Page 38 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Six

I t had been a little over a week since Adelaide had called Amy and told her everything: about Jeff, the mess she’d left behind, and her decision not to return to Glastonbury.

Amy had tried to coax her back, offering her a place to stay, but Adelaide had insisted she needed space.

She’d asked if Jeff had tried to reach out, and when Amy said no, that was all she needed to hear.

The fact he hadn’t even bothered to find out where she was or if she was okay spoke volumes and sealed her decision to stay.

She’d emptied her savings and bought the old bookshop across from her great-aunt’s apothecary. Susan had handed her the keys just yesterday and filed all the necessary papers. But Adelaide hadn’t set foot inside; she hadn’t even told a soul she’d bought it. Not even Carolyn.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she was keeping it a secret, only that something inside her said she had to. That she needed to do this on her own, prove to herself that she could. Without anyone else’s opinions in the mix.

Buying the bookshop was a monumental leap, one she’d never dream of before.

For years, she’d poured everything into her marriage, nurturing Jeff’s ambitions, sidelining her own until she’d forgotten she was allowed to have any.

Now, the idea of chasing a dream felt strange, like she didn’t quite deserve to.

Maybe that’s why she hadn’t said a word about the shop.

She was still questioning whether she deserved it.

She set her cup of tea aside and added another log to the crackling fire in the hearth. The flames hissed and popped, casting flickering shadows.

The chill had settled in early; the nights were sharp and bitter, and the cabin, charming as it was, offered little defense.

Its drafty windows and thick stone walls seemed to trap the cold rather than keep it out.

She had already burned through most of the stacked logs by the edge of the path near the woods, and was down to the last few.

Carolyn had called for a wood delivery over a week ago, but nothing had arrived yet.

When winter came, this cabin wouldn’t be livable. She’d either have to crash on Carolyn’s sofa or find a place of her own.

Her stomach turned; it was too early for thoughts like these, too heavy to carry before the caffeine had worked its magic.

She pushed them aside. First things first: find wood for tonight, and then head to the bookshop.

She hadn’t even asked for a tour before signing the papers.

In hindsight, it had been impulsive, reckless, even.

But she’d felt an urgency she couldn’t explain, like if she hesitated, someone else might swoop in and claim it first. And she couldn’t let that happen.

From the first moment she’d seen it, with a lone moth settled atop the worn signpost, she’d known the Feather Thorn was meant to be hers.

The pull toward it had been magnetic; even now, it hummed beneath her skin.

Today, she would finally give in to that pull and unlock the doors to what she hoped would be her new beginning.

After finishing her morning chores, Adelaide tugged on her thrifted cream cable-knit sweater and suede jacket and stepped out into the brisk mid-morning air.

The sky was a pale wash overhead, the kind of cool blue that made you breathe a little deeper.

As she walked down the winding path to the main house, she stretched her arms, letting her fingertips skim the tops of the wildflowers as the soft grasses brushed against her thighs.

The familiar rasp of seedheads and stalks against her skin grounded her, tethering her to this quiet patch of land.

Every morning, she walked this same path.

And every morning, it reminded her she wasn’t in Glastonbury anymore.

Rounding the corner near the elder bush, she spotted Carolyn kneeling at the edge of the pathway, diligently pulling up weeds.

“Morning. Whatcha doing?” Adelaide called out, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets to warm them up.

Carolyn looked up, face flushed from exertion, gray hair sticking to her temples. “Trying to pull up this damn bishop’s weed before it takes over the whole plot,” she grumbled. She gave a satisfying tug and held up the scraggly root in triumph before tossing it onto a growing pile.

“Why don’t you just let me mow it down?” Adelaide offered, eyeing the mess of stalks and stems around them.

Carolyn straightened slowly, using her stick to push herself upright.

“Because then you’d mow everything. Including my crops.

” She waved her hand over what looked to Adelaide like a field of stubborn weeds.

“And two, it will just grow back. Its roots need to be pulled up before it gets a hold on any more of this area.”

“Crops?” Adelaide squinted at the field.

“Those may look like weeds to you, my dear, but this field is full of what I need to dry over the winter.” Carolyn pointed her stick at a lanky plant.

