"The rooms are changing again," Felix called down the hallway, watching as door numbers rearranged themselves for the third time that morning. "I think seventeen just ate nineteen."

Pip hurried up the stairs, nearly tripping on her apron. After yesterday's chaos of inheriting a magical inn and accidentally binding a bard to it, she'd hoped for a quieter second day. The inn had other plans.

"They're not supposed to do that," she muttered, consulting a dog-eared notebook filled with her aunt's cramped handwriting. "At least, I don't think they are. Aunt Maple's notes just say 'Rooms have opinions. Best to hear them out.'"

A door creaked open, revealing a room that was definitely bigger on the inside than the inn's exterior should allow. Inside, furniture waltzed slowly across the floor, apparently practicing for something.

"Well, that's new," Felix remarked. He strummed an experimental chord on his lute, and the furniture adjusted its tempo to match.

From downstairs came the sound of Gus's heavy stone footsteps and Lady Corvina's voice raised in theatrical distress. "The guest rooms are expressing themselves! What untold stories might emerge from this architectural awakening? I simply must document every detail!"

"What you simply must do," Gus rumbled, "is help me figure out why they're all acting up at once. Last time this happened was when—" He stopped abruptly.

"Last time what happened?" Pip called down, but before anyone could answer, the front door chimed.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, wrapped in a traveling cloak that seemed to be made of shifting shadows. Where their face should have been, there was only a soft grey mist.

"Welcome to The Last Stop Inn!" Pip managed, trying to sound like she knew what she was doing. "Would you like a room?"

The figure nodded, gliding forward. They reached into their cloak and produced what appeared to be a room key – one that matched the inn's exactly.

"Oh dear," Lady Corvina whispered, her usual dramatic flair replaced with genuine concern. "That's not supposed to exist anymore."

The mysterious guest drifted toward the stairs, and all the room numbers stopped their dance, snapping to attention like scolded children. The furniture behind the open door froze mid-waltz.

"Do we... stop them?" Felix whispered.

"No," Gus said firmly. "We let them inspect."

"Inspect?" Pip looked between her staff members. "Inspect what? Who are they?"

The shadowy figure had reached the top of the stairs. They held up their key, and every door on the second floor shuddered.

"That," Lady Corvina said, producing a very old ledger from seemingly nowhere, "would be the Room Inspector. They appear when an inn's rooms start developing too much... personality. According to the records, they last visited during your aunt's first week as innkeeper."

Pip felt her heart sink. Only her second day, and already she was facing some kind of supernatural audit? The rooms had been perfectly well-behaved yesterday. Well, mostly. If you didn't count the incident with the talking bathtub in room seven.

The Inspector turned their misty face toward Pip, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with their shadowy appearance. They held up a piece of parchment that definitely hadn't existed a moment before.

"Is... is that a citation?" Pip squeaked.

The Inspector nodded solemnly. Three more pieces of parchment appeared.

"Four citations on your second day," Felix said, absently strumming a nervous tune. "Is that a record?"

"Actually," Lady Corvina consulted her ledger, "your aunt received seven on her first day. She was quite proud of that."

The Inspector's cloak rippled in what might have been indignation. They pointed at the nearest door, which quickly changed its number from 8 to 1, then back to 8, as if trying to demonstrate good behavior.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Right," Pip said, squaring her shoulders. "Well, if Aunt Maple could handle this, so can I. Would you like some tea while we discuss the citations? Gus makes an excellent brew."

The misty face turned toward her fully. Was it her imagination, or did the shadows of the cloak lighten slightly?

"We have a lovely selection of teas for non-corporeal beings," she continued, remembering a tiny note in the margins of her aunt's book. "And I believe the parlor knows exactly how to adjust its atmosphere for shadow-based entities."

The Inspector tilted their head, considering. Slowly, they tucked the citations into their cloak.

"Oh, well done!" Lady Corvina whispered. "Your aunt always said the way to a Room Inspector's heart was through proper hospitality. Assuming they have hearts. Or physical forms. I really must update that chapter..."

Following directly from where we left off, here's the second half of Episode 2:

The Inspector accepted a delicate porcelain cup that seemed to float in their misty form. The parlor had indeed adjusted itself - the shadows in the corners had grown cozier, if shadows could be cozy, and the firelight had taken on a peculiar purple tinge that seemed to please their ethereal guest.

