Page 32 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Two

P en awoke to the first light of dawn slipping through the thin lace curtains, casting a spiderweb-like pattern on the opposite wall of the small bedroom.

The air was cool and filled with the sounds of the old building settling into the morning.

He hadn’t slept well, his mind still tangled in the discovery of the hidden room beneath the bookshop.

He shuffled to the kitchen and set the coffee to brew. As the rich aroma filled the space, he leaned against the counter, peering out the window, waiting for his thoughts to settle.

Outside, the street was quiet, the windows of the shops still dark, not yet ready for the day ahead.

Across the street, the apothecary sat, its green front door looking like something out of a storybook.

He didn’t quite know what to make of its owner, Carolyn.

Everyone in town seemed to love her, but he hadn’t seen the same joy and light in her that others had.

To him, she carried a heaviness, one she hid beneath her charming smile and eccentric looks.

Turning his attention back to the kitchen, he made a simple breakfast of eggs over easy on toast and sat at the small table.

He pushed his food around the plate, more lost in thought than hungry, turning over the strange puzzle that was the Feather Thorn.

He had wanted a fresh start, a place to reinvent himself.

What he hadn’t counted on was becoming Joe Friday, solving a decade-old missing person case like something out of Dragnet .

Yet, here he was, trying to understand all the strange and mysterious things that took place within the walls of the bookshop.

He picked up the old book still lying on the table, Beyond Space and Time .

He’d flipped through the early chapters more than once, hoping something would stick, but nothing ever had.

It read like a language he didn’t speak.

With a sigh, he decided that after dusting, he would find a book downstairs to replace this one, something he might actually enjoy reading.

After breakfast, he showered and shaved, then made his way downstairs.

The morning light filtered through the windows, casting a warm, golden hue over the rows of books.

As Pen walked through the history section, he ran his fingers along the tops of the books, leaving a clean trail in the dust. Halfway down the row, a title pulled him up short: Liber Loagaeth by John Dee.

The name rang a bell. Maybe Ward must’ve mentioned it; it sounded exactly like something he would have devoured.

Ward had always loved a mystery, especially the kind steeped in something older than science.

Pen could still hear his voice, weaving tales of ancient marvels, Stonehenge, the Pyramids, the Nazca Lines, not just as wonders, but as pieces of a forgotten design.

Ward believed in ley lines, those invisible threads binding sacred places across the world.

Stonehenge, he said, rose with the sun. The Pyramids, arranged to echo the stars. Nothing at those places was by chance.

A small smile touched Pen’s lips. Ward would have loved this place.

But the thought brought back the question he couldn’t shake.

Why had he and Emily let the shop fall into neglect?

Surely Rowland wouldn’t have wanted that.

Everything inside felt cared for, a labor of love, with shelves alphabetized and every item perfectly in its place.

The shop had once mattered deeply to him, that was evident.

And despite the years of abandonment, it had held up.

Aside from the critter taking refuge in the gardening section.

That thought reminded him, the animal might still be hiding somewhere.

He glanced over his shoulder, tucked the book under his arm, and headed toward the loft stairs, the place he’d seen it last night.

As he approached the trapdoor, the unease surged back.

Part of him wanted to avoid going down there, to leave whatever lay down there for another day. But his hand reached for the rug.

A knock at the front of the shop stopped him. He let go of the fabric, ensured it covered the hidden entrance, and moved the table back on top of it.

The knock came again, firmer this time. He hurried to the front of the shop. Standing on the other side of the paned glass was Carolyn, holding a large wrapped parcel.

“Good morning,” Pen said, slightly out of breath as he opened the door.

Carolyn’s eyes narrowed a little. “Good morning. I just wanted to drop this off. It’s the sign.”

Pen accepted the parcel and smiled. “Perfect timing. I’m hoping to open tomorrow. Iain and Dottie are coming over later to help with some last-minute tasks. Come in, and I’ll get you the money for this.”

He stepped aside, motioning her in, but Carolyn’s gaze lingered on the shop’s interior, a look of apprehension creasing her brow.

“Thanks, but I have errands to run. You can pay me later,” she told him quickly, already turning away.

