Page 23 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Seventeen

W ith a new sense of purpose driving him, Pen rolled up his sleeves and set to work, starting with the nest tucked away in the gardening section.

The smell hadn’t improved overnight. With a grimace, he fetched the broom and dustpan, swept the nest into the dented trash can, and carried it out the back door, leaving it in the alley.

Back inside, he resumed his search for supplies.

In the back, he discovered a closet stocked with old cleaning products.

Most of the bottles had crusted over, or caved in on themselves, their labels peeling and faded.

But a few useful items still remained: a box of rags, a feather duster missing half its feathers, a glass bottle of bleach with the cork topper still intact, and half a jar of beeswax that still held its sheen.

It was a start, but he made a note to buy some vinegar, as nothing else would cut through the film on the windows.

Supplies in hand, Pen filled a bucket with water in the cramped bathroom tucked in the back of the shop, adding just a touch of bleach.

The scent bit his nose, sharp, clean, and strangely satisfying.

He started at the front counter that housed the old cash register, and he lifted the stack of brittle newspapers, setting them on the stool, leaving a perfect dust-free rectangle in their wake.

As he wiped away the years of dirt, the rich mahogany wood started to reveal itself.

With each pass of the rag, the intricate wood grain emerged, swirling and shifting across the surface like a rolling wave.

Turning his attention to the first bookshelf, labeled Children’s Books , Pen grabbed the worn feather duster.

This shelf, along with the next one, was shorter than the others, thoughtfully designed for young readers.

The rows were packed with children’s books, including some from his own childhood, The Little Engine That Could , Winnie-the-Pooh , Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , The Secret Garden .

Picking up Babar the Elephant , he smiled, remembering how it had been one of Val’s favorites.

Pen had read it so many times he was sure he could recite it line by line even now.

He paused, book in hand, as a knot of worry crept in.

Val. The other boys were fine. Dave was married, Will lived on his own, but Val was still in school.

He still needed someone and Pen had always been that someone.

Val’s rock. The one who made lunch, helped with homework, and stayed up with him during storms. Hell, he’d been more of a father to Val than their actual father ever had been.

As he dusted mindlessly, still caught in thoughts of home, Pen didn’t hear the creak of the front door as it opened.

“Hello,” a man’s voice yelled out from behind him.

Pen jumped, spinning around to see a heavy-set man in a police uniform standing just inside the threshold.

His stomach dropped. Even before the uniform registered, the tone of authority had triggered something instinctive, defensive.

Growing up in the tin-can, cops had rarely meant safety.

They were the ones who showed up after his father’s drunken shouting matches or when the neighbors accused him and his brothers of trouble they hadn’t started.

They’d learned early to brace for blame when a policeman showed up at your door.

Pen wiped his hands on his jeans, set the feather duster down, then stepped forward.

“Hello. Can I help you?” Pen said, as he stuck his hand into his pants pocket in search of his lucky penny. He turned it over in his fingers, hoping it would help calm his nerves.

“I received a report of someone sneaking around in here. I’m afraid you’re trespassing,” the constable warned, his expression stern in a thick Scottish brogue.

“Oh, no, I mean, I’m sorry for the confusion. I inherited this place.” Pen walked over to his suitcase and pulled out the yellow envelope with the paperwork inside. “Here. Deeds and all.”

The constable took the envelope and began thumbing through the documents, silent as he read.

“Okay, all seems to be in order.” He tucked the papers back into the envelope and returned it to Pen.

“My name’s Pen Turner,” Pen offered, extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Pen. I’m William MacDuff,” the constable replied, shaking it.

Letting go, William glanced around the shop. “Used to be a fine place, this. Always busy when I were a lad.”

Pen followed his gaze, trying to imagine the bookshop alive and bustling, customers chatting over books, children sitting cross-legged on the floor as their parents shopped. “Do you know why it closed?” he asked. “What happened to the man who ran it?”

William paused, as if uncertain whether he should tell Pen or not.

“The fella just disappeared. One day he was here, the next, gone. No note, no word to anyone. Just up and vanished. Place was locked up tight, and no one ever heard from him again. His sister, Emily, inherited it, but she never touched it. It’s sat like this for years. ”

Pen’s brows lifted. “No one knows what happened to him?”

“Not a soul,” William said, shaking his head. “Odd business, that.”

The memory of the untouched breakfast, the book left open, suddenly it all made sense. It looked like someone had left for work one morning and simply never returned, because that’s exactly what had happened. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

“So… do you plan to reopen it?” William asked, eyeing the pile of cleaning supplies on the counter.

“Oh, I hadn’t really thought—”

“Looks to me like you’re already on your way,” William suggested, nodding toward the feather duster.

