Page 55 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A delaide had gone to bed the night before with a belly full of veggie pie, and the weight in her chest just a little lighter. Talking with Carolyn had been like lifting a heavy lid off a pot, letting all the steam escape, and she felt much better now that they had mended things between them.

However, the stories her great-aunt had shared stayed with her, rattling around in her mind long into the night.

Carolyn had believed every word she’d said about the cursed object and its link to the disappearances.

Adelaide had heard the conviction in her voice, but the whole thing felt impossible, desperate, even. A myth wrapped around old grief.

And yet.

There was the key taped behind the painting of John Dee. The strange energy humming through the Feather Thorn. The way the silence there felt watchful.

Now, bundled in her warmest sweater and jeans, with the tartan blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she stood at the hearth, staring at the painting above the mantel.

The morning sunlight caught on its surface, making the golden wheat field glow, as if it were a window into another world.

It was the first time she’d looked at it since realizing Carolyn had painted it.

Now she saw it differently; there was love poured into every careful stroke.

So why had this one ended up boxed away in the garage?

It looked like it belonged with the others at the bookshop, as if it was part of the set there.

Taking a long sip of coffee, she studied the painting, trying to place its location. The scene tugged at something, some memory or half-remembered dream, but nothing came. With a sigh, she set her mug on the mantel and loaded the last of the firewood that she’d brought in the night before.

She’d made up her mind. Once that last stack of wood was gone, she’d move into the Feather Thorn. Judging how quickly she was burning through it, that might only be a week away. The cabin just couldn’t keep up with the cold anymore, and winter was already starting to bite.

She rinsed her cup, left it in the sink, pulled on her jacket, and headed out.

Frost had feathered over the ivy crawling across the bookshop’s windows, its muted minty green reminding her of her gran’s old carnival glass sweet dish.

“That might not be a bad color for the kids’ section,” she muttered, fumbling with the keys.

The door creaked open, and the familiar smell of the books greeted her like an old friend.

As she reached for the light switch, her gaze snagged on the letterbox.

Another letter poked from its lip. Her heart skipped, and a smile spread across her face.

She plucked it from its resting place and unfolded it, her eyes skimming eagerly across the words.

The wall looks great! The color really brings out the bookshelves. You’ve got impeccable taste. I can’t wait to see what you do next to bring the bookshop back to life.

A flush crept up her neck and butterflies erupted in her stomach.

A giggle slipped out, girlish and unguarded.

She still couldn’t believe Ewan was leaving her these sweet little notes, encouraging her to keep going.

It was thoughtful, so thoughtful, the kind of thing you saw in films or read in novels.

Was it real? Were men actually this romantic?

Jeff certainly hadn’t been. Not with her, at least.

The thought landed like a dropped stone. Her stomach twisted, but she refused to let it take hold. No. She wouldn’t let memories of Jeff spoil this for her. He’d had his fun. Now it was her turn.

Trying to shake him off, she looked down at the note again, at the kind words, and realized with sudden, comical panic: she had nothing to wear for tonight. Nothing remotely date-appropriate. She’d need to pop into the Common Blue later and see if Camie could help her find something.

Folding the note carefully, she tucked it into her pocket and headed to the stairwell wall.

She ran a hand along the surface. The green had deepened a shade overnight, but it still looked perfect, rich, warm and vibrant.

She’d originally planned to paint the reading nook in the loft today, but her thoughts were already occupied with the date, her mind buzzing with what-ifs and outfit ideas. The nook could wait.

Instead of heading straight for the secondhand store, though, she opted to rehang the paintings first. The green wall called for it, like the space was waiting.

Afterward, she’d swing by the shop, then head home for a hot bath, a face mask, maybe even shave her legs, for her first date in over nine years.

Nine years.

The thought stopped her. She stood in the middle of the shop, still holding a canvas, that number lodged in her chest. Had it really been that long since someone had looked at her like she mattered?

She didn’t know if she was ready, not really.

It had only been a few weeks since her split with Jeff.

Yet, it felt like so much longer. A lifetime, almost.

She was shedding the skin of her old life now, breath by breath, step by step, unsure where this new version of her would land, but more than willing to find out.

She started with the smaller paintings, lifting each one into place. Their gilded frames caught the light, making them stand out in sharp contrast to their new backdrop. Against the fresh color, the artwork seemed to wake up, details she’d not noticed before popping into view.

She reached for the last one, John Dee’s portrait, and stared into his eyes.

They seemed different now, kind but troubled, almost alive with unspoken knowledge.

Like he was just waiting for someone to ask the right question.

In his hands, he clutched what looked like a golden pocket watch.

The longer she looked at it, the less like a painting it felt.

Picking it up, the weight, or lack of it, still baffled her. For its size and thick wooden frame, it should have been heavy. She’d thought the same thing yesterday when she’d taken it down.

She climbed the stairs, the canvas balanced awkwardly in her arms. A knot of tension tightened in her gut.

Three steps from the top, she leaned forward, stretching onto her toes to catch the wire on the nail.

It slipped. She tried again. Slipped. Shifting the frame higher, she squinted up, certain the nail had to be farther up the wall.

Just as she felt it catch, her foot slipped.

She tipped backward, one arm flailing in a desperate attempt to get her balance, the other held the edge of the frame.

The painting wobbled on the nail. Not strong enough to hold her. She let go, just as her weight tilted back.

And the world… stopped.

She didn’t fall.

She hung there, suspended midair, not for a second, but for long enough to know something was wrong. Or right. Or impossible.

Her fingers found the railing. As if guided. She grabbed it, her foot scraping the edge of the stair, balance returning.

She gasped, chest heaving, legs shaking, clutching the railing with both hands, looking up, then down the staircase, half-expecting to see someone, or something, standing there.

