The smells of powdered sugar and strawberry jam fill the air, making my stomach growl and my mouth water in anticipation. I plunge my hand through the pasta box flaps and draw out a piece. The small crescent-shaped pastry melts in my mouth. I eat one after another until the box is empty. Setting it aside, I pick up The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, a novel I promised Logan I’d read. Eventually.

The book reminds me of the first time Logan came bouncing through the inn’s double-arched doors, drenched from a downpour. Her dad, Professor March, scowled at the puddles as they walked to the reception desk to check in. I smiled, welcomed them. Logan smiled back, and said, “I’m so sorry we’re dripping all over the floor. If you get me a rag, I’ll clean it up.” I refused, told her it wasn’t a problem.

The next day, she wouldn’t let me make her bed or give her fresh towels or vacuum the carpet. Before I could move to the next room, she asked if she could tag along. Her dad was at an interview for the Dean of Mathematics position at SUNY-Lakeside. While I did my chores, she asked me questions about the inn, Riviere, and my family. She was good company, and with her dad’s extensive interviews, Logan had plenty of time to hang out with me as I cleaned rooms. By the third day, she was restocking the bathrooms and mini-refrigerators and emptying trash with me.

That afternoon, she came around the reception desk, leaned against our closed apartment door, and started talking again. This time, it was her love for all things history, particularly English history. She rattled off English authors she loved, like Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. One part of me was impressed. None of the twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls in my grade were quite like her—bright, spunky, ballsy, interesting, worldly. Half the things she talked about were new to me. I liked listening to her, but the other part of me wondered when she would pause so I could tell her she didn’t belong behind the counter.

When she did take a breath, her eyes grew wide, and I thought that she finally realized she’d crossed that invisible barrier between guests and innkeepers. But no. Not Logan.

She pivoted around, taking everything in. “You’re so lucky to live here. It’s beautiful.”

“We don’t exactly live here,” I said. “We live in the old servant quarters.” I pointed to our apartment door, then swept my arm in front of me. “The rest is for guests.” I had hoped she’d get the hint. She didn’t. Not even close. She hopped up and sat on the desk!