Page 48 of The Messengers of Magic
Chapter Thirty-Four
T he next morning, Adelaide waited until she heard Carolyn’s car leave the driveway before venturing out to her own.
Last night had not gone well, even with the chocolate puffs.
Carolyn had completely lost it when she told her she’d bought the bookshop.
She’d gone off, calling it a terrible investment and claiming nothing good had ever come from that place.
Adelaide had prepared herself for that, but what she hadn’t expected was Carolyn insisting she speak to Susan to “get her out of the contract.”
When Adelaide told her that wasn’t what she wanted, Carolyn’s reaction intensified.
She claimed the bookshop was cursed. That every owner failed.
That it was doomed to bring more heartache than hope.
Adelaide had spent the better part of the evening trying to reassure Carolyn that she would be just fine, that this was the new start she was looking for, that staying in Helensburgh, planting roots, was a good thing. But her words hadn’t landed.
Adelaide knew Carolyn had a history with the Feather Thorn, and its original owner, Rowland, but she hadn’t brought it up during their discussion, not even once. Her defenses were up, her eyes shadowed with something more than disapproval.
The conversation ended abruptly when Carolyn retreated to bed, still fuming, leaving Adelaide sitting alone with the untouched box of chocolate puffs.
This morning, Adelaide had decided it best to give her great-aunt a few days to cool off.
Outside, the air greeted her with a bite.
Just as she’d predicted, the night’s heavy dew had succumbed to the cold and coated everything within its grasp with frost. The fiery autumn colors were now muted, glazed in a thin shimmer of white.
As she walked the path to the garage, she stretched out her hands like she always did, but the soft textures she loved had stiffened.
Ice clung to every leaf and blade. She dragged her hand through the tall grass anyway, leaving a trail of ice crystals lingering in the air behind her, floating to the ground like sparks of magic in the early morning light.
It felt like a sign. Serendipitous, almost, that the first heavy frost had arrived on the very morning she’d woken up sure of what the Feather Thorn meant to her.
After the fight with Carolyn, something had shifted.
She didn’t see the shop as a risk or an escape; it was a declaration, a commitment to herself.
To her future. The old Adelaide would have caved.
She would have let Carolyn talk to Susan, given in to keep the peace.
But not now. This version of herself, the one who stood her ground, who knew she was responsible for her own happiness, would not give in.
Like the frost, harsh and biting, she was claiming what she wanted without asking permission.
As she started her car, Adelaide leaned back and watched the frost melt away from the windshield.
She didn’t bother turning on the radio; her thoughts were too loud.
Plans for the Feather Thorn grew as she drove, one after another, and with each came a new rush of excitement.
Hopefully, once she’d created her own version of the place, Carolyn would eventually come around.
She parked in the narrow side street next to the shop and shut off the engine.
Gathering the basket of cleaning supplies she’d brought from the cabin, she headed to the front door.
Unlocking it quickly, she stepped inside, eager to escape the bite of the chilly morning air.
Though the bookshop wasn’t much warmer than the outside, it was inviting in a way the damp air outside wasn’t.
Flipping on the overhead tin lights, the shop came alive, golden pools sending down an inviting glow that settled over the rows of books. Adelaide breathed in. God, she loved that smell. She spotted the thermostat behind the counter and twisted the dial until it read twenty-one.
The bag of paint supplies she’d left by the door the night before sat waiting.
She was excited to get to work, and today’s job was to tackle the staircase wall.
As she bent down to pick up the bag, a flash of white caught her eye.
There, sticking out from the open top of the old letterbox, was a piece of paper.
She was certain it hadn’t been there yesterday; she would have noticed.
She pulled it free. Just a folded piece of paper, no envelope, no stamp, no name, no return address. It had most definitely not been left by the postman.
Inside a single sheet of typewritten paper read:
I am happy you are giving the Feather Thorn its second, or should I say third, chance. The emerald green is a great choice. I look forward to seeing what you do with it.
A slow smile crept over her face as she folded the letter and stuck it in her back pocket.
She walked to the window and glanced down the street to the hardware store.
Well, her flirting couldn’t have been all that bad if Ewan had decided to leave her a note.
She was surprised; she hadn’t taken him for the type.
Grinning now, she twirled on her heel like a schoolgirl and marched toward the staircase wall. Today was painting day.
She stepped onto the first stair and flipped the switch for the overhead loft light. Nothing happened; it just hung dull and lifeless from its tin fixture. She clicked it on and off again; it appeared to have a blown bulb.
