Chapter 5 - Move in day
Tilly was barely through her morning coffee, sitting at the one clear table in the house, when the first car pulled up, kicking up a small cloud of dust as it turned onto the gravel drive. She watched from the front porch as Aphid stepped out, bright-eyed, with two rolling suitcases painted with tiny flowers. Aphid balanced them with energy that seemed as boundless as the morning sun.
“Need a hand?” Tilly asked, stepping down to meet her.
Aphid flashed a grin. “I’ve got it. I travel light. Besides, I wouldn’t want to impose on the lady of the house.”
Tilly smiled, leading her up the steps and through the door. “I’m guessing you’ve already claimed the room you like?”
Aphid nodded. “The one with the view of the garden—I want the sunrise to wake me up. It just feels… right.”
They climbed the staircase, Aphid hauling her suitcases with ease, and Tilly directed her to the room. Inside, there was some cleared space, but boxes and remnants of old decor still lined the edges. The wallpaper peeled in spots, revealing faded layers beneath. A dusty mirror leaned against the wall, its glass cloudy, its brass frame tarnished.
Aphid studied the mirror with interest. “Tilly, do you think this mirror is cursed or just… really, really old?”
“Could go either way,” Tilly replied dryly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m sure The Weathered Home has a ceremony for that.”
Aphid chuckled, setting her suitcases in the corner and smoothing the bedspread thoughtfully. “I don’t mind a little curse if it keeps things interesting.”
Another car pulled up, and Tilly excused herself, leaving Aphid to explore. When she returned to the porch, Nick was there, hauling sturdy wooden crates out of the back of his truck. The crates looked heavy, each filled to the brim with books, clothes, and tools. He stacked them two at a time, making his way up the steps.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Tilly asked, though he looked like he had it under control.
He shook his head, offering her a small smile. “Nope, I’m all set. Thanks, though.”
She led him to his room in the back corner of the house, which overlooked the sprawling oaks in the yard. Like the others, the room was in disrepair, with a draft from one corner and a layer of dust over every surface. Nick set his crates down, rolling his shoulders as he nodded and took in the space.
“Looks good.”
As Tilly helped him with the last of his things, they heard a loud thump from downstairs, followed by Opal’s voice, “I’m coming up! Don’t worry, I didn’t break anything. Yet.”
Tilly chuckled and went to meet her at the stairs, where Opal stood with several bags and backpacks slung over her shoulders and arms. She was a colorful sight, with splatters of dried paint on her jeans and a smudge of charcoal along her jaw. An oversized flannel shirt hung loosely over her, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one side tucked in and the other side out.
“Opal, are you moving in or setting up an art studio?”
Opal shrugged, grinning as she shifted the weight of her bags. “Both, hopefully. I was planning on claiming every inch of wall space by the time I’m through.”
Tilly shook her head with an amused smile. “The third floor’s all yours—no one else volunteered.”
“Good. It's probably best no one’s next door. I can be noisy. If you hear something like a power tool, it’s probably my Dremel, but just in case it’s not, you should probably knock first… or don’t. Dealer’s choice.”
“I’ll flip a coin. Just remember, we’re fixing the place up. Make it better, not worse.”
“Girl scout rules. Got it,” Opal said, nodding with exaggerated seriousness.
“You were a girl scout?”
“Until my dad decided I was getting ideas,” Opal said with a grin. She dropped her bags by the bed, taking in the room with a satisfied nod. “Perfect. I’ve slept in way worse.”
Tilly leaned against the doorframe. “I cleared some space, but it still needs a lot of work.”
“No worries,” Opal said, unpacking brushes, tubes of paint, and sketchpads, arranging them along the windowsill. “I’ll whip it into shape. By the time I’m done, it’ll look… well, like nothing else, that’s for sure.”
Just as Tilly was about to say something, Opal’s phone buzzed. She fished it out from one of her bags, glanced at the message, and then looked back at Tilly with a shrug.
“Fallon says hi, by the way,” Opal said, referring to Tilly’s old friend. “She wanted to know if we’re keeping this place standing or if it’ll be an art experiment by the time she visits.”
“Fallon’s texting you?” Tilly asked, raising an eyebrow.
Opal shrugged. “Way more than I’d like. I had some questions, and now I get to drink from the firehose.”
Tilly gave her a look. “Questions?”
Opal just grinned. “About you. I’m a nosy wench. Now, she texts all the time. By the way, NYU isn’t working out for her. So, you might end up with another roommate.”
Tilly decided to leave it at that. It’s best not to ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.
By evening, everyone had claimed their spaces, though they had far from settled in. Nick was downstairs, pulling nails from an old picture frame he’d found in his closet, while Aphid arranged a makeshift altar with crystals and a bundle of sage on her nightstand. Meanwhile, the faint sound of Opal’s Dremel—at least, Tilly hoped it was her Dremel—hummed upstairs.
Tilly said quietly to herself, “This is where I belong.”