Chapter 1

Anna

Everything is changing.

Over the last few days, the air has turned crisp as a harvest apple, the narrow streets and canopied walking trails of downtown Wick blanketed in autumn leaves. The customers entering Gran’s tea shop come wrapped in knit scarves and woolen sweaters, asking for pumpkin hot chocolate and mulled cider, and sit close to the crackling fire that reveals faraway places—­if you know how to look.

With the first of October just over a week away, the out-­of-­towners have begun to trickle in, drawn by stories of an inn run by psychics and shops full of magic. Not that they’ll actually see any magic. Not unless they’re especially open to it, like the woman from this morning, who’d gaped when the selkie painting by the milk-­and-­sugar station waved at her.

“Add a little more lavender to that sachet, Anna-­love,” Gran calls as she buzzes past my stool at the back counter, where I’m sorting tea leaves. Her silver hair is done up in one of her wild buns, the edges dyed bright orange like the marmalade sitting in glass jars by the register.

A spoonful of lavender levitates up to me, courtesy of Gran’s telekinesis, and I dump it into the tea bag. Then I seal it and add it to the basket labeled lavender chamomile, a magical blend that helps the drinker sleep dreamlessly, which is tea fact number one of one thousand now taking up space in my brain.

After a summer spent working at Gran’s café, the Merrow, I know everything about tea. What measurements to use, how long to steep it, whether to add honey or milk or nothing at all (which is apparently a debate of epic proportions). But Gran’s tea is no ordinary blend of herbs—­each flavor has unique magical properties, from the caramel rooibos that renews old memories to the peppermint that encourages creative thoughts.

Thanks to all her lessons, my knowledge of herbal remedies could give my big sister Rose a run for her money, and she’s basically part plant.

Gran hands a customer a cinnamon apple twist wrapped in parchment paper, then dusts powdered sugar off her hands and joins me at the back counter. “You’ve been making those sachets all afternoon. Last I checked, manipulating time was not a Bal­lin­kay family ability. At some point, you will have to go home.” Her voice softens in a way that once again makes me wonder if she can read minds.

It wouldn’t surprise me. Gran’s telekinesis is her only power I know of, but I’m pretty sure she’s also secretly a witch, a faerie, or an Irish goddess.

Maybe all three.

“It’s my last day working here,” I reply as I fill another tea bag with equal parts lavender and chamomile. “I’m just enjoying it!”

Technically, I could stay at the Merrow a little while longer, but with Samhain fast approaching and the inn about to fill up with guests, my parents will need my help at Ravenfall more than ever. Besides, Gran is flying out for Ireland tonight to visit Aunt Elaine and Uncle Roy.

“Or you’re avoiding saying goodbye to your sisters,” Gran counters with a knowing smile.

And there’s that.

Kara and Rose are leaving for college tonight, and without them, Ravenfall will be short-­staffed. Which is another way of saying “Anna will be doing literally everything, like usual.” Okay, literally everything that Nora isn’t doing, which is still a lot. My mom might be twice as speedy as a hummingbird and physically incapable of taking a real break, but even she can’t run Ravenfall on her own.

I make a point of filling the next sachet extra slow.

In response, Gran flicks her wrist, and the remaining tea bags line up in midair. The scoop delivers a spoonful of lavender and chamomile into each before the pouches seal shut and nestle atop each other in neat lines in the basket.

“Go home, Anna-­love,” Gran says gently, floating my backpack over from the corner. “I packed you some pumpkin pie for after dinner.”

With as much silent protest as I can muster, I flip the backpack over my shoulders, give Gran a hug goodbye, and head for the front porch, where my bike leans against the wall beside a big midnight green dog with glowing red eyes. Why Mr. Connolly takes his afternoon naps on the Merrow’s front porch I have no idea, but I’m not about to question a cù-­sìth with very sharp teeth.

The trees fly by in a blur of russet and gold as I pedal toward Ravenfall Inn, out of breath and wondering what terrible person invented bikes before I’m even over the first hill. Physical exercise is the worst, and without Colin around to make me go for a walk or run laps with him in the backyard, I’ve been doing my best impression of a couch potato.

