Page 4 of The Autumn Leaf Bookshop (Everly Hollow #1)
Books, Dust, and Dragon Wings
Sylas
A fter opening, the shop awakens and feels more alive. Sunlight spills through the many high, arched skylights above, catching in the tiny particles of dust and illuminating the vibrant canopy overhead.
The maple tree, my tree, rises right through the center of the shop, covered in fall colored leaves that never descend. The thick trunk twists up and around, branches spreading wide like an open hug towards the sun rays.
Regardless of whether it is winter, summer, or spring, this tree and the trees that surround this building will always be in fall. An enchantment I cast when I opened this shop.
Golds, rich reds, and deep copper leaves shimmer in the sunlight, rustling occasionally with a light breeze that flows through, as if whispering spells to one another.
Tiny floating lights like stars dangle from the branches, dimly lit by the impending sunshine. In the evening, they burn brighter and adjust their lighting. The tables have lamps to accompany our evening readers.
An iron-wrought staircase curls elegantly around the tree trunk to the second-floor loft, where the rarer volumes live and the air tingles with magic. Beyond the velvet curtains lies a small hall to my hidden apartment.
Well-worn, polished wood floors support towering walnut bookshelves that stretch to the vaulted ceilings, each fitted with a brass rolling ladder.
Two large Prussian blue armchairs sit near the fireplace between two couches.
Scattered around are more matching chairs in the same hue and tables, each with chairs, perfect for reading or computer use, are set just far enough apart for privacy.
Large windows in the front of the shop feature book displays throughout the year, along with a cozy nook for sitting and taking in the street view.
I love this place. The books, the dust, and the dragon wings. It’s home.
The scent of leather and old pages lingers in the air, blending with the soft crackle of the fireplace. Lo-fi music hums through the speakers, the kind that persuades the enchanted books to move along to the rhythm.
I tug the sleeves up of my forest green quarter zip sweater so that it isn’t catching on the interior of the wooden crate of new arrivals. Squatting in my comfortable but worn jeans, my boots creak quietly on the wood floor beneath me .
I brush my fingertips over the golden edges of crisp, limited-edition hardcovers. Sprayed edges. Gold foil. Embossed spines. They’ll look damn good on the front display.
“One, two, three...seven, eight...twenty-two–” Pausing, a frown immediately hits my face.
There are only twenty-four. I know there were twenty-five.
I took one out yesterday for a photo, snapped it beside the window light with a mug of pumpkin chai tea, leaves, and real fucking cinnamon sticks. Where the hell did it go?
I scan the area behind the counter, under the table, then upward.
“Nim,” I say through our bond, a mental nudge aimed at the miniature dragon. He’s on the top shelf near the rolling ladder. He’s the size of a large cat, but with wings, scales, and he breathes fire.
“Have you seen the book I’m missing? Fancy cover. Smells like a bestseller…one of our shop’s best sellers, and ink.”
Nim stretches. His iridescent scales in autumnal hues-molten reds, copper, and bronze cover his body, neck, and tail.
His underbelly is covered in mostly gold scales.
Light green eyes full of mischief. Golden spikes form a crown on his head, a neat line trailing halfway down his long tail.
He glistens in the sunbeams that shine through the skylights.
His wings give a lazy flutter as he pushes into a downward dog pose, spine arching, tail curling.
Nim yawns, it’s long and dramatic with sharp, pointy teeth. He circles his spot like he’s about to settle on a throne. “ Does it look like I’m capable of reading, Sylas ?” His voice echoes and drips in smug boredom inside my head .
Rolling my eyes, I quickly jot down a note to contact the distributor before sticking a pencil behind my pointed ear.
I begin shelving the books, spine out, labels facing the same direction, because chaos has no place in my bookshop.
“You’re such an adorable, lazy beast,” I grumble.
From his perch at the top of the bookshelf, Nim stretches luxuriously, cracking one eye open before letting out a self-satisfied chuff. His tail flicks, nearly knocking over a decorative leaf garland.
He cracks one eye open. “ That’s why I’m the adorable pet ,” he drawls, “ And you’re the owner .”
“Ass,” I mutter to myself.
“ Jerk ,” he responds.
I finish stocking the shelves and get the shop up and running before making my way to the coffee bar embellished with pumpkins and tiny gourds. There’s no need for faux fall leaves, garland or pumpkins. My magic protects their lives so they can be long-term decor.
I make myself a pumpkin spice latte, adding a tall heaping of whipped cream and topping it off with a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg, and a cinnamon stick for presentation. The cinnamon stick stirs itself lazily, sending up tiny curls of steam scented with morning routine and comfort.
Nim flies over to land on the bar, eyeing the cinnamon-dusted whipped cream with greedy intent.
“This is mine, you’ll have to get your own,” I tell him out loud before taking a sip, licking the cream off my lips .
