Two original, spoiler-conscious Hollow Creek cozy stories and an apothecary companion, created for readers of The Vanishing Potion by Marnie Blackthorn.
Explore the Hollow Creek Witch Mysteries series and meet the author on the Marnie Blackthorn page.
Bonus Story 1: The Thirteenth Windowsill
The first hard frost arrived in Hollow Creek with the tact of an uninvited relation. It whitened the roofs, crisped the fallen leaves into copper-colored shells, and left Rowan Blackthorn arguing with a pot of parsley.
“You had one job,” she told the parsley. “Remain indoors.”
The plant had been indoors. Unfortunately, it had been indoors on the windowsill of Blackthorn & Sage, where the old glass was not entirely committed to keeping weather outside. Its smallest leaves hung limp. Rowan moved the pot to the worktable, fetched a clean saucer, and decided that the plant was entitled to a second chance.
Jasper watched from a folded cloth. The large black cat possessed the amber-eyed patience of a magistrate listening to an unconvincing defense.
“Before you say anything, I know I should have moved it last night.”
Jasper yawned. This was worse than criticism.
The shop bell rang, bringing in a gust of cold air, the smell of cinnamon, and Maeve Thistlewick carrying a wicker basket large enough to conceal a medium-sized dog. It contained, instead, twelve little terracotta pots, two coils of blue ribbon, a bag of biscuits, and an expression of determined panic.
“Wonderful,” Maeve said when she saw Rowan. “You’re not busy.”
“I am conducting a difficult conversation with parsley.”
“Then you’ll appreciate a conversation in which someone answers.”
Maeve placed the basket on the counter. She ran the Elderberry Tea Room with a briskness that could organize a thunderstorm into three sensible courses, but today a strand of auburn hair had escaped its pin and curled against her cheek. That was usually a sign of trouble.
“The winter windowsill exchange,” she announced. “At eleven. Twelve households have promised to grow seedlings for neighbors who haven’t enough light or space. I have twelve pots, twelve little care cards, twelve volunteers, and now—”
“An unfortunate thirteenth?” Rowan guessed.
Maeve stared. “How did you know?”
“The basket has an empty space shaped like a problem.”
From beneath the blue cloth Maeve produced a narrow parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. It was heavier than its size suggested. The twine around it was tied in a neat double bow, and someone had tucked a sprig of evergreen beneath the knot.
“It was left outside the tea room before dawn,” Maeve said. “No sender. No name. Only these words.”
She turned the parcel over. In large, careful handwriting, somebody had written, FOR THE WINDOW THAT KEEPS HOLLOW CREEK WARM.
“That is either charming,” Rowan said, “or a remarkably impractical instruction for delivering a parcel.”
“I asked the bakery. They hadn’t ordered anything. I asked Mrs. Lark, and she went pink and said she was terribly busy, which is odd because she has been retired for twenty years. I asked the mayor, and he asked whether the window was part of a municipal heating initiative.”
“He would.”
“I’m worried I’ve missed someone.” Maeve lowered her voice. “The whole purpose of this exchange is not to miss people.”
Rowan untied the twine. Inside the paper was a beautifully made cedar planter, hardly wider than a loaf tin, with two curved brass brackets, a shallow removable tray, and a polished backboard fitted with a little mirror. Someone had sanded every edge until it felt soft beneath her fingers.
“This is not an ordinary flowerpot,” Rowan said.
“Exactly. It’s a very particular flowerpot. A particular flowerpot belongs somewhere. And if somebody is waiting for it while we congratulate ourselves on our twelve perfectly arranged volunteers—”
“You will have failed civilization.”
“Please don’t mock me before breakfast.”
Rowan lifted the cedar box to examine its underside. There were no secret compartments, suspicious marks, or enchanted inscriptions. Just good joinery, two screw holes, and a narrow rectangle of blue paint along the back.
Jasper rose, stretched, and touched the planter with one paw.
“Do not become attached,” Rowan told him. “It’s a delivery, not a throne.”
He remained unconvinced.
By ten-thirty the Elderberry Tea Room was full of damp coats, clinking cups, and the hopeful smell of fresh soil. A long table had been cleared beside the fire, where Maeve had arranged the twelve pots in two precise rows. Each held a little wooden marker showing what its volunteer had agreed to tend: chives for Mrs. Dorr, calendula for the schoolroom windows, basil for the bakery when warmer days returned.
The exchange was Maeve’s idea, born after a neighbor mentioned that her apartment faced a brick wall and another confessed that he had no room for a garden beyond a single shelf. Rather than argue about who possessed the better windows, Maeve had proposed lending light. One household could start seedlings, another could receive the plants later, and everyone could have something green to look forward to.
It was an unusually good plan, which explained why Maeve was certain some terrible omission had occurred.
Mrs. Beryl Lark arrived wearing a knitted hat decorated with tiny felt holly leaves. She brought a broad tray of seed packets and the air of someone carrying knowledge she had been forbidden to share.