Pen glanced over his shoulder, then laughed softly. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out,” William observed, clapping Pen lightly on the shoulder before stepping toward the door. “Be nice to see this place open again.”

Pen followed him outside into the cool mid-morning air.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, struck a match, and shielded it from the breeze with his hand.

The flame flared, then settled. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl slowly from his lips as he watched constable MacDuff disappear around the bend.

Standing there, cigarette pinched between his fingers, his thoughts drifted back to the man who once owned the Feather Thorn. How strange , he thought, that someone could just walk away from a place like this, vanish without a trace, leaving everything behind .

Then his mind drifted to William’s question. Do you plan to reopen it?

He hadn’t come all this way thinking that was even a possibility. He only intended to sort things and sell the place, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea.

What if he did stay? What if he cleaned the place up, reopened the shop, and made a go of it? He turned, glancing back through the smudged front windows. Grime blurred the view, but beyond, shelves packed with books stood waiting to find homes.

But just as quickly as the excitement bloomed, it was chased away by guilt. I can’t just abandon my brothers… can I? He took another drag, the smoke catching in his throat.

Maybe Val could come too. Maybe we could make something of it together.

A sudden whiff of freshly baked bread broke through his thoughts. His stomach gave a quiet protest, and he suddenly realized just how hungry he was. Tossing his cigarette to the ground, he crushed it beneath his shoe and patted his pocket for his wallet.

Across the street, the Marbled Clover looked warm and inviting. As he approached, he noticed someone peeking out from behind the lace curtain in the window. But as soon as their eyes met, the figure scurried away. Must’ve been the one who called the police .

Still, he didn’t blame them. He probably looked like trouble, skulking around the shuttered old bookshop.

As he pushed open the door, a small set of brass chimes jangled overhead, interrupting Doris Day’s “Whatever Will Be Will Be.” The smell hit him instantly, yeast and spices with sweet undertones of sugar. Pen’s mouth watered at the variety of pastries behind the glass display.

“Good Morning,” a woman’s voice echoed from behind the glass.

Pen looked up to see a woman in her thirties and a man not much older standing behind the counter. They wore matching aprons and curious expressions.

“Good morning,” Pen replied.

“American, told ya,” the woman muttered, nudging the man in his side.

“What can we get ye?” the man asked.

“Well, I don’t know, everything looks so good. How about half a dozen of those donuts?” Pen pointed at a large square pan piled with golden-brown dusted rings.

“Right you are,” the man said, grabbing a box and starting to fill it.

“I don’t mean to pry,” the woman started, as she tapped a few keys on the register, “but did we see you come out of the Feather Thorn?”

“Yes,” Pen explained. “I inherited it a little while ago and decided to come over and have a look. Just got here last night.”

“Really? Didn’t think Rowland had any relatives,” the man said, boxing the last donut. “That place’s been abandoned since he disappeared back when we were wee yins.”

Rowland, so that was the man’s name , Pen thought.

“Yes, he had a sister, Emily, who lived back in the States,” Pen told them.

“That’s right. I’d forgotten about her. It’s been a long time,” the man remarked.

“That will be four shillings and five pence,” said the woman.

Pen fished out a dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “I hope this is okay, I forgot to exchange my money before I got here.”

She blinked at the unfamiliar bill, then gave a kind smile. “That’s American, isn’t it? I’m afraid we can’t take that, love.”

“Oh, right,” Pen said, fumbling for a backup. “Sorry, I should have sorted that first.”

“Tell you what, consider this breakfast on us. But there’s a bank just down the street if you want to sort out an exchange. You passed it when you came in on the bus, I expect.”

“Thanks. My name’s Pen, by the way. I’ll come back later to settle up properly.”

“Nice to meet you, Pen. This here’s Dottie, my wife, and I’m Iain. And don’t worry about it. We’re just pleased to see someone at the bookshop again.”

“I always loved that place as a bairn. Felt so magical in there. Are you going to reopen it?” Dottie asked, looking past Pen and out the window behind him.

“Well, to be honest, I’m kinda on the fence about it.”

“Aye, you should,” Iain insisted. “That shop was the heart of this street. Now, it’s just a shell of what it used to be, sad wee thing.”

“We thought it’d crumble into the ground before anyone came along to breathe life back into it,” Dottie said, leaning onto Iain’s shoulder. “Nice to see someone’s taken a shine to it.”

Pen turned and looked out of the bakery window.

The Feather Thorn stood in stark contrast to the well-maintained buildings lining the street.

Then that familiar spark ignited within him again.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was impossible.

But he knew he needed to figure out a way to bring the bookshop back to life.

The shop wasn’t just filled with books. It was filled with thousands of stories waiting to be discovered and a mystery waiting to be solved.

And if there was one thing Pen Turner couldn’t resist, it was a good mystery.