Page 35 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Four

P en woke the next morning to a sky smeared with gray, the kind that pressed down on rooftops and made everything feel still. He didn’t mind the Scottish weather, found it soothing at times. However, today, there was a weight to the air, a pressure he couldn’t quite explain.

He moved through his usual routine on autopilot.

Coffee on. Mug out. And went to the window to look out over the sleepy street.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and he could barely make out the green door of the apothecary across the way.

Something was off. He turned, scanning the apartment behind him. .

On the table, the pocket watch sat exactly where he’d left it. He picked it up and turned it over. The hands now crept backward, counter clockwise, slow and steady, against the constellations etched into its face. Yesterday, they hadn’t moved at all.

He must have wound it last night, just enough to spark it back to life. Its backward motion stirred a strange discomfort in him as he stared, unable to look away.

The rich aroma of roasting coffee filled the room, and he set the watch down. He poured a cup and stood at the window, cupping it in both hands. The heat warmed his palms, but did nothing for the chill threading down his spine.

Rain streamed in narrow rivulets across the cobblestones.

Something was missing. Something obvious.

Sound.

He couldn’t hear the rain. No patter against the slate roof. No tap of rain on glass. Only silence, an eerie, all-encompassing silence.

Pen set the coffee down. The quiet filling the apartment wasn’t natural. It wasn’t peace. It was absence.

Had he somehow lost his hearing overnight? Or was he still trapped in a dream? He strained to listen, heart racing, but the stillness only deepened.

“Hello,” he said aloud, relieved to hear his own voice.

It was jarring, but he welcomed the sound.

He reached for the book on the table and let it fall from his hands.

The hardcover hit the wooden floor with a thud.

Relief swelled in this chest. He could hear.

The world hadn’t gone completely silent.

And yet, no rain. Maybe the storm had let up.

Maybe the quiet was nothing more than a trick of the old windows and thick clouds.

He clung to that thought, willing it to be true.

Shaking away his unease, Pen headed downstairs and prepared to open for the day.

It was Theodore Dreiser’s birthday, and he’d planned a small tribute, Sister Carrie and An American Tragedy propped up on the front counter beside the small vase of sweet peas Dottie had dropped off the day before.

He carried the books through the shop, their spines catching what little light came from the reading lamp glowing in the corner.

At the counter, he set them in place, adjusting the covers to face outward.

The soft ticking from the clock on the wall was a welcome sound this morning.

He checked the time. 8:55. Almost time to open.

Across the street, the bakery had already sprung to life, its warm light spilling onto the slick cobblestones. Dottie and Iain would have been up for hours by now, shaping dough and boxing pastries, as they promptly opened at eight, an hour before the bookshop.

Pen watched the glow of the bakery for a moment, taking in the familiar rhythm of the morning, before turning back to his own tasks. He reached for the light switch, ready to bring the shop to life, but when he flicked it on.

Nothing.

He tried again. On. Off. On. Still nothing.

Frowning, he crossed to the next set of switches. Even the loft remained shrouded in gloom.

Could the storm have blown a fuse? He hurried back, flipped every breaker in the fuse box, and tried the lights again.

Still nothing. Except for the warm circle of light cast by the lamp in the reading corner.

Pen stared at it. How? If the power was out, how could it be working? It didn’t make sense. Just like the absence of the rain’s pitter-patter on the roof.

With the dreary weather and the scant light coming from the windows, opening today would be impossible. No one would want to browse books in near-darkness.

After another round of futile tinkering with the fuse box, Pen gave up.

If he couldn’t fix the lights, maybe Iain would know what was going on.

He grabbed his rain slicker from the coat rack, pulled the large umbrella from its stand, and unlocked the door.

As he pushed it open, the fresh scent of rain greeted him.

But as soon as Pen’s foot hit the front step, the world shifted into a blur.

One moment he was stepping into the cool, damp air, and the next, he found himself back behind the front desk.

A bolt of fear shot through him; his heart thudded wildly, frantic and fast. He clutched the edge of the counter, breath shallow. What the hell just happened?

Trembling, Pen walked back to the door. His hand hovered over the knob, then he forced himself to open it again. He took one step forward. And he found himself sitting behind the front desk again.

His breath came in gasps, panic surging through him, hot and dizzying. “What the hell is going on here?” he whispered, staring down at his hands as the room swayed.

You’re dreaming , he thought. You must be . What was it they said about dreams? You weren’t supposed to be able to read in them. He grabbed the nearest book, turned to the first page, and read the text aloud. This wasn’t a dream then, was it? Yet, it was too insane to be reality.

He scanned the counter. A small box of novelty pins sat beside the display.

Bright blue buttons with the words, Books are fun!

in cheerful yellow letters. He picked one up, pried open its back, and jabbed it into the soft flesh of his finger.

Blood welled up in a small bead of crimson, then dripped onto the counter.

A sharp sting radiated from its tip. The pain was real. He most definitely wasn’t dreaming.

Pen moved to the door again, this time careful not to step on the threshold. Through the blur of rain, he could barely make out the door of the Marbled Clover. His eyes searched the bakery window. After what felt like an eternity, Dottie appeared with a stack full of bakery boxes in her arms.

“Dottie! Over here!” he yelled, voice raw with desperation. He waved both arms in wide arcs.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Just continued folding boxes, calm and unaware.

When she did finally glance up, he began waving again. It was as if she couldn’t see him at all. She just stood there, a far-off look on her face. How could she not see him? He was practically jumping up and down in the doorway.

Maybe it was too dark, maybe he was lost in the shadow of the doorframe. He slammed the door shut and ran to the front window. Grabbing the reading lamp, he dragged it closer, flooding the space around him with light.

Still nothing.

Moments later, Iain stepped into view, carrying a tray of scones to the front display cases. Pen’s stomach leapt.

“Iain,” he yelled, slamming his palms against the glass. “Hey, I’m right here!”

Iain looked up. Surely he had seen him. But Iain’s eyes moved past the bookshop window, his expression blank. It was as if Pen didn’t exist.

Panic clawed at his chest, heat rising to his face as nausea bubbled up in his throat. He needed to get out. Now. Then, it hit him: the back door. Without thinking, he bolted through the fantasy section. He fumbled with the lock, yanked the door open, and stepped into the alleyway…

Only to find himself back on the stool behind the counter.

Again.

Head spinning, breath ragged, the room swam. His hands shook as he dropped his face into them, trying to make sense of a reality that defied logic.

His gaze fell to the brown leather dress shoes on his feet.

Rowland’s shoes. The ones he’d borrowed.

What had he done? His mind reeled back through the past days, searching for anything that might explain this nightmare.

Carolyn’s unexpected visit, opening the drawers to the desk, the chimes, the watch…

It had to be the watch.

Pen tore up the stairs. The watch sat on the table, as if it hadn’t just upended his world.

He snatched it up. The hands were still moving, but more slowly now.

So slow it almost looked as if they weren’t moving at all.

Turning it over in his hands, he inspected every inch of the gold casing, squinting at the surface for anything he might have missed.

On the third rotation, he saw it. A faint, impossibly thin line of writing etched around the outer rim.

He sprinted to the bedroom and pulled a magnifying glass from the nightstand.

Back at the table, he hovered over the watch.

Though the words were faded with wear, they came into focus: The Order of the Monad.