“Beautiful morning,” Rowan said.
“Rather,” said Mrs. Lark, carefully avoiding the parcel beside the counter.
“Interesting woodwork.”
“Is it?”
“Very interesting.”
“Cedar is a fine material,” Mrs. Lark observed.
“Did you make it?”
“I am not a carpenter.”
“A fortunate distinction. I was about to accuse you of excellent carpentry.”
Mrs. Lark busied herself straightening a pot that did not require straightening. Maeve, occupied with the kettle, failed to notice the exchange. Rowan noticed Mrs. Lark’s scarf, however. It had been caught by a little curl of bright blue thread at one end, as though she had leaned against something newly painted.
That might mean anything. In Hollow Creek, half the residents painted furniture in winter, when sensible people stayed indoors.
A lanky teenager named Tansy Brook arrived with a wooden crate of damp newspaper, three small sacks of planting mix, and an elderly spaniel who had evidently been invited by nobody. The dog halted respectfully when Jasper appeared on the back of a chair.
“Sorry,” Tansy whispered. “He wouldn’t stay home.”
“Neither would Jasper, if he had somewhere better to go,” Rowan said.
Tansy set down the crate with more care than the newspaper required. Her boots were muddy; one cuff bore a smear of the same blue paint that marked the planter. She caught Rowan looking and tucked the cuff out of sight.
Interesting, Rowan thought. Not yet useful.
Soon the room filled. A baker offered a spare south-facing window. A shopkeeper volunteered shelf space for three pots. Someone suggested that seedlings would thrive better if the entire operation were conducted according to moon phases, and Maeve politely informed him that her first requirement was a window that actually opened.
The mystery parcel remained on the counter. Every time someone glanced at it, someone else glanced away.
Mayor Clement Pike came in with a scarf of orange wool so bright that the teacups seemed subdued by comparison.
“What is our problem?” he asked.
“We haven’t established that there is one,” Rowan said.
“A splendid beginning.”
Maeve showed him the cedar box. He studied it gravely, turning the brackets this way and that.
“Could be for the council windows,” he proposed. “They keep the town warm, figuratively speaking, through wise administration.”
The silence that followed was unusually complete.
Jasper jumped down from the chair. Mayor Pike stepped aside as though yielding the floor to a higher authority.
Rowan took the planter back before it could be donated to municipal vanity.
At noon Maeve counted the volunteers for the fourth time. She had twelve names, twelve gardens, and twelve promises of a sunny windowsill. There was no thirteenth request and no thirteenth volunteer. The parcel made everyone behave oddly, but no one would explain it.
“I’ll ask the people who cannot come,” Maeve said. “Maybe it’s meant for someone housebound.”
“Then why leave it anonymously at your door?”
“Perhaps the donor wants to be kind without making a fuss.”
“Several Hollow Creek residents are already making a tremendous fuss by refusing to admit they know anything.”
Maeve sighed and began pouring more tea.
Rowan carried the planter to the little back-corner table beneath the framed print of the covered bridge. It was Maeve’s quiet table, the one reserved for private worries, visiting cousins, and anyone who needed to be left alone for a little while. Jasper settled onto its window seat and stared at the cedar box.
“Since everyone insists it belongs somewhere,” Rowan told him, “we could try asking the object.”
Jasper pressed his nose to the mirror fitted inside the backboard. Rowan tilted it toward the window. A bright stripe of winter light moved across the tabletop and warmed the shadow beneath a pot of rosemary.
The mirror was not decorative. It was positioned to bounce light sideways. The planter had been designed for a window that was too narrow, too awkwardly shaded, or both.
A small thoughtful pleasure stirred in Rowan’s chest. She liked discovering why something had been made in a particular way. Good craftsmanship was a form of explanation.
She held one brass bracket against the frame. Too short. Against the edge of the bench? Too long. The mounting holes pointed toward a wall rather than the sash, suggesting that the planter was meant to hang against a fixed surface beside a window.
Maeve emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of honey biscuits. “You look as if you’re interrogating furniture.”
“The furniture is cooperating.”
“More than the neighbors are.”
“Have you ever noticed how much light you lose when the sun passes the chimney next door?”
Maeve paused. “I’ve noticed. I’ve also noticed that no amount of glaring at a chimney makes it move.”
“Which window loses the most?”
“The kitchen one, naturally. It’s as narrow as a folded napkin. The sill is just wide enough for a teaspoon and a small complaint.”
“Would you like to grow anything there?”
Maeve gave an impatient laugh. “I spend my days feeding everybody else. I have enough to do without tending a garden.”
Then she paused, as though hearing the shape of her own answer.
“Anyway,” she added briskly, “we’re discussing someone who needs the planter, not me.”
Rowan let the subject rest. Good friends were sometimes most useful when they knew when not to win an argument.
After lunch she walked down Main Street with the planter under one arm. A light snow had begun to fall, too soft to settle but sufficiently persistent to make every cobblestone look thoughtful. Jasper accompanied her at a stately distance, his black tail held straight up.
