Page 36 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Five

T hat name, Monad , tugged at something deep in Pen’s memory.

It echoed like a half-remembered song, familiar yet elusive.

He sifted through scattered thoughts, grasping at images and words, each one just out of reach.

A book, maybe? Or had Ward once told him a story with the name in it?

Then it struck him: he’d seen it scrawled on one of the papers in the desk within the hidden room.

It had been written across the large map of the planetary alignments.

Pen seized the watch and magnifying glass, racing back downstairs.

But at the bottom stair, he stopped. There, blocking the doorway, was the squatter, a small fox, no bigger than a cat.

It looked young, little more than a kit.

Its russet fur was soaked, and its wide eyes darted from side to side, clearly calculating the best route of escape.

Pen felt a pang of sympathy for the creature, knowing what it was like to be trapped, and he took two steps back up the stairs, giving the little fox space to flee. The fox looked up at him. Their eyes met, a silent exchange, then it turned, darting through the cracked door and into the bookshop.

Pen stood there, stunned, the moment hanging like mist in the air.

But the urgency of his task pulled him back.

Shaking off his surprise, he followed the fox into the shop.

As he made his way toward the hidden room, he glanced around, but the creature was nowhere in sight.

It had vanished, slipping away into whatever new nook or cranny it had found for its hiding spot.

He yanked the rug aside and lifted the trapdoor, descending into the damp, shadowed space below.

The scent of old wood and ink wrapped around him as he moved to the desk.

He unlocked it, then slid open the drawer, set the journals aside, and pulled the map free.

It was just as he remembered, a detailed sketch of planetary alignments, littered with scribbled equations and notes crowding the paper’s margins.

And there, three-quarters down the page, was the note. He read it aloud.

“The Monad’s influence courses through each celestial sphere, a silent architect shaping the destiny of worlds. In tracing these alignments, perhaps we touch the hem of creation itself.”

He pulled the watch from his pocket, its strange words catching the low light.

Laying the celestial map flat across the desk, he held the watch beside it.

The markings weren’t random; they matched.

Lines and curves mirrored the paths of stars inked into the page, a lattice of eerie precision. A chill went down his spine.

Lowering himself into the old captain’s chair, Pen rubbed at his temples, thoughts spiraling.

A hundred explanations for what might be happening to him raced through his mind, none of which were good.

He wished he’d never found the trapdoor and this hidden room.

Wished the mysterious chimes had remained just that, a mystery.

If they had, he was quite certain he wouldn’t be trapped inside the shop.

He needed to figure out what the hell was going on.

He began sifting through the rest of the papers in the desk.

Most were dense with complex mathematical scribbles that left him feeling more lost than enlightened.

Each line was a puzzle he lacked the skill to solve.

Math had never been his strong suit in school.

For all he knew, these equations held the secrets of the universe, but to him, they just looked like a mess of symbols that might as well have been in another language.

He leaned back in the chair, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers found the smooth curve of his lucky penny.

He turned it over, grounding himself with the touch of the ordinary.

The room felt closer than before. The shadows pressed against the walls, and a damp, earthy smell burned faintly in his nose.

He turned back to the stack of journals, searching for anything that might help him understand.

The first was more of the same: numbers, symbols, and lines of cramped, obsessive equations, meticulously penned in black ink.

Certain numbers were circled in red, others were underlined in blue, creating a chaotic tangle that Pen had no idea how to decipher.

He dropped it back on the desk and reached for the second.

This one opened differently. Page after page of flowing script, no equations, just words. A journal.

Pen’s stomach turned when he saw the name pressed into the inner leather of the cover: Rowland.

He flipped quickly, scanning pages of musings.

Maybe Rowland had written about the watch.

About halfway through, he came across a well-worn page, its edges bent and stained as if it had been read and reread countless times.

Pen leaned closer. Maybe this page held the answer.

September 12th, 1932

As I look back on the day I surprised Carolyn with a trip to Rosslyn Chapel just a few short weeks ago, my heart aches.

I had never seen her so happy; the smile that graced her lips was more radiant than the summer sun, and her excitement was infectious.

If I had only known the price of that joy, I might have thought twice before taking her away from the safety of home.

It is my fault she now lies ill, her body wasting under the weight of an invisible enemy.

I should have listened to Susan when she warned me it might not be wise to venture out while the TB outbreak was spreading.

Yet, in my stubborn arrogance, I dismissed her advice, wanting so badly to impress my love.

If only we hadn’t come across that group of children at the cathedral that day.

Carolyn, with her generous heart, couldn’t bear to see a small girl who had fallen behind, pale and coughing, struggling to keep up with the group.

In a moment of compassion, she rushed to help, lifting the child in her arms and carrying her over to where the others had stopped to admire one of the cathedral’s statues.

She was completely unaware that this small kindness would cost her dearly.