"Now then," Pip said, consulting the citations while trying to hide her trembling hands, "about the rooms..."

The Inspector produced a crystalline whistle and blew it soundlessly. Immediately, all the doors upstairs began opening and closing in sequence, like pages in a book being riffled.

"They're... counting themselves?" Felix guessed, watching from his perch on the stairs where he'd been composing what he claimed was definitely not a song about supernatural building inspectors.

"Conducting a full audit," Gus corrected. "Checking that each room knows its proper nature. Your aunt's notes should have mentioned the monthly inspections."

"Monthly?" Pip squeaked, then caught herself. "I mean, of course. Monthly. Which this clearly isn't, since you said they haven't been here since Aunt Maple's first week."

The Inspector's misty face turned toward her sharply.

"Not that we haven't been maintaining standards!" Pip added quickly. "It's just that, well, I only inherited the inn yesterday, and there's this whole section of Aunt Maple's notes that's just tea stains and doodles of dancing teapots, and—"

The Inspector held up a shadowy hand, then pointed to their tea cup. The purple-tinted firelight flickered meaningfully.

"The tea," Lady Corvina breathed. "They're not here for an inspection at all, are they, Gus?"

The golem shifted his stone shoulders uncomfortably. "Your aunt used to have tea with them every month. Said it was good for the inn's digestion, whatever that means. Then one day they stopped coming. Same day she started writing those notes about rooms having opinions."

The Inspector nodded slowly, producing another piece of parchment. But this one, when they handed it to Pip, wasn't a citation. It was a recipe, written in Aunt Maple's looping handwriting: "Proper Tea for Improper Spaces - To be served monthly under a purple light."

"Oh," Pip said softly. "You weren't here to inspect. You were checking if I knew about the tea."

The Inspector's cloak rippled in what might have been embarrassment. They gestured at the doors upstairs, which had finally settled into their proper places.

"The rooms weren't misbehaving," Felix realized, strumming a thoughtful chord. "They were trying to get your attention. Trying to remind us about the tea."

"Which means," Lady Corvina added, already writing, "they remember you. They miss these meetings."

The Inspector stood abruptly, their form billowing. For a moment, Pip feared they were offended. But then they produced a small calendar from their cloak and held it out. Next week's full moon was circled in silver ink.

"Same time next month?" Pip asked, smiling. "I'll practice the recipe until then."

The Inspector bowed slightly, their misty face forming what might have been a smile. They glided to the door, pausing only to pat the frame gently before disappearing into the afternoon light.

As soon as they were gone, every door in the inn creaked open at once.

"I think," Pip said, looking at the happy chaos of furniture settling back into their rooms, "they're pleased."

"Quite," Lady Corvina agreed, her quill scratching rapidly. "Though I do wish they'd stayed longer. I had so many questions about non-corporeal building code regulations."

"At least we know why the rooms were acting up," Felix said, already working on a new verse. "They just wanted their tea party."

Gus humphed, but Pip noticed he was already pulling out Aunt Maple's special purple-tinted tea set. "Rooms are like people," he said gruffly. "Sometimes they just need someone to remember their traditions."

Pip looked down at the recipe in her hands, then up at the contentedly creaking inn around her. "Well then," she said, "we'd better start practicing. After all, we only have a month to learn how to brew tea for improper spaces."

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Guest Book Entry: "The Room Inspector - No signature required. Tea preferences noted for future reference."

New Verse of Felix's Inn Song: "Where doors may dance and rooms may roam, And shadows sip their tea, The Last Stop Inn makes space for all, No matter what they be..."

Lady Corvina's Chronicle Entry: "Addendum to 'The Inspector Calls': Apparently, proper hospitality extends to improper spaces. Must revise previous chapters on non-corporeal entertaining. Note: Investigate whether purple-tinted firelight is purely aesthetic or serves practical purpose in shadow-based digestion."

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The inn settled into a satisfied silence, broken only by the gentle clinking of Gus preparing the tea set for practice, and the soft sound of Felix humming what was definitely, despite his protests, a ballad about supernatural building inspectors.

Pip tucked the recipe carefully into her aunt's notebook. She had a feeling there were many more such traditions to rediscover, one peculiar cup of tea at a time.