“This here’s nettle. I use it in my teas to help settle the stomach, and it has antihistamine properties too.

And this tall fellow is sorrel, an anti-inflammatory I use in my salves.

Over there, dandelion, yarrow, plantain, mugwort, chickweed, shepherd’s purse.

All of it’s useful. And there’s more beyond, near your cabin. ”

Adelaide followed the line of the raised stick, newly aware of the wildly beautiful mess she’d meandered through each morning. “I had no idea you harvested all the herbs for the shop yourself.”

“Oh, no, I don’t,” Carolyn said with a shrug. “I purchase most of my herbs in bulk for the teas and such, but when it comes to—” She paused as if searching for the right words. “Complex mixtures, I stick to what grows here on my land. These herbs have a special quality.”

Adelaide didn’t entirely understand, but she nodded anyway, letting the reverence in Carolyn’s voice settle over her.

“Do you want any help?” she offered, watching as Carolyn knelt back down.

“No, no. You go enjoy the afternoon.” She waved a gloved hand in dismissal, then immediately started muttering at another tangled root.

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’m going to head into town; do you need anything?”

Carolyn didn’t look up. “I have everything I need right here. Now shoo!”

Adelaide grinned. “Well, okay then. Good luck conquering the bishop’s weed.”

Her shoes crunched over the path as she turned toward the road. Her feet seemed to be carrying her into town much quicker than normal today, the excitement of exploring the shop fueling each footstep, and the jingle of the bookshop’s keys in her pocket setting a steady rhythm.

By the time she reached the bookstore, the street was fully awake. Locals drifted in and out of shops, and the smell of fresh scones wafted through the air from the bakery.

The bookshop sat slightly back from the road, just far enough for the weeds to lay claim to the narrow path. Ivy had all but engulfed the flagstones, vines curling over the walkway in a tangled mass of green. She pushed forward, wading through the overgrowth until she reached the faded front door.

She paused, knee-deep in ivy and nettles, and tilted her head to take in the full, weary face of the shop.

The windows were dim with grime and half covered in ivy, but in her mind, she saw it as it had been in the photograph above the bakery door, clean and inviting.

Beneath the neglect lay a beautiful shop, just waiting to breathe again.

Heart fluttering, she slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out the keys. The brass lock was crusted with a thin layer of moss, as if nature was slowly reclaiming it. She scraped at it with the edge of the key, then slid it in and gave it a turn.

“Here we go,” she muttered. The old lock groaned in protest. She jiggled it, turned it back and forth, but nothing happened.

“Crap,” she said, twisting harder.

“I’m afraid it’s locked,” came a voice from behind her.

Adelaide jumped, then turned to see Dottie from the bakery standing just a few feet away, flour-dusted apron and all, looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Oh, hey,” she said, brushing moss from her fingers.

“Adelaide! I thought that was you.” Dottie glanced at the keys in Adelaide’s hands. “What are you doing over here?”

“Trying to unlock this door. It’s stuck.”

Dottie’s brow creased. “How’d you get the keys to the Feather Thorn?”

“I bought it last week,” Adelaide answered, lowering her voice, “but please don’t say anything. I haven’t really told anyone yet, not even Carolyn.”

“Oh,” was all Dottie could say for a long moment as she gazed past Adelaide at the bookshop. “I didn’t know the town was putting it back up for sale again.”

“Yeah, Susan let me put a bid in before it was listed. She figured no one local would want it and thought it would be nice if someone connected to the town bought it. I also needed a change, and it felt right, so here I am.” She hesitated. “Maybe a little impulsive, but, yeah.”

Dottie’s lips pressed together. “And you haven’t told Carolyn?”

“I will. I just wanted to try and figure it out a bit on my own first, I guess.”

“Well, she’ll be surprised, that’s for sure,” Dottie stepped up beside Adelaide. “Here. There’s a bit of a trick to it. First, grab the doorknob and pull the door closed. Tight as you can. Then, put the key in, not all the way. About three-quarters. Then turn.”

Adelaide did as instructed, and sure enough, there was a satisfying click.

