Page 57 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Thirty-Nine

P en found himself back in the shop before the sun had risen.

Coffee in hand, he paced the narrow aisles, footsteps soft against the worn floorboards as he moved between the tall bookcases.

Near the front windows, where frost bloomed across the glass, the paintings Adelaide had taken down leaned in neat rows, their edges catching the first pale light of morning.

He nudged one with his foot. John Dee stared back, his painted eyes watchful.

“This is all your fault, you know?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, and paused.

A beat passed. Then he sighed, took it out of his mouth, and slipped it back into the pack.

He’d made a decision: no smoking in the shop anymore; old books and fire, even in small amounts, seemed like a bad idea.

He didn’t want to risk burning the place down.

God knew what would happen to him then. But today, he was on edge, and the urge was strong.

His stomach churned. He told himself it was the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast, but he knew better. Beneath everything else, it came down to a single, needling truth. He was waiting for her.

Would she come back today or not?

He hated how that thought sent his emotions into disarray.

How could one person unravel him like this?

She was a variable, a piece of the puzzle, and possibly the key to his freedom.

That was all. That was logical, wasn’t it?

But logic didn’t explain the way the Feather Thorn felt different when she was here, brighter, warmer, less like the mausoleum it had become. Less like a prison.

Pen sank into the worn wingback chair by the window, eyes fixed on the slow wash of dawn spilling over the cobblestones.

The world stirred, indifferent to him, to the quiet ache inside him.

He hoped, no, prayed, that she’d come back today.

Just to feel, for a moment, to feel like part of the real world again.

Frankie jumped up onto his lap, curling into a tight ball, resting his tail over his eyes for a nap.

Pen absently stroked the little fox, his thoughts circling the man from the day before.

The one who had changed the locks. It wasn’t just his looks, though they had clearly caught Adelaide’s attention, that had irked Pen more than he cared to admit.

No, it was something deeper, an unsettling vibe the man gave off that Pen couldn’t shake.

Jealousy? He dismissed the word before it fully formed. That was ridiculous. And yet, the discomfort lingered, growing quietly as sunlight crept over the village, burning away the frost that had veiled the town.

A flash of color moved past the window. Adelaide. Pen sprang up, startling Frankie, who tumbled to the floor with an indignant chitter, clearly not impressed, before darting off toward the back of the shop.

Pen barely noticed. He was already at the front of the shop, just as the door creaked open.

Adelaide stepped inside, her cheeks pink from the cold.

As she took her coat off, she glanced down at the letterbox and her face lit up when she spotted the edge of the letter peeking out.

The smile that appeared could have stopped time if it hadn’t already been stopped.

She reached for the note, carefully pulling it free. As she read, her smile widened, and a soft laugh escaped her lips.

When she reached the end, Adelaide folded the letter neatly and slid it into her back pocket, patting it as though to ensure it was safe. Then she turned and made her way toward the staircase wall, where the fresh coat of green paint from the day before stood out in the dim light.

Pen followed, stepping up beside her as she stood studying the wall. The color had darkened slightly as it dried, but it still looked vibrant. She tilted her head, lips pursed in concentration.

“It looks great,” he said softly, knowing it was pointless, yet needing to say it all the same. His words dissolved into the silence, unheard.

Adelaide didn’t respond, not even a glance in his direction. He was nothing but a ghost to her, and the truth hit hard, leaving him feeling hollow. No matter how much he wished it, she couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him. He swallowed it, forcing the emptiness down.

One by one, she began rehanging the paintings. Their bright gold frames stood out in stark contrast to the dark green backdrop, and Pen couldn’t help but smile. The green was definitely the right choice. The space felt transformed.

He hovered near her as she reached for the large portrait of John Dee.

She wrapped her arms around the frame, straining slightly as she lifted.

Without thinking, Pen reached for it too, his hands closing around the top edge just above hers.