She measured the little public-library window. The box was far too wide. She tried the shallow shelf beside the door of Briar & Bell Books; there was no suitable wall for the brackets. Elias Vale, emerging from the shop with a stack of books, watched with polite curiosity.
“Architectural work?” he asked.
“Botanical detective work.”
“Is there a distinction?”
“Usually less paperwork.”
He considered the cedar box. “Whoever made it knew the exact shape of the intended place.”
“That is my suspicion.”
“I could look at the joinery with you.”
“Thank you, but I suspect I need to look at the recipient.”
Elias smiled briefly, and Rowan was grateful he did not ask the obvious follow-up question. He merely moved a stack of books away from the doorway so Jasper could pass without indignity.
At the bakery, the planter was too narrow for the south window. At the tailor’s, the brackets were wrong. The covered bridge required no windowsill gardening at all, despite Jasper’s apparent conviction that any journey was improved by a pause to inspect running water.
Rowan returned to Blackthorn & Sage with her cheeks cold and her boots damp. The cedar box rested on her counter while she examined the faint blue streak again. It was not a spill on the front. It was a narrow band across the back, precisely where a piece of painted wood might have been pressed against it.
Tansy’s cuff. Mrs. Lark’s snagged scarf. A fresh coat of paint somewhere near the tea room.
Rowan sat very still.
Jasper leapt onto the counter and pushed the planter slightly to the left, where the late light caught its mirror. A patch of pale gold brightened the wall behind the register.
“Yes,” Rowan murmured. “The light is the point.”
She carried the box back to the tea room, entering through the kitchen because Maeve was taking orders in the front. The kitchen window was exactly as Maeve had described: narrow and shaded by the neighboring chimney, with a painted blue frame whose lower edge had been recently touched up.
Below it stood a small shelf of jars. Two pencil-sized dots marked the plaster at the same distance apart as the planter’s brackets.
Rowan lifted the box gently. The brass fittings aligned perfectly with the dots. Its little mirror would catch the indirect light after midday and turn the kitchen’s dullest corner into somewhere a hardy herb might manage quite comfortably.
“Oh,” said a voice behind her.
Tansy stood in the doorway holding a clean dishcloth. She looked as though she had been caught attempting a very gentle burglary.
“It’s for Maeve,” Rowan said.
Tansy nodded once. “Please don’t tell her yet.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“Because she never lets anybody do anything for her.” Tansy set down the cloth. “She finds jobs for people who are lonely. She sends soup when someone’s ill. Last winter she took my school fundraiser jar off the counter and put it somewhere everybody could see. But when I asked what she wanted for herself, she told me she wanted a quieter kettle.”
“That does sound like Maeve.”
“So Mrs. Lark measured the window. I made the mirror frame in woodwork class. Mr. Bell at the hardware shop cut the brackets. Three people brought herbs that wouldn’t mind a slow start. We meant to hang it after closing, when she wouldn’t have time to refuse.”
“Who wrote the message?”
Tansy’s cheeks reddened. “I did. It sounded better in my head.”
“It sounds exactly right,” Rowan said.
The teenager twisted her dishcloth. “Please don’t spoil it.”
Rowan considered the request. She could hear Maeve laughing in the tea room, the bright strong laugh she used when she was tired and wanted nobody to know it. She thought of the little kitchen sill, bare except for a teaspoon and a small complaint.
“I won’t,” Rowan said. “But I’m making one suggestion.”
The suggestion required some practical thought. The bracket must be fixed securely by someone competent, away from any cooking surface or fire hazard, and the planter needed a removable tray so Maeve could water it without soaking the wall. Tansy already had both matters in hand. Rowan offered to choose the seedlings and to ensure that no one treated the tiny container as an invitation to grow anything unsuitable for the space.
“Thyme,” she said. “Perhaps a small parsley plant once it recovers from its dramatic morning. Nothing that needs heroic quantities of sunshine.”
Tansy grinned. “Mrs. Lark said you’d know.”
“Mrs. Lark is generous about everyone except herself.”
By late afternoon the exchange had grown into a cheerful kind of chaos. The seed packets were divided, windows paired with plants, and every volunteer had acquired at least one new acquaintance. Mayor Pike attempted to propose a resolution commending municipal windowsills and was gently redirected toward carrying teacups.
The final pot went to Mrs. Dorr, whose sunny sitting room could accommodate three young plants for neighbors who wanted green things but had no suitable windows of their own. She left wearing a pink scarf and looking thirty years less resigned to winter.
Only then did Maeve lift the mysterious cedar box again.
“I suppose,” she said quietly, “we must admit defeat.”
Rowan looked over from the kettle. “Defeat?”
“We found everyone a place except whoever this was meant for. That doesn’t seem right.”
“There may be another kind of place,” Rowan suggested.
Maeve shook her head. “There’s always someone who gets forgotten when everybody assumes somebody else has thought of them.”
