The next morning, Mom and I are back on the road. "Ugh—c'mon!" I hiss through gritted teeth, digging my nails into the steering wheel. Not only are we stuck behind a bus full of tourists, but a parade of John Deeres in the other lane makes passing the bus impossible.

I want to see this "true inn" Great-Aunt Louise mentioned in her letter. It must lie in a folded space, because I Googled the address and, save for the cottage and a garden shed, there are no additional buildings on the property. Folded space spells are like space-saver charms, except on a grander scale. But instead of making bedrooms slightly bigger—a feat any witch or sorcerer over Level 7 can reasonably achieve—folded space spells require Level 9 or 10 and a lot of power.

The thing about us witches and sorcerers is that we're our own magical batteries. Once that runs out, we're useless until our bodies recharge. But we can get a temporary boost from nodes and ley lines.

We'll see when we get there.

"If we get there at all!" I shout as the bus continues to putter down the road.

"Easy," Mom counsels, tapping the dashboard as I get a little too close to the back of the bus.

I sigh and slump in my seat, tapping my thumbs impatiently. At last, the bus peels off and I put my foot on the gas pedal.

A couple in their mid-forties is loading luggage into their car when we pull up to the inn. "How did you like your stay?" I ask them.

The wife, a short, curvy woman with a Midwestern aura, smiles broadly. "Oh, was wonderful!" she gushes, putting a hand to her heart. "I've never stayed in a place that was bigger on the inside before. It was worth the trip out here."

"Kind of like Doctor Who," I reply, earning a blank stare. Okay, then. "Have a good day."

Mom shoots me a puzzled look but I shrug. I haven't had my coffee this morning, so the pop culture reference slips out more freely. But c'mon, though—the comparison is right there. How could you miss it?

Stifling a yawn, I grab my purse and we walk to the front door. After walking through the kitchen and greeting the cook (whose name I've forgotten), I find Sylvia in her office, typing away on a laptop. The area is small, but that might be because of all the shelves taking up most of the real estate. If any room could use a space-saver charm, it's this one. Boxes older than me sporting faded labels line the shelves, along with peeling three-ring binders. Loose papers are jammed in between the boxes and binders, the print long faded into illegibility. Dear God, Great-Aunt Louise's book-keeping practices are so last century.

Perhaps nineteenth-century, considering her age.

"Morning," I say as Syliva looks up. "I was hoping to check out Great-Aunt Louise's apartment today."

She rubs the corner of one eye and nods. "Oh, yes. Just go around the back; the key will open the gate." She stifles a yawn and reaches behind a pile of notebooks for a mug of coffee.

Coffee.

"Do you mind if I grab a cup from the dining room?" I ask, nodding at her mug. "We didn't have time to get anything from the continental breakfast."

Sylvia blinks, and then a professional smile lights her face. "Of course. Take whatever you want." You own the place, hovers unspoken in the air. "Call me if you need anything."

"Of course. Have a good day," Mom says as we leave the clutter behind.

I wave to the nameless cook who is too busy cooking bacon and eggs to notice and we cross into the dining room. A long table is set up against one wall; bagels, muffins, cereal, oatmeal, a variety of fruit, and bread sit out in baskets. There's a four-slice toaster, a machine that boils water for tea, and coffee pot on a separate table, along with various condiments. I walk over to the coffee pot and pick up the red plastic canister sitting next to it: Sanka.

I sigh. It's not cold-brew, but it'll have to do. I grab a disposable cup and pour a generous helping before jamming a lid on. The first sip is like a jolt to my system. Ah, liquid energy. I'm feeling more human already.

An older couple sits next to the big bay window, enjoying the view. They smile as Mom and I take a seat nearby; I sip my coffee and she's stirring sugar into her tea.

The cook comes into the room with two plates and sets them down for the older couple, then approaches us. "Is there anything I can get for you ladies?" The woman is in her mid-fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, her appearance giving me Julia Child vibes. I don't see any shapeshifter markings, so she is either fully human or a witch. I don't see a wand, but that doesn't mean anything. I don't carry mine, but my mother does.

"What are your specials for today?" Mom asks.

