Chapter 1
1
The pungent smell of burning toast and wet wool hit me like a slap to the face as soon as I walked into the kitchen of my mom’s bed-and-breakfast. If Clarke’s B&B had a signature scent, this was it: equal parts domestic disaster and vague holiday cheer. The kettle on the stove was shrieking its head off, its lid rattling like it was plotting a daring escape. Steam billowed into the already humid air, fogging up the windows and giving the whole room a cozy, slightly apocalyptic vibe.
By the door, my little brother Noah was hard at work destroying one of Mom’s nice cup towels. He’d wrapped it around his snow-crusted boots and was grinding it against them like his life depended on it.
“Seriously, Noah?” I groaned, lunging for the towel before he could finish turning it into a shredded mess. I held it up, dripping and streaked with muddy slush, like it was Exhibit A in a court case against his existence. “This is for guests, not your dirty swamp boots!”
He grinned, entirely unbothered, his hat tilted over his eyes and soaked to the point of being more snow than knit. “Mom said I could help. I’m being hospitable.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, planting a hand on my hip and waving the soggy towel in his direction. “Nothing says ‘welcome to Clarke’s’ like the scent of damp feet and whatever this towel is now infected with.”
Noah stomped what was left of the snow off onto the mat, each step sounding like he was auditioning for a role in Stomp: Winter Edition. The mat made a sad, squelching noise under the abuse, blending seamlessly into the usual chaos of the kitchen. The clink of dishes from the sink, the hum of the ancient furnace struggling to keep up, and the permanent scent of cinnamon buns (which somehow clung to the walls year-round) made up the soundtrack of my mornings.
The kitchen itself looked like it always did: somewhere between lived-in and actively imploding. Forgotten jam jars gathered in one corner of the counter. A mismatched army of mugs huddled by the sink. The surfaces sparkled faintly from where someone (probably me) had half-heartedly dusted them with glitter while decorating for Christmas. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you should be baking cookies or fixing something, even if you were just trying to sit still.
Outside, the wind howled against the house like it had a personal vendetta. It shoved at the windows, making them rattle in their frames, and sent a chill through the cracks in the old wood that wrapped around my ankles like a ghost. If I squinted through the fogged-up glass, I could just make out the cove in the distance, the waves slamming against the snow-dusted rocks. The storm hadn’t fully arrived yet, but it was coming—the kind of gray, heavy sky that made you feel like the world was holding its breath.
“Isla!” Mom’s voice cut through the kitchen noise like a knife, sharp and commanding. She was in full B&B General mode. “The kettle! Take it off the burner before it sets off the smoke alarm again!”
I crossed to the stove, swatting at the cloud of steam as I flipped the burner off. The kettle gave one last angry hiss, its spout dripping dramatically onto the coil below. “One of these days,” I muttered, moving it to the back burner, “I’m buying you an electric kettle, whether you like it or not.” The clang of metal on metal put a sudden stop the the kettles incessant screaming and for a rare moment, there was peace.
It didn’t last long. The doorbell jingled, a cheery little sound completely out of step with the storm rattling outside. I turned just as Mom’s footsteps thundered down the hall, her gait the no-nonsense march of a woman who would win every argument.
“That’ll be the hockey team!” she called, her voice equal parts enthusiasm and looming disaster. “Try to be nice, Isla.”
Nice. Right. Because when people thought of Isla Clarke, they definitely thought nice.
I leaned against the counter, letting the morning noise settle back in like a blanket I couldn’t shake off. My gaze drifted to the windows again, where the frost was creeping across the glass in delicate, jagged patterns. For all the chaos, there was something about this place—the noise, the clutter, the way it always felt like it was too much but just enough. It was messy and relentless, but it was home.
The pungent smell of burning toast and wet wool hit me like a slap to the face as soon as I walked into the kitchen of my mom’s bed-and-breakfast. If Clarke’s B&B had a signature scent, this was it: equal parts domestic disaster and vague holiday cheer. The kettle on the stove was shrieking its head off, its lid rattling like it was plotting a daring escape. Steam billowed into the already humid air, fogging up the windows and giving the whole room a cozy, slightly apocalyptic vibe.
By the door, my little brother Noah was hard at work destroying one of Mom’s nice cup towels. He’d wrapped it around his snow-crusted boots and was grinding it against them like his life depended on it.
“Seriously, Noah?” I groaned, lunging for the towel before he could finish turning it into a shredded mess. I held it up, dripping and streaked with muddy slush, like it was Exhibit A in a court case against his existence. “This is for guests, not your dirty swamp boots!”
He grinned, entirely unbothered, his hat tilted over his eyes and soaked to the point of being more snow than knit. “Mom said I could help. I’m being hospitable.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, planting a hand on my hip and waving the soggy towel in his direction. “Nothing says ‘welcome to Clarke’s’ like the scent of damp feet and whatever this towel is now infected with.”
Noah stomped what was left of the snow off onto the mat, each step sounding like he was auditioning for a role in Stomp: Winter Edition. The mat made a sad, squelching noise under the abuse, blending seamlessly into the usual chaos of the kitchen. The clink of dishes from the sink, the hum of the ancient furnace struggling to keep up, and the permanent scent of cinnamon buns (which somehow clung to the walls year-round) made up the soundtrack of my mornings.
The kitchen itself looked like it always did: somewhere between lived-in and actively imploding. Forgotten jam jars gathered in one corner of the counter. A mismatched army of mugs huddled by the sink. The surfaces sparkled faintly from where someone (probably me) had half-heartedly dusted them with glitter while decorating for Christmas. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you should be baking cookies or fixing something, even if you were just trying to sit still.
Outside, the wind howled against the house like it had a personal vendetta. It shoved at the windows, making them rattle in their frames, and sent a chill through the cracks in the old wood that wrapped around my ankles like a ghost. If I squinted through the fogged-up glass, I could just make out the cove in the distance, the waves slamming against the snow-dusted rocks. The storm hadn’t fully arrived yet, but it was coming—the kind of gray, heavy sky that made you feel like the world was holding its breath.
“Isla!” Mom’s voice cut through the kitchen noise like a knife, sharp and commanding. She was in full B&B General mode. “The kettle! Take it off the burner before it sets off the smoke alarm again!”
I crossed to the stove, swatting at the cloud of steam as I flipped the burner off. The kettle gave one last angry hiss, its spout dripping dramatically onto the coil below. “One of these days,” I muttered, moving it to the back burner, “I’m buying you an electric kettle, whether you like it or not.” The clang of metal on metal put a sudden stop the the kettles incessant screaming and for a rare moment, there was peace.
It didn’t last long. The doorbell jingled, a cheery little sound completely out of step with the storm rattling outside. I turned just as Mom’s footsteps thundered down the hall, her gait the no-nonsense march of a woman who would win every argument.
“That’ll be the hockey team!” she called, her voice equal parts enthusiasm and looming disaster. “Try to be nice, Isla.”
Nice. Right. Because when people thought of Isla Clarke, they definitely thought nice.
I leaned against the counter, letting the morning noise settle back in like a blanket I couldn’t shake off. My gaze drifted to the windows again, where the frost was creeping across the glass in delicate, jagged patterns. For all the chaos, there was something about this place—the noise, the clutter, the way it always felt like it was too much but just enough. It was messy and relentless, but it was home.
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