“We don’t need that, plenty of natural light from these big windows,” she said, turning back around to face them. “Now let’s show him what we got, shall we?”
One by one, Adelaide began taking down the paintings and stacking them against the large window that faced the street.
As she worked, she noticed the small landscape paintings scattered along the wall were done in a style strikingly similar to the wheat field painting that rested above the mantel in the cabin.
She pulled one down for a closer look and found they did, in fact, bear the same signature as the one from the cabin: CM .
Strange , she thought, stepping closer to the large painting of the woman in the rain.
She lifted it carefully from its hook and inspected it.
From afar, she was anonymous, but now, with the painting in her hands, she saw it.
The tilt of her chin. That smile. There was no mistaking who it was. Carolyn.
Her heart sank. This wall of paintings had been here since Rowland.
She cradled the frame, carried the portrait down the stairs, but before setting it with the rest, she flipped it around. Burned into the wood of the canvas was a single line:
For my Love .
Adelaide’s heart ached. What should have been obvious from the beginning surged forth all at once.
CM stood for Carolyn McGregor. Carolyn had painted these, all of them, for Rowland.
Now, after last night’s argument, she felt even worse.
She had pushed, and she should have paused.
Carolyn’s warnings, her sharp protests, weren’t about the business.
They were about him . About the life she never got to live.
A gallery of dreams left hanging on a staircase wall.
She hadn’t just bought a bookshop; she’d acquired part of Carolyn’s story, her heartbreak, a place of shattered hopes and dreams.
If she was going to make the Feather Thorn her home, she knew she needed Carolyn’s blessing.
She returned upstairs for the final painting, the largest of the group: a portrait of a man with an impressive beard.
Stretching her arms wide, she struggled for a moment to lift it free from its hook on the wall.
Finally she felt it give way, unhooking from its resting spot.
It was surprisingly light for its size. As she navigated the stairs, her view obscured, the edge of the canvas bumped against the wall.
At the last step, something clattered loudly onto the floor.
Startled, she set the painting down against the others and went back to where she’d heard the object fall.
There, at the foot of the stairs, glinting in a patch of light, lay an old brass key.
She stooped to pick it up. “Did you drop this?” she asked, turning back to the portrait of the man.
She lifted the painting again and turned it around. A strip of yellowed tape clung loosely to the back, clearly too brittle to hold anything anymore, but the faint outline of the key was still impressed in its surface.
“Well, well, well. What have you been hiding, Mr.—” She squinted at the brass backplate. “Mr. John Dee.”
Why did that name sound familiar? She’d seen it recently, she was sure of that, but she couldn’t place where. Glancing around the room, she searched for something the key might unlock, but nothing stood out.
Tucking it into her back pocket, she resolved to go on that treasure hunt later; for now, she had a wall to paint.
Retrieving the paint can and bag of supplies, she set everything up.
Pausing, she looked up into the loft. Her skin prickled.
The air had turned still, and the familiar feeling of being watched swept over her again.
The faint smell of men’s cologne, with a hint of cigarette smoke, clung to the silence, lingering like a forgotten memory.
Shaking the feeling off, she pried open the tin of emerald paint and poured the thick, rich green into the tray, its glossy sheen catching the light. It flowed in smooth, heavy waves, reminding Adelaide of the ribbon sweeties her gran always bought her at Christmastime.
She made a quick pass with the roller in the tray, turning its white surface into a deep forest green.
The first swipe across the wall looked almost too dark, a stark contrast to the soft off-white that had covered it for decades. She hesitated, the roller hovering midair. Is this going to make the space too dark?
Then, the stairwell light flickered, buzzed, and flared to life. The green came alive, rich and vibrant. Not overwhelming, just perfect.
She laughed. “Alright, then,” she said to the light. “You win.”
As she painted, she started to hum softly at first, then she broke into full voice, belting out “We Built This City” by Starship. Her voice bounced off the walls, lively and full of something she hadn’t felt in years. Freedom.
When she finished the second coat, after a mildly terrifying wobble on the top rung of the ladder, she stood back and admired her work.
It was the perfect accent for the space, standing out just enough to pull the eye to it but not overpowering the rich beauty of the shelves’ wood grains.
If anything, it made the bookcases stand out more.
She packed away the brushes and paints, then grabbed the bag of locks.
Maybe she would take Ewan up on his offer to help.
If the note in the letterbox really had been from him, then he’d already made the first move; maybe it was time she made the second.
After nine years of seriousness, why not live a little?
What did she have to lose? If it was nothing more than a little fun, she was one hundred percent okay with that; she was more than ready for a little bit of carefree fun.