Great-Aunt Louise's Silver Spirit Inn sits on the ocean's edge, bordered on three sides by a dense copse of trees. A low stone fence, weathered by time and covered in patchy, white-green lichen, rests parallel to the dirt road. Rows of wildflowers cover the front yard, clustering around an old sign proclaiming Silver Spirit Inn in faded blue letters. Glancing at Mom, I turn onto a worn dirt road that is just wide enough to accommodate the rental car. The branches of the trees lining the driveway arch overhead, creating a dappling pattern in the dirt. Quaint and rather charming, if I'm being generous.

Rising above the trees is the top of a tower covered in grey shingles; a rusty-looking rooster weathervane sways back and forth with the breeze coming off the Atlantic. I'd say we had landed in the butt-crack of nowhere, but living on Martha's Vineyard is famously not cheap, and land is generally at a premium.

A slight tingle runs over my skin, signaling we've crossed a ward. Even shielded, I can feel the low hum that indicates an active node emanating from the ground. Holy shit. Generally speaking, a node is akin to a lake or pond. Rivers, or ley lines in this case, flow into the node, turning the area into one giant magical battery.

After decades of living here, Great-Aunt Louise must've soaked up enough energy to boost her abilities to Level 10—if she wasn't one already. Witches would pay out the wazoo for a home here. I swear, dollar signs must've been dancing in my eyes because I almost miss the turn and nearly drive over Great-Aunt Louise's lawn.

"Elara!" Mom sharp reprimand jolts me out of my financial planning.

"Sorry," I mutter, pulling the car into an empty spot in the parking lot. There are two other cars besides ours, which is surprising. For some reason, I didn't think there would be anyone here but the staff.

Mom raises her eyebrows but refrains from commenting further on my driving skills. I turn off the car, gather my purse, and step out, adjusting my skirt and the hem of my blouse.

The inn itself is a massive, three-story blue Victorian; a white cobblestone path leads from the parking lot to the front door. Pink flowering trees line one side of the path, while the other is a tiny white fence. More bushes and flowers cluster behind the fence and rest up against the base of a wrap-around porch.

"Well, damn," I mutter, impressed.

Mom lets go with a low whistle of appreciation as we climb the stairs up to the porch. Baskets filled with pink, white, and purple flowers hang from the eves and bees buzz from one to the other in lazy patterns. Sitting on the porch are three small white-washed tables and half a dozen chairs; a lone rocking chair rests on the far left, angled towards a gazebo.

As we approach the front door, Mom hands me the brass key. I go to insert it into the lock, but realize it's a combination house key and deadbolt—neither of which are large enough to fit the 1800s monstrosity.

"Guess it's for something else," I tell Mom, reaching for the knob. A soft, artificial chime announces our presence.

We're immediately met with a grand staircase that leads up to the second floor. It has pale blue carpeting lining the steps and warm brown wooden rails. Framed photographs of the ocean line the walls and tiny tables hold vases of fresh flowers and beach-themed accents. Okay, I say to myself as I look around, this isn't as old and worn down as I was expecting. All the better for when I sell it.

"Hello!" calls out a cheery voice. A woman with ash-blonde hair pulled up in a bun emerges from the back of the building. She wears straight-legged jeans, a white and brown striped shirt, and a brown jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. "I'm Sylvia Pryor, the general manager. You must be Louise's relatives." She extends her right hand and I notice the small black paw-print tattoos beginning at her wrist and moving up her arm to disappear beneath her sleeve. A glance at her eyes—purple—confirms that she's a shapeshifter.

"Elara," I say, shaking her hand.

Sylvia smiles and nods, moving to Mom. "Kate," Mom says. "This is a beautiful home," she adds, nodding at the interior.

The manager steps back and claps her hands in front of her. "Yes," she says with a little sigh. "Louise was quite proud of this place."

"Oh, yes," Mom exclaims softly, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Sylvia shrugs and smiles sadly. "We'd been expecting it for a while, I'm afraid. She told us she was feeling worn down over the last few weeks. Thankfully, she went peacefully in her sleep."

Grave essence, cool like mist, prickles my awareness. "There's a ghost here."

