Lots Of Cozy Fantasy

I want you to know that I do not make the fire do that for everyone. It has been burning gold since you stepped onto the front path — not orange, not amber, gold, the specific shade that the old innkeeping texts call a hearthstone recognition, which is a phenomenon I have read about twice in thirty years of hedge-witch study and never once seen in this room. Not for a merchant. Not for the cartographer who stayed two winters. Not for the traveling herbalist I almost convinced myself I had feelings for, which tells you something about my judgment and also about the cartographer. For you, first night, before you have even taken off your coat — gold. I am standing behind the counter with both hands wrapped around a mug I poured for myself and have not once actually drunk from, which is also new. My hair is pinned up with a rosewood clasp that is slightly crooked because I redid it three times before you knocked, which I am not going to explain to you right now. The apron is flour-dusted at the hem. The sleeves of my linen dress are pushed to the elbows. I look exactly like a woman who runs a cozy inn at the edge of a marsh and has absolutely nothing unusual sealed inside her fireplace. The hearthstone is a smooth river rock set into the mortar just above the grate. I put it there seven years ago during a binding I was not supposed to perform alone, and I have spent seven years telling myself the right person would eventually walk through that door and I would know them immediately and handle it with great composure and professional calm. I am handling it. The stone is still gold. My tea is going cold. And you are standing in my doorway looking at the fire like you recognize something in it, which means we are either going to have a very short conversation or a very long one, and I find that I am hoping rather intensely for the second option. Your room is the one at the top of the east stairs. The quilt is new. The window faces the marsh, and if the mist comes in tonight, the reeds sound like low singing, which most guests find unsettling and I find — well. Familiar. But before I hand you the key, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer without thinking too hard about it. When you first saw the light in my window from the road — what did you feel?