Page 102 of The Messengers of Magic
F or as long as Adelaide McGregor could remember, summers had been spent at her great-aunt and uncle’s bookshop in Scotland. As a child, she had helped shelve books and dust the old cases, the scent of old paper and ink as familiar to her as home.
In her teens, they’d taught her to run the register and place orders, slowly and quietly preparing her for the day the Feather Thorn would become hers. She’d always known it would happen eventually, just not like this, and not so soon.
Her uncle Rowland had suffered a small heart attack in the spring of her last year at uni, and Carolyn stubbornly refused to let him return to run the shop.
And so, one day, just as she arrived back at her dorm from a long but interesting lecture on John Dee, the royal occultist, she found a letter waiting for her.
It read: Addie, it’s time. If you want it, the bookshop is yours now. Love, Carolyn.
Of course she’d said yes.
Her father had been thrilled, mostly because it gave him an excuse to visit Scotland more often. Her mother, on the other hand, had been quietly heartbroken that she wouldn’t be coming back to England.
She was only weeks away from finishing her Cultural Studies degree at Edinburgh University, which had a heavy focus on music and its influence on literature.
Her mother had called it a useless degree, and maybe it was.
But none of that mattered now, because her true dream, the one that had always been waiting for her, was finally within reach.
She left it all behind after graduation, packed her things, ended it with Jeff, a guy she’d been going out with for the past year, who’d been more habit than heart, and set off for Leymark.
It had always felt like she was meant to be there. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. But something about Leymark, about the Feather Thorn, called to her. As if her path had already been laid out, written in the stars.
That was nearly four years ago , Adelaide thought, turning the heavy bolt lock and pushing open the door.
She propped it in place with an old iron owl, a gift from Dottie, who owned the bakery across the street.
She’d given it to Adelaide the day she took over the Feather Thorn, a small token of luck for her new chapter ahead.
Adelaide stepped onto the small walkway leading to the cobbled street and secured the Open flag in its post. A warm breeze drifted past, carrying the promise of summer and the scent of Dottie’s fresh scones, which set her stomach groaning.
Spring had always been her favorite season, a time of fresh starts and new beginnings.
She waved to Dottie and her husband, Iain, who stood in the bakery window, watching the quiet town wake up for the day.
Just as she turned to head back inside, a large moth, nearly the size of her hand, swooped down and darted through the open door.
“Oh no you don’t!” she called, rushing in after it.
The last thing she needed was a book-eating moth wreaking havoc. Did moths even eat books? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to take any chances.
She chased it as it fluttered between shelves, weaving through the bookshop, before veering toward the wall of paintings. It landed delicately on the edge of one of Carolyn’s canvases, the one of the field behind her house.
Adelaide smiled. Carolyn had once told her the story, how she and Rowland had planned a trip to Rosslyn Chapel, only for a storm to roll in, trapping them inside for the weekend.
Rather than sulk over their ruined plans, Carolyn had set up her easel and painted the view from the guest bedroom window.
The contrast of bright wildflowers against the storm-darkened sky had always made it one of Adelaide’s favorites.
She stepped forward, cupping her hands, ready to catch the moth, when a voice behind her made her jump.
“Don’t touch it, or it won’t be able to fly again,” a man said, his accent unmistakably American.
Adelaide turned to see a handsome man, around her age, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her, one hand resting on the newel post.
“They have a light coating on their wings, some people think it’s dust, but it’s actually tiny scales called chitin,” he explained. “If you touch it, it can weaken the wings, and they won’t be able to fly again.”
“Well, thanks for the science lesson,” she said, with a touch of sarcasm, stepping away from the painting. “But how do I get it out of here?”
“Time,” he said with a small smile. “You know, moths are called ‘messengers of magic’; it’s good luck to have one fly through your door.”
She frowned, descending the stairs toward him. “They can deliver whatever message they want, as long as they don’t eat my books.”
He laughed. “Moths don’t eat books.”
Adelaide raised an eyebrow. “And I’m meant to just take your word for it? Are you some kind of moth expert?”
“No, not really.” He grinned, extending his hand. “But if I were you, I’d be more concerned about bookworms, with all these old books.”
She shook his hand, his grip warm. “Thanks, I think I’ve got that covered. I’m Adelaide.”
“My name’s Pen.”
There was something oddly familiar about him, though she couldn’t quite place it.
“So, Pen,” she said, turning to the front of the shop, gesturing for him to follow, “what brings you to the Feather Thorn? Looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m actually just stopping in to see the place. It’s kind of a weird story,” he said with a small chuckle.
“Oh, really? Do tell.” Adelaide crossed her arms and leaned against one of the bookshelves.
He smiled awkwardly, hesitating before going on.
“I graduated from Bates last year and started a postgraduate research position in astronomy at the University of Edinburgh. Ever since I arrived, I’ve been having this recurring dream about a wishing rock, a bookshop, and something to do with a feather.
” He ran a finger along the spine of a nearby book, his eyes drifting over the shelves.
“A colleague suggested it might be this little shop in Leymark. So, I finally decided to drive up this weekend and see it for myself.”
“And?” Adelaide asked, her curiosity sparked.
He glanced back at her, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “It’s the exact bookshop from my dream. Same layout, same smell, even the chime on the door.” He shook his head slightly. “Weird, right?”
“Weird might be an understatement,” Adelaide joked. “You know, I’ve read about that kind of thing happening. Some people say it’s echoes from another lifetime.”
“Maybe. Not sure I believe in all that, but somehow this place found me in my dreams.”
Pen looked up at her, and for a long moment, they simply held each other’s gaze.
Adelaide felt her heart drop, a strange sensation rippling through her, something she’d never experienced before. It was as if something inside her had broken free, flooding her with a warmth she couldn’t explain.
“How long are you in town?” she asked, the words spilling out before she could stop them.
“Just the weekend.” He flashed a smile that only intensified the feeling surging inside her.
“Well,” she said, glancing at the moth, fluttering past the history section, “if you’re not busy tomorrow, maybe you can stop by and check if my winged messenger is still hanging around.
Being an expert and all, I might need your help getting it back outside, without damaging its wings, of course.
” She paused, then added, “I’ll repay you by buying you lunch. ”
He laughed. “I’ll bring a butterfly net. They can be tricky to catch. Kind of like time. Slips past you before you even realize it.” He turned toward the door.
“See you tomorrow, then,” she said, watching him go.
“Until tomorrow.” He waved and stepped out into the sunlight.
The door remained open, a warm breeze drifting through, carrying the scent of spring, scones, and something else: the beginning of something new.