For a moment her voice lost its brisk edges. Rowan recognized the tiredness beneath it: not the kind that came from too many hours on one’s feet, but from caring about so many people that an unaccounted-for kindness felt like a personal failure.
“Maeve,” she said, “who checked whether you had a window?”
Maeve stared. “I live above the shop.”
“Yes.”
“My own kitchen gets hardly any light.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t got time to—”
A small scrape sounded at the kitchen door. Tansy stood there with Mrs. Lark and Mr. Bell, the hardware shopkeeper, who was carrying a screwdriver. Behind them hovered three other volunteers, all wearing expressions of excitement badly disguised as innocence.
Maeve looked from their faces to the cedar box.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lark replied.
“You cannot possibly.”
“Watch us.”
Mr. Bell took the box and, after checking the fittings, secured the brackets to the prepared wall. Tansy brought two little pots, each set in a tidy saucer. Mrs. Lark supplied a modest thyme plant and a recovered parsley cutting that looked decidedly more hopeful than Rowan’s own frost-bitten specimen. The mirror caught the last of the winter afternoon and painted a quiet patch of light across the leaves.
There was no spell, no dramatic flash, and no mysterious sound from the ceiling beams. It was a small wooden planter on a kitchen wall. That was enough.
Maeve pressed one hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone, though she seemed determined to blame the steam from the kettle.
“I was supposed to arrange things for you,” she said.
“You did,” Tansy replied. “So we arranged one thing for you.”
Mrs. Lark straightened the blue ribbon tied discreetly around the brackets. “You have been borrowing our windows for everybody else. We thought you might let us borrow yours for once.”
Mayor Pike appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual silence. “How touching. Would anyone care for a brief civic—”
“No,” said six people at once.
Jasper stepped into the kitchen, inspected the new planter, and settled on the floor beneath it. After a moment he closed his eyes, granting the installation a level of approval ordinarily reserved for warm bread and well-positioned cushions.
Maeve laughed then, a real laugh that did not pretend to hide anything. She hugged Tansy, then Mrs. Lark, and finally Rowan, who had known enough to keep quiet but not enough to avoid being caught in the embrace.
Later, when the last visitor had gone and the tea room’s brass berry bell was finally still, Rowan stayed to help dry the cups. Maeve kept glancing at the kitchen window as though the little shelf might dissolve if left unobserved.
“I thought I’d neglected someone,” she confessed.
“You had,” Rowan said.
Maeve looked stricken.
“Yourself.”
“That’s a disagreeable diagnosis from an herbalist.”
“Entirely nonmedical. Unfortunately reliable.”
Maeve reached into the new planter and touched the leaves of the thyme without pinching them. “It doesn’t make me less capable to accept a present, does it?”
“I should hope not. Otherwise half the town would be in trouble whenever they accept your biscuits.”
Maeve smiled. Outside, the frost was settling again, whitening the lane and laying a silver edge along the covered bridge. Inside, the little mirrored backboard gathered what remained of the light and gave it back to the plants.
At Blackthorn & Sage, Rowan later moved her own parsley away from the window. Jasper observed the adjustment with complete satisfaction.
“I have learned,” Rowan told him, “that being responsible for a thing does not mean doing everything alone.”
Jasper approached the pot, sniffed its nearest leaf, and walked away without knocking it over.
From him, that counted as a promise.
Bonus Story 2: The Bridge That Sang Back
Deputy Nora Finch arrived at Blackthorn & Sage carrying a paper cup of coffee and an expression that suggested the coffee had offended her personally.
“The covered bridge is singing,” she announced.
Rowan Blackthorn looked up from a basket of dried rosemary. “That’s a sentence I would expect from the mayor, not from you.”
“The mayor says it’s haunted. The bridge maintenance supervisor says he hasn’t heard anything. Three volunteers say it sounds like a woman humming. One says it’s definitely a pipe organ.” Nora placed her cup on the counter. “And someone has proposed canceling the winter lantern walk.”
“Has the bridge collapsed?”
“No.”
“Has anybody been injured?”
“No.”
“Has anyone asked the bridge whether it intends to perform on the evening of the walk?”
Nora gave her a look. “I’m trying to establish whether something has been attached to a public structure without permission. I thought you’d prefer that to an emergency coven meeting.”
“I prefer almost anything to an emergency coven meeting.”
On the windowsill, Jasper raised his black head. Rowan recognized the expression of a creature already prepared to offer assistance in a manner of his own choosing.
“Absolutely not,” she told him. “It’s cold.”
Jasper jumped down.
Nora sighed. “He’s coming, isn’t he?”
“He thinks this is a professional engagement.”
By the time they reached the bridge, pale flakes were falling between the bare branches above the creek. The covered wooden span stood dark against the water, with rows of unlit paper lanterns suspended beneath its roof. Winter-green garlands framed the entrances, and a dozen stars made of folded paper hung between them. Nothing appeared especially menacing.