He chirps once before giving me a glare, his wings expanding before fluttering close.
“ And how do you suppose I do that? ” he asks with a sharp voice down the bond. “ Do you see opposable thumbs on these paws? ”
Rolling my eyes, I give him a small smile. “Okay, okay.” Already reaching for the tin of chai leaves he likes best, aged in cardamom, ginger, and cloves, and enchanted to steep quickly.
Brewing the tea with a flick of my fingers, the steam rises in sweet tendrils that twist into the shape of a falling leaf before fading away into the air.
I pour it into his favorite cup—an oversized mug—that can be equivalent to a pasta dish, heavily decorated in cottage core with vibrant red spotted mushrooms.
Two pumps of pumpkin spice syrup, a splash of soy milk, and a generous cloud of whipped cream, transforming the drink into a snow-capped mountain with specks of cinnamon and I top it with a cinnamon stick before I slide it toward him across the counter.
He sniffs it as if I’ve never made him this over a hundred times, purrs with pleasure, and curls his tail around the mug, like he's giving it a small hug.
“ That’s better, ” he whispers, taking a slurp, licking cream off his snout. “ Thank you. ”
I curtly nod, taking another sip of my drink, smiling behind the rim.
I love moments like this. The routine. The vibes. The Autumn Leaf is more than a bookshop. It’s a place of comfort to so many people .
I’ve loved books since I can remember. I kept a hoard of books beside my bed, begging my parents to read them all every night. Once I learned how to read, I read until I fell asleep, a book curled against my heart.
My parents are still scribes. Ink is in our blood.
I used to sit in a nook of the great library for hours as my parents worked, trying to read tomes twice the size of Nim.
I would read out loud to him, and he lay beside me, his tail curled around him, his head resting on my lower legs, the book on my lap.
I loved being surrounded by the scent of parchment and magic.
Books are more than stories. They are portals to another world lingering within the pages that can build you up, break you, and live in your head forever. They can change your life.
Waving to a few regulars warming by the fires, I leave Nim to his tea at the coffee bar and head toward the checkout counter.
A few of the trinkets have shifted overnight, likely from tempted, curious fingers or overly enthusiastic magic.
Enchanted bookmarks that shimmer and shift with the mood of the reader, decorative potion bottles for bookshelf decor.
Some labeled Plot Twist Tonic, Pumpkin Moon Mist, Dragon Breath Brew , and rows of fall-scented beeswax lip balms handmade by Jas down at The Honeybee Café.
Her newest flavors, First Kiss of Fall and Pumpkin Toffee Chai , already have a loyal following. There are bookish themed magnets, stickers, and wax stamps that say Nim was here .
A puff of crisp air trails in as the door opens again, wind chimes playing a cheerful melody .
“Sylas,” growls a familiar voice.
I don’t even look up from my organizing task at the counter. I know who’s speaking.
“Back for more of that lip balm you pretend to hate, Viktor?”
The massive minotaur in khakis and a grey t-shirt lumbers to the checkout.
“Or maybe the garden gnome who rents a corner of your greenhouse in exchange for dewberries and emotional advice,” I finish. “Sure. You’re just really invested in their lip moisturization.”
He scowls, grabs a tin of Pumpkin Toffee Chai , and drops a coin pouch on the counter. “It’s a good scent,” he mutters before heading toward the door.
A soft, flitting chirp echoes from the coffee bar.
“ See you next week ,” Nim teases, his words dripping with honey inside my head, his tone threaded with mischief.
To Viktor, it’s just another sarcastic chirp from Nim.
The minotaur pauses at the door just long enough to lift a middle finger in Nim’s general direction, then stomps out into the sunlight. I chuckle, flipping open the pouch and adding the coins to the register. Another customer walks in, someone I’ve never noticed here before.
Did someone new move to town?
Nim turns his head to look at me. Then to the door.
Deep brown skin glowing warm in the sunlight, braided hair flowing down to her waist. Showing her curves in a crop top that flaunts Beach Vibes , jean shorts that cut off mid-thigh, and sneakers .
She glances around, curious, maybe a little skeptical. Her vibrant honey brown eyes take in the bookshop like she’s trying to decide if it’s real. Her mouth opens slightly, taking in the tree. She quickly closes it.
Holy shit.
“ I heard that, ” Nim says as he launches upward in a smooth, elegant swoop of his autumnal hues.
His wings gently rustle the air, barely making a sound as he glides toward the tree at the heart of the shop and disappears into the golden canopy, vanishing between leaves and winding branches like a shadow slipping through light.
A few leaves shimmer slightly in his wake.
I swallow. My voice barely makes it out.
“Holy shit.” That’s not some newcomer.
That’s Raene Hart.
And she’s standing in my bookshop.