Pen watched as she hurried back down the street. It wasn’t the first time she’d refused to step inside. He couldn’t understand why. Was it the mess? The dust? Or was there something else about the Feather Thorn that made her wary?

Turning back to the parcel, he peeled back the wrapping to reveal a sign.

It was beautiful. Painted in a deep navy blue that matched the door and trim of the shop, a single feather stretched across the center, delicate moth wings fanned out behind it.

Feather Thorn arched in gold script across the top, with Books elegantly lettered below.

Carolyn had clearly poured care into every detail.

Pen frowned. The feather made sense, but the moth wings, why those?

They felt out of place. He’d given her full creative freedom, though, so he wasn’t going to nitpick now.

He leaned the sign gently against the wall and decided to do some dusting.

As he reached the first shelf, that now-familiar sound broke the stillness, the soft, haunting chimes filling the air.

He paused, listening. The sound shifted as he moved, almost as if it were following him.

Or leading him. He stepped cautiously across the shop, weaving between shelves until he reached the trapdoor. The chimes grew louder.

Of course. They had been coming from there this entire time.

He pushed the table aside, rolled the rug back, and grasped the brass ring. The trapdoor creaked open, revealing the narrow staircase leading into the dark room below. His heart raced as he descended, taking the stairs two at a time, chasing the melody before it disappeared again.

However, the chimes continued, louder now, more insistent. He stumbled through the dark, arms outstretched, groping for the desk. His fingers found the lamp’s switch, and with a click, light chased the shadows back.

Rounding the back of the desk, he yanked at a drawer, the one the sound was coming from but it wouldn’t budge. He’d forgotten it was locked. Frustrated but determined, Pen jogged upstairs and rummaged through the tin can of pens on the counter until his hand closed around a silver letter opener.

Back in the basement, he wedged it into the drawer seam and tried to pry it open.

The drawer held firm.

The chimes vibrated softly through the wood, taunting him, teasing him. So close, he was so close to finally figuring out what had been causing the incessant chiming all these weeks. But the letter opener was no match for the old-world craftsmanship.

With a sigh, he set it aside and began searching again. The key had to be here somewhere. He flipped through the books on the small shelf once again, then went back to the desk and lifted the typewriter, peering beneath.

Just then, the jingle of the shop’s doorbells echoed from the room above.

Pen set the typewriter down. He headed up the stairs, tugged the trapdoor shut, and slid the rug back over it. For now, he wasn’t ready to share this secret. Not yet.

Rounding the corner, he found Iain and Dottie by the door, slipping off their coats.

“Hey, you two,” he greeted, a wide smile spreading across his face. It felt good to have company, especially after the maddening day he’d had so far.

“Okay, put us to work,” Dottie said with a cheerful smile as she handed Pen a box. He flipped it open and grinned. Cinnamon donuts, his favorite.

“Thanks, guess I know what I’m having for dinner tonight,” he joked, holding the box close as they walked farther into the shop.

The sun was already dipping behind the buildings, shadows curling at the edges of the room.

Pen turned on the overhead lights, flooding the shelves with light.

Hopefully, whatever animal had been creeping around last night had made its exit; he didn’t want to scare his help off.

“Right,” Pen said, handing each of them a duster. “Every book needs to be pulled out, dusted off, and checked for mold or bookworms. If you find either, just put it on the stack by the counter.”

“Got it. Where do you want us to start?” Iain asked, twirling his duster like a baton.

“I’ve almost finished this section down here,” Pen replied, waving toward the large row of books under the loft area. “Still need to tackle the ones in the back and all the books in the loft.”

“I’ll take the loft, and the pair of ye work on the rest down here,” Dottie called, heading for the stairs.

“You have no idea how much this means to me. I owe you guys, big time,” Pen said.

“Yeah, you do.” Iain laughed, clapping Pen on the back.

“Do ye have a radio in here?” Dottie yelled down from above. “This would be a damn sight easier with a little music.”

Pen walked over to the large radio behind the desk, flipped it on, and turned the dial until he found a station playing “Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Haley. Cranking up the volume, he heard Dottie shout from above, “Now we’re talking!”

