Page 41 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T he next morning, Adelaide slipped into Carolyn’s garage and gathered a battered metal bucket, a pair of gardening shears, a small spade, and gloves that smelled faintly of damp soil.

Today was the day she would reclaim the Feather Thorn’s shopfront, now more wild tangle than a welcome mat.

She crammed the tools into the back seat of her car and reversed down the gravel drive before Carolyn had a chance to appear in the doorway, hands on hips and full of questions.

Since moving in, most of Adelaide’s days had been spent settling into the cabin, tending the lawn, or helping with small chores while Carolyn was at the apothecary.

Evenings were softer. She and her great-aunt shared simple dinners, reminiscing about her childhood visits.

Carolyn spoke fondly of Adelaide’s father and the mischief they’d gotten into as kids.

It was the first time in years Adelaide had heard anyone speak his name without the hollow ache that used to fill her mother’s silences.

Still, even as they grew closer, Adelaide hadn’t breathed a word about the bookshop. It wasn’t just the suspicion that Carolyn had a history with the place; it was something else that she didn’t fully understand. A desire to keep it to herself just a little longer.

She’d tell her tomorrow. That was the plan. When Carolyn went to the apothecary, she’d join her and reveal the newly cleaned-up shopfront, and finally say it out loud. Plus, she still needed to pry more out of Dottie. That photograph upstairs hadn’t left her thoughts.

As she drove into town, Adelaide’s mind drifted, inevitably, maddeningly, to Ewan.

Good grief . She gripped the steering wheel tighter.

The way she’d flushed, tripped over her words, nearly melted into a puddle of nerves just because a man with sawdust on his T-shirt smiled at her.

Get a grip , she scolded herself. What was she, seventeen?

Still shaking her head at her own absurdity, she turned into the narrow alleyway beside the bookshop.

The space was just tight enough to keep her car hidden from view, perfect, in case Carolyn wandered by.

Adelaide hauled the tools from the back seat, the metal bucket clanging against her knees, and made her way to the front door. She fitted the key into the lock, using Dottie’s trick. A firm tug, then push. The old door groaned open.

Stepping inside, the familiar scent of cologne enveloped her, as if the shop had exhaled after being sealed shut for too long.

The air stirred around her, brushing past her shoulders, spilling into the street like something half-alive, eager to stretch its limbs.

The shadow she’d seen yesterday flickered in her mind.

She recalled a documentary she’d watched years ago about ghosts, people speaking in hushed voices about catching a whiff of perfume or aftershave, just before something strange happened.

Maybe that was it , she mused. Why she kept smelling a man’s cologne.

Perhaps the scent clung to something in the shop, the old chair in the loft, the stool behind the desk, the fabric of time itself refusing to let go.

She flicked on the overhead lights. They buzzed to life, highlighting the endless rows of spines. It still felt unreal, this place, all of it, hers.

Pulling the paint sample cards from her pocket, she walked to the wall of the loft stairs, the one she wanted to accent with a splash of color.

The current hue was a tired off-white, more the shade of dust and years gone by than any real design choice.

She held up a rich navy blue and a deep emerald green, both catching the light in promising ways.

Returning to the counter, she placed the two paint strips side by side and stacked the others neatly beside them. Later, she’d decide which to use for the children’s corner and the small reading nook in the loft. But first, the exterior.

And her first mission was obvious: clear the path to the door by cutting back the ivy and shrubs.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Next, she knelt beside the walkway and yanked the weeds from the narrow strip of earth between the pavement and the edge of the building. A trimmer would have made quick work of it, but her small spade would have to do. The rhythm of it, cut, tug, shake, toss, soon pulled her into a steady groove.

To her surprise, within an hour, a blue slate pathway emerged.

Tugging back a curtain of ivy near the steps, she unearthed something unexpected: an old wooden sign.

She brushed it clean with her gloved hands.

A large feather was painted in its center, with a pair of moth wings behind it.

A peculiar combination , she thought, but strangely, perfectly fitting for how she had found the place.

She propped it up against the door. Despite the wear, it was beautifully well-preserved. With a little sanding and varnish, it could shine again.

As she finished trimming the last of the ivy obscuring part of the large front window, a man’s voice called out from behind her.

“Wow, look at this! You’ve done a great job. It looks almost like a shop again.”

Adelaide turned to see the older man from the bakery, Dottie’s husband, Iain, walking toward her.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing ivy clippings off her trousers. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. It’s been a long time since it looked this good.”