Mayor Clement Pike waited at the southern approach. His orange scarf was wound around his neck three times, giving him the appearance of a worried ceremonial candle.
“Deputy,” he said with relief. Then he saw Rowan. “Oh. Magical consultation.”
“Shopkeeper consultation,” Rowan corrected.
“A meaningful distinction?”
“One comes without a committee.”
Aunt Lenora Blackthorn stood beside the railing in dark gray gloves and a beautifully tailored coat. Her presence did not surprise Rowan. Lenora had a gift for appearing wherever Hollow Creek most wanted to pretend it had no problems.
“Good afternoon, dear,” Lenora said. “I understand someone believes the bridge has developed a soprano.”
“According to the mayor, an entire organ,” Nora replied.
“It has excellent acoustics,” said a woman carrying a basket of lantern wire.
She introduced herself as Mira Sloane, organizer of the evening walk. Mira had ink-dark curls escaping her hood and a crease between her brows that had clearly been there since breakfast. The event was intended to collect donations for shared winter supplies and give neighbors an excuse to gather outdoors before retreating to hot drinks.
“It’s a simple walk,” she told them. “Across the bridge, make a wish, come back, and drink something warm. Nobody has to be chosen by prophecy.”
“In Hollow Creek,” Rowan observed, “that seems prudent.”
Mira pointed inside. “It began two nights ago after we finished decorating. Yesterday it happened whenever the wind picked up. This morning people heard the tune when there was no one on the bridge.”
Mayor Pike lowered his voice. “Not merely a tune. A warning.”
“Of what?” Nora asked.
“I’m a public servant, Deputy. I don’t like to speculate.”
“You do it competitively,” Lenora murmured.
The sound arrived without invitation.
First came a thin high note, almost swallowed by the wind. Another answered from farther along the span, then a lower one, and finally a wavering tone that disappeared when the gust dropped. Together they made an uneasy little phrase, as though someone had nearly remembered the ending of a song.
For a moment nobody moved. Jasper’s ears turned toward the roof. He looked less frightened than offended that the bridge had interrupted his afternoon.
Nora stepped forward. “Everyone stay clear of the entrance while I check the walkway.”
She inspected the visible boards and railing without disturbing the decorations. Rowan followed at a distance. The air beneath the roof smelled of wet timber and evergreen, and the creek was loud enough to make ordinary conversation difficult.
Halfway across, another gust struck. A note sounded near Rowan’s shoulder. She turned, but saw only a cluster of green ribbons and a paper star hanging from the roof. A breath later a different note came from the far end.
It didn’t sound like a human voice. It was clean and hollow, like air moving across the lip of an empty bottle. Rowan remembered blowing across jars as a child and being informed by Aunt Lenora that the household did not require another musician.
Several pale stems were woven among the greenery. Each appeared hollow, cut to a different length, and held by neatly tied threads.
Before Rowan could look closer, Nora said, “Don’t touch those. Mr. Weller needs to inspect anything attached to the bridge.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rowan said.
Jasper, who had placed one paw on the railing, withdrew it with an expression of wounded innocence.
Mr. Weller, the town’s maintenance supervisor, arrived from the north carrying a torch, a measuring tape, and the bearing of someone entirely unimpressed by supernatural reputations.
“I’ve checked the structure,” he told Nora. “No new problem identified. But decorations aren’t part of the bridge. If there’s something loose or obstructing the path, it comes down before the crowd arrives.”
“Agreed,” Nora said. “And if you find anything else that concerns you, we postpone.”
The mayor’s shoulders sagged. “Could we issue a statement saying the bridge is structurally sound but musically unsettled?”
“You can issue a statement after Mr. Weller finishes,” Nora replied.
The first clue proved disappointingly ordinary by Hollow Creek standards. Mr. Weller discovered three hollow reeds tied inside the garland at the south entrance. Each had a small opening cut beside its tip. When he held one steady in the oncoming gust, it produced a thin note.
“A wind whistle,” Rowan said.
“There,” Nora replied. “An explanation.”
“Only for the noise,” Lenora said. “Not for the tune.”
Mira frowned at the reeds. “Nobody ordered instruments. We only planned greenery and paper stars.”
“How many people decorated?” Nora asked.
“Fifteen, perhaps sixteen. The school volunteers cut the stars. The flower shop supplied the greenery. Other helpers tied everything together. I thought we were finished on Tuesday.”
“Then we ask the helpers,” said Nora. “And let Mr. Weller examine the rest.”
They waited beside the creek while the supervisor checked the hangings. Another gust moved the ribbons. Rowan heard two separate notes, one from just above the entrance and another farther inside.
“That’s curious,” she said.
“What is?” Lenora asked.
“The tune only forms when we walk. A listener at the entrance hears one part, another near the middle hears something different. We carry the melody with us.”
“An unusually human habit,” Lenora said.
“You’re being poetic.”
“I shall recover.”