The cook rattles off the usual assortment of eggs, pancakes, and waffles, but ends by saying, "I can make you anything you'd like." She's trying to impress her new boss so she can keep her job. In my former career, I've had the displeasure of letting a few people go, and believe me, except for one horrid individual, it's never easy. Anyone who relishes it is an asshole.

Well, she doesn't have anything to worry about. If I read Great-Aunt Louise's letter correctly, I'm chained here. I can't exactly disclose that this place has a folded space in the backyard if I can't talk about it, now can I? And for all I know, the inn has a spell that will reject anyone but what it perceives is the rightful owner.

Yes, I spent a lot of time thinking about those things last night. Hence, the need for coffee.

I order eggs Benedict and Mom declines, saying she'll grab a bagel and fruit from the sidebar. While I wait for my eggs, I scroll through my phone. Might as well update my LinkedIn profile and delete my resume from Indeed.

I stare at my profile picture as I slowly delete "managing editor of West Coast Living" and update it to ... what? Innkeeper? Bed and breakfast owner? Both sound like a downgrade. My mouth twists wryly as I type in "owner of the Silver Spirit Inn".

Maybe it's not a bad thing after all, I muse as the cook slips my eggs Benedict in front of me. I thank her and update my Instagram page as well. I could blog the whole thing as Mom suggested and possibly get the attention of influencers. Think Julie & Julia but without all the aspic and beef bourguignon.

I mean, I already have experience curating pieces about home renovations and documenting homes that fit the West Coast vibe. My camera work could use some improvement, but I know people who can give me advice.

"What're you grinning about?" Mom asks.

I look up, fork poised above my eggs. "Hm?"

"I know that look," she tells me with a small smile. "You have an idea."

"Oh, I was just thinking about taking your advice and doing a blog about how I'm going to renovate this place."

Mom lifts her eyebrows and her lower lip juts out in approval. "See? Your mother knows a thing or two," she says with a chuckle. I roll my eyes and eat my eggs.

We finish breakfast and exit the inn, going around the back to the garden. It's rather lovely, probably one of the things I won't have to make too many changes to. As we approach the gate, Mom lays a hand on my shoulder.

"We're being watched."

I remembered to strengthen my shields before we left the hotel. I drop them a notch and instantly feel the warning tingle across the back of my neck. For the first time in ages, I tap into my secondary abilities. Instantly, the world is desaturated in color: the gate turns from white to grey, and the grass is now a dull, drab shade of green. With my grave sight activated, I can see the node pulsing beneath our feet like a living, breathing entity. It's the only thing that retains its color, glowing with a white-yellow light.

The node hums with energy, vibrating my feet like one of those foot massagers at the fair.

"She went upstairs," Mom says.

I return to normal vision because I don't want to mistake something on the other plane for reality and lose my footing. Mom has more experience traversing the two worlds, so her eyes continue to glow blue.

I take the brass key out of my purse and put it into the heavy iron lock. Metal clatters against metal as I slide it all the way home. Gripping the unadorned ring that serves as a doorknob, I turn the key and twist the ring. The gate clicks and swings open.

We're greeted with a sea of flowers and a small white brick path leading to a flight of stairs that climb to the Victorian's third floor. Two decorative black posts sit in the middle of the garden, the area around them paved with the same white brick.

Next to me, Mom curses. When I glance back at her quizzically she explains, "There's so much node energy here, I can't see anything."

That doesn't make sense.

"But you were able to see her before?"

Mom nods slowly, looking around the garden. "That's what's confusing me. The energy is concentrated here, but the node encompasses the whole property."

That's so weird. If the node is akin to a lake, it should be full from shore to shore. You shouldn't be able to see water but not see it.

Great, more secrets. Well, maybe Great-Aunt Louise's grimoire will have the answers.

We climb the stairs to the apartment and by the time we reach the top, I'm grateful that I decided to wear comfortable flats instead of heels. Rolling or breaking an ankle is not on my list of things to do on this trip.

I insert the key and open the door to the apartment. As soon as I step inside, the door slams shut behind me. I whirl around and stare at my mother's shocked face through the lace curtains.

A familiar tingle drags across the back of my neck.

"Mommy doesn't need to hear what I have to say," the ghost of Ariadne states.