Just then, Dottie strolled over, holding a lemonade and a muffin wrapped in a napkin.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” she added, handing them over.

Adelaide took them gratefully. “Thanks, I’m starving.”

Dottie smiled, but there was a flicker of something quieter behind it. “It seems like just yesterday that Pen was over here doing the same thing.”

Adelaide paused mid-sip. “Pen? Was he the owner who left because of the ‘ghost?’”

“No, Pen was the second owner of the shop in 1955, the one in the photo you pointed out in the bakery a few weeks ago,” Iain explained.

Adelaide stilled, her mind racing. The young man in that photo looked to be around the same age as Carolyn was in the picture on the dresser. A connection began to form, but she needed to be sure. “Can I ask you something?” she said, turning to Dottie. “Was Pen Aunt Carolyn’s boyfriend?”

Dottie let out a soft laugh. “Heavens, no.”

“Then why is there a photo of her in the flat above the bookshop with some guy? And why did you suggest she wouldn’t take the news of me buying the shop well?”

Dottie exchanged a glance with Iain, her brow furrowed as if deciding how much she wanted to share. Finally, she spoke, her voice softening. “That picture belonged to Rowland, the original owner of the bookshop back in the thirties. He and your aunt were sweethearts, young and in love.”

“What happened to them?” Adelaide probed, sensing Dottie’s hesitation. “Don’t you think I should know the whole story and how Carolyn is tied into the bookshop?”

Dottie sighed, her gaze drifting as if she were revisiting the past. “Rowland was everything to her. But then Carolyn fell ill with tuberculosis. Nearly died. Rowland said he knew of something that could help her, something that might save her. Then he vanished. Just disappeared. Carolyn filed a missing person report, hired a private investigator too. She was convinced something bad had happened to him.” Her face grew weary as she went on.

“She waited for him. Months turned into years. But he never came back. It shattered her heart, and she never truly recovered.”

“That must have been so hard for her,” Adelaide whispered, looking up at the window of the bookshop’s flat.

“It was.” Dottie nodded. “When Pen took over the shop years later, it reopened a wound that had barely begun to heal. And when he went missing too… She started saying this place was cursed. Haunted by ghosts, by grief. I didn’t know how much she’d told you.”

“She hasn’t said anything about it,” Adelaide replied. “Not a word.”

“Rowland’s absence stole something from her. She used to be so bright,” Dottie said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Iain stepped in gently. “Rowland was always a bit of a mystery, but as for Pen, he might’ve just returned to America; he had brothers over there.”

Dottie’s expression tightened. “Maybe. But Pen wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. That’s not the kind of man he was.”

A quiet fell between them. She shifted her weight, chilled by more than just the late-summer air. Two owners. Two disappearances. And now she stood where they once had, keys in hand.

“Have you told her yet?” Dottie asked, snapping Adelaide out of her trance.

“No,” she admitted, biting her lip. “I planned to break the news tomorrow when she comes to town to open the apothecary. But now, I’m not so sure that’s the best idea.”

“Aye, you might want to think about telling her at home tonight instead,” Iain suggested. “People in town have caught wind of it and are starting to talk. Word gets around these parts.”

Adelaide nodded. “Thanks for sharing that story with me. At least now I know to approach it gently.”

“Of course. If you need anything, just let us know,” Dottie said, patting her on the shoulder. She glanced up at the bookshop, a look of sadness flickering across her face before she turned back toward the bakery.

“It really does look good,” Iain called as he followed Dottie across the street.

Adelaide lingered in front of the door, the weight of the keys suddenly heavier. With the truth came a shift. The Feather Thorn didn’t just belong to her; it belonged to a story written long before she arrived.

She stepped back inside. The light from the window seemed dimmer now, though the sun still hung high in the sky. At the counter, she reached for the paint strips, then paused. The two samples she’d set aside earlier had been moved.

She remembered placing them side by side: navy and emerald. Now, only the emerald strip remained on the counter. The navy one sat neatly atop the larger stack.

She stared at it, then picked it up. Had she moved it? She couldn’t remember. But she didn’t think so.

She stepped outside with the emerald-green sample still in her hand.

Maybe it was nothing, just Dottie’s story clinging to the edges of her thoughts and making her imagination run wild.

Still, as she closed the door behind her, she couldn’t quite shake the sense that something inside the shop had shifted since she found out its true history. And not just the paint strips.