Which, let me say, is really, really good.

I give up at the bottom of Ravenfall’s long driveway and walk the bike the rest of the distance, wishing I were fifteen like Colin and could get my learner’s permit. But it’ll be months before my fifteenth birthday, so it’s only Anna-­powered modes of transportation until then.

I emerge into the roundabout, where the inn sprawls like a sleeping dragon, complete with a puff of smoke from the main chimney. On the ledge balances a beak-­shaped green felt hat with a wide brim turned up at the back and a single ruby feather wafting about.

It’s been there all summer, placed by our Jabberwocky, Max, after I told the house about the animated Robin Hood movie that Gran and I watched one night. Since then, it’s fancied itself a defender of the helpless who gives to the less fortunate, aka all of us poor, helpless humans that surely could not cook, clean, or open doors without it.

Gran offered to change the hat with her telekinesis while Max is away on a hunting trip with Colin and Liam, but the house refused. It won’t admit it because of their ongoing rivalry, but I’m pretty sure it only wants Max to do it. Never mind that he’s an ancient dragon-­like creature in a cat’s body meant to help guard the Shield between our world and the Otherworld, not a hat delivery service.

I’ve given up trying to understand their relationship.

When I reach the top of the sloping driveway, sweating and puffing and with my hair frizzed from the wind, my stomach knots at the sight of what awaits me: a moving van.

With half a garden and every computer on the planet to move, my sisters’ weren’t going to fit their things in the beat-­up family Jeep, but somehow seeing the moving van is so much worse. When my older brother left for college, he took a duffel bag and a backpack. It felt like he was going on a trip—­not like he was leaving permanently.

Not like this.

“Oh, that box doesn’t feel very comfortable where it is. I think it would rather be near the front.” Rose’s willowy voice rises from the back of the van. She’s got that “poor little inanimate object” tone, which usually means her empathy is in overdrive, picking up on the emotions of everything from the guests to the trees.

“It’s a box,” Kara replies flatly. “It can suffer for two hours. Just make sure it doesn’t fall on my monitor.”

“Your monitor feels very insecure where it is too. I think I’ll switch them.”

Kara makes a noise of exasperation at her twin. “Not again! We’ve rearranged the truck four times already, Rose.”

A steady stream of boxes and bags floats out the front door behind them, gathering in little piles to be sorted into the truck. Even after all these months since Hollowthorn Woods nearly swallowed the house whole, accidentally supercharging its magic, I’m still not used to seeing it use its powers outside. Once, the inn could only control things within its walls; now its power stretches across the entire grounds, sweeping faerie dust off the porch, pruning the garden, and stacking the firewood.

It also made it very clear that it would be decorating itself for Samhain this year.

As quietly as I can, I lay my bike down in the driveway and tiptoe toward the side entrance. If the twins realize I’m here, I’ll have no choice but to—­

“Anna!” Kara sticks her face around the edge of the van, wearing a black turtleneck sweater with her reddish-­blond hair wound up in space buns. “Tell Rose to stop moving the boxes.”

“Rose, stop moving the boxes!” I call as I hurry past, to which Rose lifts an airy hand. Her bright red hair is loose and tangled in a faded blue scarf, her pale cheeks flush from exertion.

Kara’s eyes widen. “It is not my fault for packing too many things!” she shouts after me as I fly up the front steps. I duck into the foyer before she can pluck any other thoughts out of my mind with her telepathy, waving at the house as it rumbles a greeting.

The scent of brisket hits me the moment I cross the threshold, the latest in a long line of Jewish recipes the house has been experimenting with. There’s even a plate of hamantaschen by the door for guests to take, triangular shortbread cookies filled with homemade apricot or blackberry jam. I stuff two into my pockets and wave to a pair of women playing chess by the bay window who I did readings for that morning.

With my psychometry powers, I can tell people all sorts of stories about objects that are important to them, and the couple had been asking after the taller wife’s wedding ring. It had belonged to her mother, who never told them where she got it. Turns out it was a gift from an English heiress she used to work for, and now the two are planning a trip overseas come winter.