They worked for what felt like hours, pulling books from shelves, dusting and inspecting them as the radio played the top one hundred hits of 1955.

The pile of unsellable books grew slowly but steadily, and a knot of worry twisted in the pit of Pen’s stomach; he didn’t have the funds to replace them.

“I think you might have a problem here, Pen,” Iain said, pointing to a stretch of biographies streaked with a thin layer of mold. Pen noticed a small hairline crack in the window nearby, just enough for the moisture to seep in.

“Thanks for catching those,” Pen replied, gathering the books and carrying them to the discard pile. Among the casualties: Neville Chamberlain, Giordano Bruno, Michelangelo, and Robert Lewis Stevenson.

“I’m surprised the rest are in such good shape, all things considered,” Iain observed, joining Pen at the front of the shop.

Pen opened the donut box and offered one to Iain.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Iain,” Pen began, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What do you remember about Rowland, the guy who used to own this place?”

Iain chewed thoughtfully before answering.

“Bits and pieces. I was still a bairn when he disappeared. He was around your age when he opened this place. His great-uncle left it to him. The building had been sitting empty for years, but Rowland brought it back to life by turning it into the Feather Thorn. Spent almost every waking hour here, unless he was with Carolyn.”

“Carolyn from the apothecary?” Pen blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. They were madly in love,” Dottie interjected as she joined them.

“So, what happened to him?” Pen asked.

“No one really knows,” Iain answered. “Carolyn got sick with tuberculosis, nearly died. Some say Rowland ran away to avoid getting sick, others say he blamed himself for her sickness.”

“The apartment upstairs looked like someone just stepped out for a moment and never came back.” Pen’s voice lowered. “There was still food on the table. Tea in the cup. Even a book open on the coffee table.”

Iain gave a half-shrug. “People do strange things under pressure. Maybe he just snapped, packed up what he needed, and left.”

Dottie shot him a look, then turned to Pen. “From what I remember hearing my parents say, Rowland wasn’t the type to just leave. Not like that when Carolyn was so ill. They were inseparable. Even named their businesses after each other.”

Pen nodded slowly. That explained the similar names and Carolyn’s reluctance to set foot inside the shop. “She must have so many memories tied to this place,” he murmured.

Dottie lowered her voice as her eyes swept the room. “I think something happened to him. Something strange.”

“Oh, Dottie,” Iain scolded, chuckling, “you need to stop reading those mystery novels. Sometimes the truth is hard, and sometimes people aren’t as strong as we think.”

“Nope. The truth is strange. No one saw him leave. Not even a goodbye. Didn’t even take the cash from the till. That doesn’t sound like someone who just gave up,” Dottie countered.

Pen was quiet, a chill brushing the back of his neck. The idea of Rowland vanishing without a trace gnawed at him. He couldn’t help thinking of the basement room. And felt a jolt of relief that he hadn’t found Rowland’s body down there.

“Alright,” Dottie said, clapping. “Enough spooky talk. Let’s get back to it. I’m almost done. I think you’ll be able to open those doors tomorrow, after all,” she added, climbing the stairs again.

Pen gave a small nod, about to reply, when the chimes began.

The sound rang through the shop, sharp, deliberate notes, each one more jarring than the last. They echoed off the walls and vibrated deep in his chest like a tuning fork struck too hard.

He looked at Iain. Then at Dottie.

Neither one so much as blinked.

“Do you—” he started. But they didn’t look at him. Didn’t react at all.

They just kept working. Like nothing was happening.

The chimes kept going. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Pen’s heart picked up speed, his mouth going dry. “Dottie?” he asked, louder now. “Iain?”

They both looked up, but only at the sound of his voice, not the chimes.

Dottie tilted her head. “Everything alright?”

Pen swallowed hard, scanning their faces for even the slightest recognition. “You don’t hear that?” he asked. “The chimes?”

Iain raised a brow. “What chimes?”

Pen stared at them. The sound still ringing in his ears, echoing across the shop, as clear as day.

But they didn’t hear it.

And he didn’t know what was worse, that they hadn’t heard the chimes, or the creeping thought that maybe they’d never been real to begin with.