The manager doesn't even flinch at the news. "Oh, that's just Ariadne. She's been part of the household for as long as I can remember. Louise always said she was her fifth employee."

"So, there are four of you here?" I ask, tightening my shields. I can feel the ghost watching us from another room, but I can't pay attention to what the manager is saying and track her presence at the same time. A small pinpoint of pressure builds under my right eye. There weren't a lot of ghosts where I lived in LA—they all preferred hanging around Hollywood—so I rarely had to shield.

Sylvia nods. "There's Trudy and Helaena. Trudy's our cook and Helaena is the maid. They share the cottage on the property. I live in West Tisbury, as does Maxim, our handyman."

"Hmm," I say reflectively, glancing around.

"Would you like a tour?" Syliva asks. "We have two couples staying with us this week, but they're both out on excursions on the island. A family of four will be arriving on Friday." She fixes those purple shapeshifter eyes on me as she says this as if she can read my mind. I blink, wondering if the after-images of dollar signs are still reflected in my pupils.

"Of course," Mom tells her.

I adjust my purse and it bumps up against the brass key I'd stuck in my skirt pocket. I draw it out and hold it up to Sylvia. "Where does this go?"

The shapeshifter takes the key, flicking the little bell at the end with her left index finger. "Oh, this is the key to the back gate," she says, handing it back to me. "Louise has a private entrance to her apartment around the back. I'll take you up there."

"I think we can save that for last," I tell the manager. Despite being a grave witch, the last thing I want to do is be shown around a dead woman's apartment.

Sylvia shrugs and turns to the open doorway to our right, where I felt the ghost's presence before shutting her out. Mom and I follow along like good little schoolgirls. "This is the living room," she says, and I poke my head inside. There's a long white upholstered couch patterned with pink and pale purple flowers, a massive flatscreen anchored above a fireplace, a couple of white reclining chairs and tables, plus more flowers, beach knick-knacks, and paintings of sailboats. A white and blue patterned accent rug covers a good deal of the wooden floor. Resting up against the far-right wall is a massive floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with the type of books you usually see in period pieces or homes where people are trying to look cultured but they aren't. At the very bottom of the bookcase are dozens of board games and what looks to be packs of cards.

"Really selling the beach and flowers theme," I note, drawing back.

"Louise preferred a subtle touch, but indicative of the environment," Sylvia explains.

I suppose so, I think, remembering the sea of flowers in the front yard and the ocean at the back.

We move back into the hallway and past the staircase. "Here is the kitchen," Sylvia says. "My office is in the back."

"Very nice," Mom comments.

There's nothing out of the ordinary here—stainless steel appliances, a white quartz countertop, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling and on the wall. I suppose the one thing the kitchen has going for it is there's not a hint of flowers or sand or surf anywhere.

At the end of the hallway is the dining room. Four oval tables covered in white tablecloths embroidered with waves and little sailboats are arranged around the room. A large bump-out bay window provides a view of the trees—and a sliver of the ocean. More flower beds are arranged in long rows with paths made up of smooth grey and white stones. Three wood and iron benches sit between the beds. A sliding glass door on the right opens up onto a small porch with a couple more tables and chairs.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to a high white fence at the far left of the flower beds. A heavy black iron lock and ring handle are screwed into the gate.

Sylvia doesn't even look when she answers, "That's Louise's private entrance." She pauses. "I should say, your entrance. Oh, Louise told me about her plan to bequeath you the inn," she says in response to my raised eyebrows.

"Do you know why?" I ask. "We never really interacted. Surely she has a closer relative than me." Because witches—especially high-leveled ones—tend to live a long time, Great-Aunt Louise is actually my two-times great-aunt. She and my great-grandmother were sisters.

"I'm afraid that's as much as I know," Sylvia replies. "She did tell me everything you need is in an envelope. The lawyer should have given it to you."

Yes. The envelope I have to read alone. I'm generally not a curious person, but all this mystery is certainly getting to me.

"Yeah, I've got it," I say, patting my purse.

Sylvia nods. "All right. Do you want to see the rooms?"