By four o’clock Mr. Weller had inspected the bridge and found more reeds, some better secured than others. He required two brackets to be adjusted, several decorations to be removed, and the remaining elements to be checked before the public event. He would personally approve or reject the final arrangement.
That left the organizers with an awkward question. If the sounds were deliberate, who had made them, and why keep quiet when the town was already telling ghost stories?
Mayor Pike offered to convene an emergency musical heritage committee. Nora thanked him so firmly that he understood the idea had been refused.
Rowan went with Mira to question the decorating volunteers. Their first stop was a workshop where winter stars were drying on strings. A young man admitted to folding twenty-four paper ornaments but claimed no knowledge of reeds. A shopkeeper remembered a girl experimenting with bits of greenery. Another volunteer mentioned hearing a familiar song without being able to name it.
There were no threatening notes, no broken locks, and no evidence of vandalism. That was reassuring, but it did not explain why the person responsible had allowed rumors to grow.
Back at the bridge, Nora stood with her gloved hands resting on the railing. The crowd would begin gathering in two hours, and she had no intention of permitting an unsupervised installation merely because the result was charming.
“Isn’t it enough to know the mechanism?” she asked Rowan.
“For safety, perhaps. But someone went to considerable trouble to make the sound follow people along the bridge. That’s not an accident.”
“An elaborate prank?”
“Pranks generally want an audience. This seems to have been arranged for somebody in particular.”
Nora glanced at the garlands. “You have an idea.”
“Only a question.”
The answer began with a box of unused paper stars. Mira brought it out from her store cupboard, looking increasingly troubled. Beneath the folded ornaments lay a cracked reed whistle and a coil of fine green wool. It matched the thread holding the remaining whistles.
“I know who had this box,” Mira said.
She looked so stricken that Nora set down her coffee cup and softened her voice.
“Then tell us. Knowing who helped isn’t the same as accusing them of a crime.”
“Lina Wren. She’s seventeen. She did most of the stars and brought her own supplies. I don’t believe she’d do anything dangerous.”
“Neither do I,” Rowan said. “But it would be good to speak to her.”
Mira explained that Lina lived with her grandmother above the old haberdasher’s shop near the creek. Mrs. Wren had once taught singing lessons. She rarely went out on cold evenings now, though she had promised to listen for the lantern procession from her upstairs window.
Rowan pictured the little apartment she had noticed across the water, the folded blanket on the sill and the lamp burning long before dusk.
“Did Lina mention the weather when she volunteered?” Rowan asked.
Mira nodded. “Several times. She kept hoping for wind.”
Nora took a measured breath. “Let’s ask her what she intended. Quietly.”
They found Lina in the narrow passage beside the old shop, trying to carry a basket of wool scarves upstairs. Her cheeks were red from the cold. When she saw Nora’s uniform, she stopped so abruptly that one scarf slid to the floor.
“Is the walk canceled?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Nora said. “We’d like to know about the reeds.”
Lina gripped the basket handle. “I didn’t put anything across the walkway.”
“We know,” Rowan answered.
“I tied them high up, where nobody could reach them. I checked the knots.”
“Did you tell Mira?” Nora asked.
Lina looked down. “Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I thought she’d say no. And then she might tell Gran.”
There was a short silence. Rowan stooped to pick up the fallen scarf and handed it back.
“What were you trying to give your grandmother?” she asked.
Lina sat on the bottom step. “A song.”
She told them that Mrs. Wren had taught generations of Hollow Creek children how to sing without being embarrassed by the sound of their own voices. At winter gatherings she used to begin a simple old melody so everyone could join in. This year she was staying home because the cold and the walk were too much for her.
“Gran said she wouldn’t mind,” Lina explained. “She said the town could sing without her. But I know she misses it. When I was little she showed me how to cut reeds so they made notes. I thought the bridge could do her part this time.”
She had spent days testing the lengths of the stems. Her first design sounded like a kettle with a terrible disposition. The second produced only one note. Eventually she discovered that placing different reeds along the bridge could make a brief melody emerge as people moved through the breeze.
“I tested it before dawn,” she said. “Nobody was there. I thought it sounded lovely.”
“It did,” Rowan said.
“Then people started saying the bridge was haunted. The mayor looked frightened. I was afraid if I admitted it, everybody would be angry and Gran would be embarrassed.”
Nora sat on the step beside her. “You wanted to give her something kind. That matters. But public decorations still have to be agreed with the organizer and cleared for safety. Surprises can’t put other people in charge of risks they don’t know about.”
“I understand now.”
“Good. Then perhaps you can help Mr. Weller decide which pieces can remain.”
Lina’s eyes filled. “You won’t simply pull them all down?”
“That’s his decision to make,” Nora said. “I’m not going to promise otherwise.”
Lenora, who had been silent, lifted the cracked spare whistle from the box. “Your grandmother taught you this craft?”
“Yes.”
“Was she exacting?”
“Very.”
Lenora examined the loose knot. “Then I imagine she would have strong opinions about that fastening.”
Lina blinked and unexpectedly laughed. “She’d say it would slip in the first proper gust.”
