Outside, Salem is quiet and shimmery at night, the moon shrouded in fog, the air surprisingly chilly after the day’s heat. I worry I might have a difficult time finding the house again, but I don’t. The same magnet from earlier is pulling me there. I dodge a few night tour groups that are being herded along Essex by lanterns, as well as a few noisy people making their way to and from the open bars. Essex Street, with all of its magical shops, looks a lot more ominous after dark, with only a few upper apartments lit up.

When I finally reach the gate of Aunt Sage’s house, I stop, feeling my first hint of trepidation. The houses on either side of Aunt Sage’s are dark, but the Bell family house is somehow even darker, a black hole sitting right here in the middle of New England. Even the creeping rosebushes feel ominous under the sliver of moonlight.

I reach into my pocket for the key, then pull out my phone and text Bea. I’m doing something dumb.

I start up the walkway but get too nervous to unlock the door and instead attempt to look through the windows. My view is mostly blocked by velvet curtains, and the front door has a stained-glass upper window, but I can’t see anything except the edge of a printed rug, and even that tiny glimpse makes my heart skip a beat. Am I really going in? What if Mom catches me?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I push the key into the lock. It slides in easily, turning with a satisfying click, and as the door swings open, I feel equal parts relief and dread.

It’s completely dark inside, and I hold my breath as I step in. I feel along the wall for a switch, and when I make contact, an antique chandelier floods the entryway with light and I literally gasp with delight.

It’s even better on the inside.

I’m standing at the base of a staircase with a gleaming hardwood banister, two large rooms on either side of me. The entryway is painted a soft white, one wall full of shelves displaying a collection of brightly colored geodes and crystals that glimmer pink and purple. To my left is a library, to my right is a cozy living room, several overstuffed chairs pulled up around an elaborately carved fireplace mantel. Drapey white curtains hang from every window, and candles and plants fill in the spaces in between. It’s minimal and magical and so very, very warm.

I slip out of my sandals, letting my toes sink into the plush carpets, then take off, my heart feeling bigger and fuller with each step. The next ten minutes feel like one giant exhale as I tour the main floor. Then I enter the library.