But she was alone. Carolyn’s words whispered in her mind: The place is cursed.

It holds mysteries, centuries old. Things that hold great power.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure of to whom, or what, she was speaking. The words felt right, though.

She gathered herself, gripping the banister like a lifeline. “Okay,” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s enough for today.”

She descended the stairs slowly, both feet on each step, every nerve tingling.

At the front door, she collected her jacket and glanced up toward the top of the stairs. There’s no one there .

But something was. The kind of presence you couldn’t see, only sense, in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

She turned and locked the door behind her, the key trembling slightly in her grip. Carolyn’s words echoing louder now. That place is cursed…

Adelaide shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. An invisible force had caught her. Saved her. She didn’t want to believe Carolyn, but how could she not? Whatever it was, it didn’t feel cursed. It didn’t feel evil.

Outside, the wind cut sharp through her coat. She zipped it tighter and started toward the Common Blue. She could have driven, but she chose to walk. She needed air. Movement. Distance from whatever had just happened.

Two weeks ago, she would have rolled her eyes at talk of curses and unseen forces; now, she was whispering thank-you to empty staircases.

Was she losing her mind? Maybe Jeff hadn’t just broken her heart; maybe he’d broken something deeper.

Perhaps this was how grief made sense of the senseless, the way it had for Carolyn when Rowland disappeared.

But even as she walked faster, Adelaide could not shake the feeling that someone had caught her.

And that whoever, or whatever it was, might still be watching.

“Get a grip,” she mumbled, planting her feet a little firmer on the pavement. Whatever weirdness was going on, it had no place tonight. Tonight wasn’t about ghosts or gut feelings; it was about living again.

A cheerful jingle rang out as she pushed open the door to the Common Blue.

Warmth rushed to meet her, along with a swirl of overly floral perfume, candle wax, and stale cigarette smoke that made her nose wrinkle.

She stepped farther in, scanning the delightful chaos of vintage bric-a-brac, secondhand clothes, and pastel-painted furniture.

At the back, Camie’s brown curls bounced wildly as she danced to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like a Wolf.” Adelaide smiled.

“Adelaide!” Camie spun round. “Do you read minds? I was literally just thinking about you!”

“If I did, I’d be charging for it,” Adelaide said, laughing as she made her way over.

“I heard you bought the old Feather Thorn,” Camie said, eyes wide. “I was going to stop by, see if you were around, maybe grab a pint later?”

“Yeah, jumped in feet first,” Adelaide said, flipping through a rack of dresses. “Now I’m just trying to breathe a little new life into it. Been painting and all that this week.”

Camie gave a low whistle. “You’ve got some guts. Nobody around here would’ve touched that place with a ten-foot pole after all the stories.”

Adelaide raised a brow. “That bad, huh?”

Camie laughed. “So, what brings you in today?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already heard, with how gossip spreads like wildfire around here,” Adelaide teased.

Camie shot her a knowing smile and shrugged.

“You’re kidding me, right? Please tell me there isn’t some town gossip hotline.”

“No, just Ewan’s mate Dan. Came in earlier and spilled the beans.” Camie nudged her. “So? When’s the big date?”

“Tonight. And I’ve got nothing to wear but old jeans and baggy sweaters.”

“I think I can help you out there.” Camie grabbed her hand. “Follow me.” She led Adelaide to the back, where a long metal rod stretched the length of the room, jammed with dresses in every color, decade, and level of taste. Camie pushed hangers aside, searching for something in particular.

“There she is!” Camie yanked a black pencil skirt and a flouncy white blouse off the rack. “Add that kick-ass jacket I gave you to this, and you’ve got a winner. And it looks just your size,” she added, handing the outfit to Adelaide with a grin.

Adelaide held them up. “Where’s your changing room?”

“Right this way,” Camie said, pointing to a curtained alcove. “And don’t you hide in there. I need a full fashion show.”

Adelaide slipped behind the curtain and changed quickly. The mirror was old and streaked, but the reflection staring back was startling. With her hair back to its natural color, she hardly recognized herself. She loved it. It felt daring and sexy, everything she hadn’t felt in years.

She stepped out and twirled, the white blouse flaring.

Camie whooped. “Holy shit, you’re a total knockout. Like, damn, you should be a backup dancer for Cyndi Lauper or something in that.”

“Ha, hardly.” Adelaide blushed. “But I love it. Do you think Ewan will?”

“He’d be a bloody fool not to.”

Adelaide ducked back behind the curtain and changed. At the till, she pulled out her wallet, the clothes already folded on the counter. Camie’s smile softened. “Hey, girl to girl, just be careful. Guys like Ewan? They’re charming as hell, but they can also be heartbreakers.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m not looking for anything serious. I just need a bit of fun,” Adelaide replied with a wink.

Camie’s grin returned. “Well, in that case, this outfit is going to rock his bloody world.”

“Thanks, Camie,” Adelaide said, handing her the money. “How about I take you up on that pint tomorrow?”

“You’re on. And I expect all the juicy details.”

“Deal. Swing by the bookshop when you close tomorrow. I’ll be there painting.”

Camie passed over the crinkled Tesco bag. “Good luck tonight. Not that you’ll need it with that outfit.”

Adelaide stepped outside, clutching the bag, a thrill fizzing under her skin.

The cool air felt good, and for a few minutes, everything felt wonderfully, blessedly normal.

But as she turned the corner toward the Feather Thorn, her thoughts drifted.

Back to the stairs. The painting of John Dee.

The invisible pause before the near-fall.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the memory clung like a cobweb. Fine and persistent.

Carolyn’s words whispered again: That place is cursed. Adelaide didn’t want to believe in curses. She didn’t believe in curses. But the Feather Thorn was definitely not an ordinary building; there was something unseen lurking within its walls.