“Intelligent woman,” Lenora replied.
They returned to the bridge as dusk deepened. Lina showed Mr. Weller how the reeds had been arranged and where she had tied them. Several pieces were removed. Two were moved to approved fixing points and secured away from lanterns, loose wires, and people’s heads. The cracked whistle was discarded. Nora checked that no visitor would have to lean over the rail or reach toward the creek to hear the result.
The repairs were less romantic than the original plan and took much longer. Rowan considered that an improvement.
The melody was quieter afterward. Fewer notes remained, and the wind would have to cooperate. Lina accepted the result with an anxious dignity that made Rowan like her even more.
Mira approached as the last fastening was checked. “You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I could have helped you.”
“I know that now.”
Mira offered Lina the remaining paper stars. “Would you like to help me start the procession? I can’t control the wind, but we can make sure your grandmother knows it was meant for her.”
At the southern end of the bridge, neighbors gathered with lanterns glowing gold and blue. Nora explained that the installation had been inspected, loose items removed, and the final arrangement cleared by the person responsible for its safety. She kept the statement admirably short.
Mayor Pike leaned close. “Should I say a few words?”
“No,” Nora said.
“Three?”
“Your lantern is lit, Mayor.”
He looked down, startled to discover that it was.
The procession began. People stepped carefully onto the dark boards, their lanterns making pools of amber light beneath the roof. The creek moved under a low ribbon of mist. Children whispered wishes to their parents, who listened with the seriousness children deserved.
But the wind had dropped completely.
Lina stood beside Rowan, watching the motionless garlands. She had imagined the evening so clearly: the little notes rising as the procession crossed, her grandmother listening from the upper window, everyone unknowingly carrying the song she once led. Now the bridge was silent.
Rowan could think of no sensible spell that would honestly produce the wind Lina wanted. A promise of weather was not a promise anyone had the right to make.
“Do you remember the tune?” Nora asked.
“Most of it,” Lina whispered.
“I know the first line,” Lenora said.
Rowan looked at her aunt in surprise. The admission had cost Lenora something. She was not a woman who sang in public merely to fill a silence.
“Would you begin?” Nora asked.
Lenora considered the little line of lanterns disappearing into the bridge. Then she started humming. Her voice was low and steady, not particularly polished but entirely sure of where the melody should go.
Lina joined her after a few notes. Mira joined Lina. Nora came in on the next phrase, and several neighbors began to follow. Someone sang too high. A child laughed. Mayor Pike introduced a harmony nobody had requested.
The resulting music was gloriously imperfect.
Then a breeze slid down the creek.
A clear note sounded from the first reed. Another answered farther inside the bridge. A low third drifted after the lanterns, followed by a trembling fourth that faded beneath the human voices.
Lina lifted her face. Across the water, a curtain moved in an upstairs window. An elderly woman in a pale shawl leaned into the lamplight. She raised one hand and moved it gently, as though conducting a roomful of pupils who could not see her.
Lina raised her own hand in reply.
The tune did not need to be louder. It only needed to reach that window.
The walk continued until the last lantern had crossed. The donations box filled. Children requested second biscuits and three adults pretended not to see them. Mr. Weller inspected the final fittings once more as people dispersed, satisfied only when the bridge was once again a quiet, uneventful piece of public infrastructure.
Nora found Lina beside the entrance. “You made something lovely,” she said. “And one important mistake.”
“I should have asked permission.”
“Exactly. A good idea doesn’t become a better one by keeping the safety details secret.”
“Next year I’ll show Mira a drawing first.”
“Next year?” Mayor Pike appeared from behind his scarf. “Could we make this an annual musical installation? With a coordinating council, perhaps?”
Mira exchanged a look with Nora. “Perhaps we could begin with one conversation.”
“An excellent beginning,” Lenora said.
The mayor failed to recognize that his committee had just disappeared.
On the way home, Rowan walked beside her aunt while Jasper padded ahead, moving from one pool of lamplight to another.
“You knew the tune,” Rowan said.
“Part of it.”
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“I wasn’t certain it was the right song. Starting a birthday anthem in the middle of a winter procession would have been regrettable.”
“You risked it.”
Lenora looked back toward the bridge. “That girl was about to be very disappointed.”
There was a pause. Rowan considered asking what other songs her aunt knew, then decided some questions could wait.
Behind them, one last breath of wind moved through the covered span. The reeds answered with a single clear note. Not a warning, and not a prophecy. Just a sound someone had made possible and other people had taken the trouble to hear.
At Blackthorn & Sage, Jasper stopped outside the door and looked toward the creek.
“Don’t even think about installing an orchestra in the shop,” Rowan told him.
He blinked once.
“I mean it.”
She opened the door. A bundle of hanging thyme stirred in the draft. Jasper entered, inspected the room, and settled on his favorite folded cloth.
For once, Rowan thought, he might be willing to let an evening end without adding another mystery.