The door creaked open an inch, and a breath of musty air spilled out, thick with the scent of leather bindings, timeworn paper, and a lingering trace of cologne.

Her chest tightened with warmth and nostalgia.

The smell hit like an old memory: library aisles, childhood afternoons, stories waiting in quiet corners.

“See!” Dottie grinned. “I guess the old trick still works!”

“Thanks, Dottie! I’d have been out here half the day wrestling with the thing if you hadn’t come by.”

“No trouble. I’ll leave you to your exploring,” she said, turning to walk back across the street.

However, she turned back. “Adelaide, please make sure you tell your aunt before she hears it from someone else. I’d bet half the street’s already clocked you out here, and you know how small towns talk. ”

Her tone made Adelaide pause. So Carolyn wouldn’t be pleased to hear about the bookshop secondhand? Or she wouldn’t be pleased to hear about it at all?

She opened her mouth to ask more, but a sound coming from inside the shop caught her attention. She turned for just a moment, looking through the crack of the open door, but when she looked back, Dottie had already disappeared into the bakery.

Adelaide faced the door again. Its once-rich navy-blue paint was now faded and chipped, the wood grain beneath peeking through. Another thing for her growing to-do list. She pushed the door open.

Stepping over the threshold, she gazed into the dimly lit space.

A counter greeted her first, and beyond it, rows upon rows of books stretched into the shadows.

Her heart raced as she took her first step into the shop, her shop.

The shelves were brimming with books, far exceeding what she had anticipated.

Not only had she snagged the building at a steal, but a hoard of stories, thousands of pounds worth of literary treasures.

As she moved further in, she marveled at a model ship and an airplane suspended from the ceiling, both softly lit by the sunlight trying to filter in through the high front window.

When she turned, she saw the loft above, an inviting overlook accessed by a staircase lined with old paintings, their painted eyes seeming to follow her, as if curious about the new visitor.

She scanned for signs of rot or damp, but so far, so good. The roof seemed solid, no structural issues to speak of. A relief; she would have been way out of her depth if there had been.

Everything matched the picture she’d built in her mind, right down to the mahogany bookshelves, the loft overlooking the sea of books, and that hush of particular places where words slept on paper.

She flipped the switch, expecting the power to be off, but a row of overhead tin lights sprang to life with a soft hum, bathing the space in a warm yellow glow.

She wandered to the fiction section and ran her fingers across the spines until they landed on The Chronicles of Narnia .

She opened the worn cover and smiled. Her father had read it to her again and again; this was the book that had made her fall in love with stories.

He would have loved this for her. But as she flipped through its pages, something gave her pause.

The book was immaculate. No dust, no signs of age.

How could that be? Susan had said no one had touched these books in over ten years.

The last people who tried to revive the shop hadn’t lasted even a month, claiming the place was haunted.

Adelaide chuckled at the notion; weren’t all the best libraries and bookshops?

She pulled out another book. Clean. Then another. Still nothing. She moved to a different section. Same story, dust-free. How odd , she thought, but welcome ; it was one less chore she would need to tackle.

After exploring the loft area, Adelaide returned to the main level and ventured to the back.

A door stood slightly ajar, a scattering of leaves at its base, and tiny muddy pawprints leading in and out.

Curiosity piqued, she pushed it open and found a stairwell winding up to another floor.

Halfway up, she spotted the culprit’s entry, a cracked windowpane that let in a ribbon of cool late-summer air and a swirl of stray leaves. Another task for her list.

At the top, a door painted in the same rich navy blue as the front stood shut.

She turned the knob, but it was locked. She fished out the keyring and tried each one, but none fit the door.

She would have to stop by and see Susan later; she must have forgotten to give her a key to what was presumably the shop’s storage area.

Just as she began to descend the stairs, a click echoed behind her. The unmistakable sound of a lock being turned.

She froze.

Was someone inside? That noise, when she had first opened the shop, had that been someone slipping away?

Her heart raced. Slowly, she turned around.

The door now stood open. Cool air drifted from the darkened room, heavy with the scent of old paper and something else.

Like déjà vu wrapped in dust and shadows.

Then, from the gloom, a pair of yellow eyes slowly emerged.