The doctor’s news today has left me with an ache in my chest that will not soon fade.

Even if Carolyn survives this, she may never be able to bear a child.

The infection has moved deep into her lungs, and they suspect, beyond.

The thought of that crushing her spirit is unbearable.

She would have made such a wonderful mother, nurturing and kind, just as she was to that little girl.

Now, I sit here, praying to a god I’m not sure exists, begging that the woman I love more than anything in this world will remain with me, earthside, and not be taken by this illness.

Yet, prayer feels insufficient when I hold the key to a gateway that could take me back and change her fate.

As the last keeper of the Astral Synchronum, I have sworn an oath never to use it, only to protect it and safeguard it from those who might wield it for harm.

Yet I sit here, staring at the watch, waiting to hear a chime, to hear the sound that will allow me to save my love.

Knowing I possess the means to go back in time and rewrite the past, yet being unable to do so is a torment no man should have to endure.

Pen set the journal down, his stomach twisting as he absorbed Rowland’s words. His gaze drifted to the gold watch resting on the desk, quiet now, unmoving.

Was this it? The Astral Synchronum?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Rowland had written as though the watch could transport him back in time. That was impossible. Wasn’t it? He’d said he was waiting, listening for the chimes to sound so he could use it.

The watch had rung out in the middle of the night, waking Pen from a dead sleep.

He’d fumbled with it, twisting knobs, pressing buttons in a desperate attempt to quiet it.

Could that have triggered something? Had he somehow activated this device without realizing it?

Had he traveled back in time? He shook his head.

No, he couldn’t have. It was too far-fetched.

Besides, Dottie and Iain were still here. Everything looked the same.

And yet…

He hunched over, eyes tracing the symbols etched into the watch’s face, then down at Rowland’s words.

Something was happening. Something strange. It felt unreal, like he’d stepped into a story that wasn’t his own. One that didn’t belong in real life but in one of the science fiction books on the shelves.

Back in the bookshop, Pen moved to the window that looked toward the bakery. The clouds had begun to lift, casting a pale silver light into the shop. He watched, waiting, hoping Dottie or Iain might glance his way.

Time dragged on. Customers came and went. No one looked his way. But with the shop lights off and the closed sign still in the window, it was no wonder.

Evening settled in, the streetlights flickered on. Pen’s legs ached from standing, but he didn’t move.

His stomach twisted, his head felt cloudy.

He had almost given up hope when the bakery door swung open. Dottie stepped out, Iain close behind. They crossed the street, heading straight for the bookstore.

Pen’s heart leapt into his throat. Finally. “One more minute in here, and I’d have gone completely mad, if I’m not already,” he muttered, rushing to the door.

Dottie reached it first, giving the handle a turn, but it resisted. Confused, Pen looked down. He was sure he’d unlocked it.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” he said.

Iain tried the handle as well, but it still wouldn’t budge from the outside.

Pen reached for the knob, but as soon as his hand met it, a force threw him backward, slamming him into the children’s shelf.

Books tumbled to the floor. Dazed, he staggered to his feet and turned back to the door.

But Dottie and Iain weren’t shocked or concerned.

They had their hands pressed to the glass, peering in.

Pen stepped up to the window, waving his hand wildly in front of Dottie’s face.

Nothing. Her gaze seemed to pass right through him.

A loud bang echoed against the shop door, and Pen heard Iain’s muffled voice call out, “Pen, you in there?”

The room fell silent; the only sound was the relentless thud of his heartbeat in his ears, loud and frantic.

“Pen, are you okay?” Dottie’s voice rang out, followed by another set of heavy knocks.

“I’m right here,” he yelled back.

But neither of them reacted.

“Maybe he went somewhere for the day?” Iain suggested, stepping off the stoop.

Dottie frowned. “Don’t you think he’d have mentioned it? We just had dinner two nights ago.”

Iain sighed. “We’re his friends, not his parents, Dottie.”

She lingered at the door, glancing back through the window, inches from Pen’s face, but her eyes drifted past him, empty of recognition. “I don’t know, Iain. I have a bad feeling. Something isn’t right.”

“If he doesn’t turn up in the next couple of days, we’ll go talk to the police, okay?”

With one last worried look through the glass, Dottie turned and followed Iain back across the street. Pen had stood there, mere inches from her, as she looked straight through him, like he wasn’t even there, like he was a ghost.

The thought struck him with a cold dread that sent him sprinting back to the apartment. He crashed into the bedroom, half-expecting, dreading, to find his own body lying on the bed. But it was empty. Just the usual tangle of sheets.

So he wasn’t dead, at least not in the conventional sense. He wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Pen made his way over to the window and gazed down at the street. The sign for the Purple Thorn Apothecary swayed gently. Carolyn. She’s right there, just across the road… and yet , he thought grimly, she might as well be a universe away .