Companion Bonus: The Blackthorn & Sage Field Notebook
Welcome to Hollow Creek, where an herb shop can be a place of good advice, a tea room can hold a town together, and a black cat can communicate a surprisingly complete opinion without speaking a single word. This companion is a reader’s notebook, not a collection of remedies or newly revealed canon. It draws on the setting of The Vanishing Potion and the two stand-alone bonus stories above.
Five stops in fictional Hollow Creek
Blackthorn & Sage
Rowan Blackthorn’s inherited herbal shop is the everyday center of her world. Its public shelves hold familiar dried botanicals, teas, and household goods. The restricted family materials belong to a different, carefully guarded part of the business. An important distinction for readers: Rowan’s instinct is to observe and check facts, not to solve every question by casting a spell.
The Elderberry Tea Room
Behind a blue-painted door with a berry-shaped brass bell, Maeve Thistlewick serves tea, honey biscuits, useful kindness, and occasional unsolicited advice. The room has a quiet table for conversations that need privacy. In The Thirteenth Windowsill, it becomes the site of a small community project about sharing light and accepting help.
Briar & Bell Books
Close to the covered bridge, this bookshop contains old volumes, maps, and local histories. Elias Vale’s care with physical documents offers a reminder that expertise can be quiet. A careful reader can distinguish the everyday work of preserving things from the tempting fiction that every old page carries a magical answer.
The Covered Bridge
One of Hollow Creek’s recognizable landmarks, the wooden span connects ordinary errands with the feeling of stepping into another part of town. The Bridge That Sang Back adds a temporary winter lantern event. Its musical surprise is a self-contained bonus incident, not an explanation of any unresolved mystery in the novels.
Moonlit Grange Hall and the Coven House
The Grange Hall is a public gathering place in the first book, while the Coven House represents the more formal, and sometimes complicated, side of Hollow Creek’s magical community. Both locations remind readers that institutions and neighbors are not always the same thing. This guide deliberately leaves their ongoing secrets untouched.
Ten notes from the apothecary shelf
Lavender
The familiar bundles in Rowan’s shop add fragrance and a sense of place. Dried stems are attractive props, but a pleasing scent does not by itself establish a health benefit.
Rosemary
A strongly aromatic culinary shrub and a shop staple. In fiction its hardy, woody sprigs make a useful contrast with delicate leaves and short-lived flowers.
Lemon balm
A lemon-scented member of the mint family. It evokes the everyday side of an herbal business, separate from the magical preparations that drive larger mysteries.
Fennel
Its feathery foliage and aromatic seeds make it visually and sensorially distinctive. Names and appearances matter when ingredients are being identified.
Nettle
A plant known for stinging hairs on its leaves and stems. Its presence in traditional botanical settings is not an invitation to handle or consume wild plants without expertise.
Rue
In the story, rue appears in protective arrangements and old family habits. Real rue can irritate skin and is potentially hazardous; the fictional associations should not be treated as practical advice.
Rosehip
The fruiting structure left by certain roses after flowering. Different rose species and preparation methods vary, another reason not to treat a picturesque label as a reliable instruction.
Thyme and parsley
Modest kitchen herbs are central to the windowsill bonus. The small plants stand for patience and shared responsibility rather than secret power. Actual growing conditions still depend on light, water, and temperature.
Calendula
Known for its bright flowers and irregularly curved seeds, calendula belongs naturally at a community seed exchange. In this reader’s notebook it is a gardening detail, not a medical prescription.
Truth-Bloom Infusion — fictional
Unlike the ordinary plants above, Truth-Bloom is a restricted Blackthorn family preparation invented for the novel. It may indicate concealment in certain records, oaths, or treated ingredients, but it cannot force a confession or replace human judgment. No real-world plant or recipe corresponds to it.
A reader’s five-point observation card
- Ask what the object is before asking what it means. A jar, a ribbon, a seed packet, or a reed whistle can be ordinary and still carry an important clue.
- Notice who understands a place. Maeve knows the patterns of her tea room; Rowan knows her stock; a maintenance professional understands whether a public structure can safely carry an installation.
- Watch for the difference between secrecy and wrongdoing. In a gentle mystery, people may hide kindness, embarrassment, or a surprise. Suspicion is not a conclusion.
- Remember Jasper’s method. He does not narrate clues or speak in complete sentences. He pays attention, interrupts with timing that may be inconvenient, and leaves the humans to do the reasoning.
- Keep separate what is fictional magic, what is ordinary botany, and what is personal interpretation. The strongest answers are the ones that still make sense when every witness has been heard.
A final note for readers
These stories are inventions. The herbs, places, and fictional magic provide atmosphere and clues; they are not medical, foraging, or potion-making instructions. Enjoy the sensory details, keep a skeptical eye on easy explanations, and remember that the warmest part of Hollow Creek is often the choice one neighbor makes for another.
For more from this fictional village, visit the Hollow Creek Witch Mysteries series page, or discover the work of Marnie Blackthorn.
