Like he’d been waiting for me. No collar, no tags, nothing. He acts like he owns the place.”

Ruby leaned forward, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Wait, wait, wait. You moved into a creepy old mansion and immediately got a mystery dog?”

Rowan shrugged, setting her mug down. “Pretty much. He made himself at home, so I guess he’s mine now. I named him Stitch.”

“Stitch?” Ruby repeated, her mouth twitching with amusement.

“Yeah,” Rowan said, grinning. “He’s scrappy, kind of crafty, and he puts up with me. The name fits.”

Ruby laughed, shaking her head. “A mystery dog in a haunted mansion. You’re living in a gothic novel, Rowan.”

Rowan rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing along. “Tell me about it. If he starts talking or leading me to buried treasure, I’m out.”

Ruby smirked. “Locked doors and a mystery dog? Sounds like the house is already keeping secrets.”

“It’s just an old house,” Rowan said quickly, though the words felt hollow even to her.

“Sure it is.” Ruby leaned back, studying her. “And you’re totally fine, not rattled in the slightest.”

Rowan snorted. “Fine, I’m rattled. But I’ve got a plan. Renovate the place, open a shop—Stitch & Thread. Custom tailoring and fabric repair. It’ll give me something to focus on besides the creeping dread.”

Ruby tilted her head, grinning. “You’ve always been into sewing, haven’t you? I still remember you making all those doll clothes when we were kids.”

Rowan smiled. “Yeah, it kind of stuck. By the time I was twelve, I was begging Mom to teach me how to use her old machine. There was something about the precision of it—piecing things together, fixing what’s broken. It’s calming, you know?”

Ruby nodded. “I get it. You’ve always been good with your hands—creating things, making them better.”

“Exactly,” Rowan said, her smile growing. “Plus it’s a way to bring something useful to the town while I figure out what the heck to do with this house. I’ve already bought one of the old building in town. I’m gonna set it up later this week.”

Ruby squeezed her hand. “Well, you’re perfect for it. Just be ready for the town to have opinions. They always do, especially about the Millers.”

Rowan groaned. “I noticed. I’ve already gotten my fair share of stares and whispers just walking through the square.”

Ruby’s smile faded slightly. “That’s Fablefern for you. Small-town curiosity mixed with a little superstition. You know how it is—stories stick around, and the Millers have always been… well, let’s just say ‘colorful.’”

“Great,” Rowan said dryly. “Exactly the reputation I wanted to inherit.”

Ruby chuckled but sobered quickly. “Just… be careful, okay? Spinner’s End has a way of getting under people’s skin. And there are rumors about—”

The café door swung open, cutting her off. Rowan glanced up to see a man step inside, sharp-dressed in a tailored gray coat. His dark hair was slicked back, and his expression was as sour as lemon juice.

“Elias Cobb,” Ruby murmured under her breath.

The man’s gaze immediately zeroed in on Rowan, his frown deepening as he approached. “You must be the Miller girl,” he said, his tone clipped. “The one inheriting that house.”

Rowan straightened, matching his glare. “And you are?”

“Elias Cobb,” he said flatly. “Owner of Cobb’s Clothier. And, apparently, your competition—if your little renovation dreams come true.”

“Competition?” Rowan said, eyebrows raising. “I’m not here to edge anyone out. I’m just trying to make a living.”

Elias gave her a tight, humorless smile. “A word of advice, Miss Miller: Fablefern doesn’t need more trouble. And Spinner’s End has a way of weaving plenty of it.”

He turned and left without another word, the café door swinging shut behind him. Rowan stared after him. “What was the about?”

Ruby shrugged. “You figure him out, that’ll be the real trick.” She winked and they laughed.

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