Page 30 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-One

I t had been a little over a month since Pen decided to stay in Scotland and bring the Feather Thorn back to life.

Most of his first week had been spent pacing the creaky floorboards, rehearsing how he’d break the news to his brothers.

He didn’t want them to feel abandoned, but the pull of his own dreams had grown too loud to ignore.

Balancing his love for them with his need to carve out his own path was a constant tug-of-war in his heart.

In the end, he scraped together enough change for a quick international call, three minutes was all he could afford. His voice cracked as he spoke, rushed and shaky, but honest as the truth spilled out.

Dave and Will had taken it well, maybe even better than he’d hoped.

They seemed proud of him, genuinely happy he was doing something for himself.

Val, though, seemed more conflicted. Pen could tell his youngest brother missed him, so he’d made a promise: once the bookshop was up and running and Val turned sixteen, he would buy him a plane ticket to visit, and if he liked it here, he was welcome to stay.

Nearly three weeks had passed since that conversation, and Pen had thrown himself into the work like a man possessed.

The front had been tamed, weeds yanked up by their stubborn roots, ivy peeled from the brick like old bandages.

All that remained was one slender vine winding its way up the corner post. He’d left it there on purpose.

It felt right, like a thread tying past to present.

Now, late August had settled over Helensburgh, and the days carried a crispness that warned of the autumn to come. Pen’s fingers were growing numb as he tipped the last of the weeds into the rusting wheelbarrow he’d borrowed from Tim, the old man who lived at the end of the street.

“Looks like you’re in need of this,” a voice rang out behind him.

Pen turned to find Iain standing there, holding out a cup of steaming coffee and a donut.

Over the past month, Iain and his wife, Dottie, had become fixtures in his life.

They’d brought over tools and baked goods, helped haul debris, and invited him over for Gin Rummy nights.

They were the first real adult friends he’d made, and he cherished their company and the sense of belonging they provided in this new chapter of his life.

But sometimes, when Dottie asked him a question or Iain laughed at something he said, a tight knot formed in his chest. He kept waiting for them to find out who he really was.

Not Pen, the cheerful young man fixing up a quaint shop, but the poor kid from the tin-can in Oak Ridge, who had once lied about eating just so his brothers could have more.

No matter how many coats of paint he applied to the outside, some part of him still felt like peeling wallpaper underneath. Like a fraud.

“Dottie and I’ve been watching you work for hours,” Iain said. “Why don’t you take a break?”

Pen pulled off his gloves and accepted the cup and donut. “Thanks. Is it always this cold here at the end of August?” he asked, as he took a tentative sip. The heat seeped through him, thawing the chill that had crept into his bones.

“Yeah, it can be.” Iain shrugged. “But this year’s a strange one.”

“Back home in West Virginia, we don’t usually get this kind of weather until late October,” Pen replied, biting into the donut.

“It’s looking great out here, Pen. How’s the inside coming on?” Iain asked as he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

Pen laughed. “Slow. I might be hiding out here to avoid the mess in there.”

“Well, if you want a couple of extra sets of hands, Dottie and I can pop by Sunday, the bakery’s closed then.”

“I’m not going to say no to that,” Pen said, taking another long swig from the cup. He handed it back with a nod. “Well, I better go dump this and get Tim’s barrow back before dark.”

As he lifted the wheelbarrow, Pen added, “Tell Dottie thanks, will you?”

“You got it,” Iain replied, waving Pen off before he walked back across the street and into the bakery.

By the time Pen made it back to the bookshop, the sun was melting behind the mountains, painting their edges with a soft orange glow, as if they’d been set ablaze.

He paused outside the Feather Thorn, admiring the way the light caught the fresh paint.

It was finally beginning to look like an actual bookstore.

All that was missing was the new sign, already commissioned from a woman named Carolyn, from the apothecary.

The woman who reminded Pen so much of his mother.

Carolyn had been frosty when they first met, polite but distant when he introduced himself as the new owner of the Feather Thorn, but after several visits to her shop, mostly to buy tea, her coolness had softened.

Pen was starting to feel like he belonged, more than he ever had in Oak Ridge. The neighbors were warm, curious, and eager to see the shop come alive again. Even Susan MacDuff, the sheriff’s wife and town clerk, had shown up with a pie during his first week in town.

It had been a long while since the Feather Thorn had last opened its doors, and the townsfolk seemed thirsty for the knowledge and adventures it had to offer, ready to step back into a world they hadn’t visited in over two decades.

Pen walked inside. The bells above the door jingled, crisp and bright, a melody he’d grown fond of.

He’d never owned much, just a battered bicycle he’d bought with money he’d secretly kept from mowing Ward’s lawn.

But now he had his own shop, a bookshop in Scotland, of all things.

If he didn’t know better, he might have believed Ward was his fairy godfather, pulling strings behind the scenes to nudge Pen toward his best life.

The shop had been thoroughly scrubbed during his first week, but there was still plenty to do.

Every single book needed checking, dusting, and inspecting for mold or damage.

He’d even learned that bookworms were real.

He’d always thought it was just an endearing term for someone who loved to read, but no, they were tiny things that liked to eat the paper of old books, ruining the very things he loved most.

At the start of the week, Pen had tackled the children’s book section, but the sheer volume had quickly overwhelmed him.

So he’d shifted focus to the front of the shop, finishing the cleanup outside instead.

With that task now complete, there was no escaping the mountain of books that awaited his inspection.

He took a deep breath. At least Iain and Dottie were coming on Sunday to help, and six hands would be better than two.

Pen was making his way through the fiction section, nearing the door that led up to the apartment, when the strange chimes rang again.

They’d done that on and off for weeks now, always without warning.

No clock or watch he could find explained the sound.

He’d searched the shop from top to bottom. Nothing.

Once the chimes had finished their solemn melody, Pen opened the door and climbed the stairs. The apartment hadn’t changed much since he moved in. Aside from a thorough clean, he was hesitant to make any significant changes. The space felt too much like someone else’s.

What if, one day, the previous owner came back and everything was different?

He knew the odds of that were slim, nearly impossible even, but still the thought lingered.

Instead, he lived among the relics of another’s life, dented pans, a navy peacoat hanging by the door beside a pair of oversized boots.

Some of it he’d started using himself, though the guilt of doing so occasionally prickled.

He sat at the small kitchen table and ate his makeshift dinner, eyes drifting toward the book that had been resting there since his arrival.

Beyond Space and Time: A Guide to General Relativity and Quantum Mechanics .

Not exactly light reading. He’d flipped through it a few times, more curious about the man who left it behind than the science inside.

None of it made much sense to him, but the mystery of Rowland, the missing shop owner, only deepened.

Pen let the thought sit, then pushed the book aside and stood.

His muscles ached from the day’s work. Even stretching felt like a chore.

He made his way to the sofa and turned on the radio, tuning it to his favorite comedy skit show, Take It From Here .

The familiar voices and gentle crackle of static filled the room as he lay down.

He’d dozed off for a moment before he was jolted awake by the chimes ringing again, louder this time.

Shrill, piercing, as if they were mere feet from his head.

Pen jerked upright. Yet, as soon as his eyes opened, the sound began to fade, like someone was carrying away the source, descending the stairs.

He bolted for the door, throwing it open.

The stairwell was empty, bathed in silver moonlight from the small window at the landing.

Pen raced down the stairs, into the shop, feet pounding, following the sound through the aisles, between shelves of thrillers and biographies, each step bringing him closer, only for the chimes to retreat, like a ghost just out of reach.

Then he stopped. Dead in his tracks.

Under the stairs to the loft, two glowing yellow eyes stared back at him.