He didn’t know if it helped. Maybe it didn’t matter, but the instinct to steady her, to ease the burden even a little, was stronger than logic.

Together, though she didn’t know it, they carried the painting up the stairs.

At the top, Adelaide stood on her tiptoes, trying to hook the wire behind the frame onto the nail.

She fumbled, the painting wobbling in her hands.

Pen let go briefly to adjust the angle of the hook, but a moment was all it took.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Her foot slipped.

Too late, he caught the way her brow furrowed, the way her body pitched back, and he moved before thought could intervene. He lunged, arms outstretched, expecting to pass through her like smoke.

But he didn’t.

He caught her. Solid. Warm. Real. Time seemed to stutter. She gasped and caught the railing, then the moment shattered. Pen staggered back, eyes wide, her weight gone from his arms. All that remained was the electric impression of her body, the warmth fading like a dream.

He looked down at his hands. He had touched her. Felt her. How?

Adelaide turned, her gaze sweeping the space, eyes wide. For a breathless instant, Pen thought, hoped, she saw him. But her eyes didn’t quite meet his. She looked past him, her focus landing on the wall behind where he stood.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She hadn’t seen him, but she had sensed his presence, had known that he’d kept her from falling. Had she felt him as he had felt her?

He sank onto the stairs, limbs trembling. Whatever force had allowed their brief connection had drained him of all his energy. He could still feel the echo of her skin against his, the memory of holding her weight for that one impossible second.

Below, Adelaide moved to the door. She paused and glanced back toward the loft. Her eyes searched the shadows, as if trying to locate someone just out of reach. Then she turned, pulled on her jacket, and left the Feather Thorn.

Pen remained on the step, watching the empty space where she’d stood, the hush of the shop pressing in. But the stillness didn’t feel the same. Something was shifting; he could feel it in the air around him. It was as if someone had briefly opened a window and let in some much-needed fresh air.

The energy felt different, and Adelaide was the catalyst.

It took a few minutes for his strength to return.

When it did, Pen rose on unsteady legs and made his way down to the hidden room.

He lowered himself into the chair in front of the old Underwood typewriter.

His gaze scanned the walls, papered in years of frantic thoughts, scribbled notes, sketches, half-baked plans for escape.

The sight should have focused his mind, spurred him into action.

He should have been strategizing, planning, doing something now that he’d made contact, but all he could think about was the warmth of her, Adelaide, in his arms.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it: human touch. The casual brush of a sleeve. The weight of a hand on a shoulder. Even a nod from a passerby. All of it had been absent for so long. And now, for the first time in ages, she had reminded him what it meant to be seen.

He reached for a fresh piece of paper, threaded it into the typewriter and let his fingers hover over the old metal keys.

A thousand thoughts surged forward at once, tumbling over each other.

He longed to tell her everything, that he was trapped, that he was there with her, just out of reach.

He wanted her to know he had saved her and that she had unknowingly saved him too, that her presence had cracked something open inside him that had been sealed shut for decades.

But he knew he couldn’t say those things, not yet. She wouldn’t believe him, and worse, they might frighten her away. Whatever fragile thread existed between them could snap if he pulled too hard. She had spoken aloud, sensing him in some way. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The truth would come in time. Slowly. Gently.

The letters, though, she probably assumed had come from someone in the outside world.

Where else would she have thought they came from?

Surely not some man trapped in time within her bookshop?

These little notes were merely a way to bridge the gap, but eventually he would have to tell her his story, but not yet.

But perhaps the incident on the stairs was a crack in the door.

If he was subtle enough, maybe he could push it open and lead her toward the truth in other ways.

He glanced at the thin leather spine of Rowland’s journal, picked it up, and ran a finger across the faded ink on the first page. If she read this, really read it, she might begin to understand.

He returned to the typewriter and typed a short note, brighter than the last, a touch warmer. A test, but also a gift. He promised himself that the next one would be the one where he explained everything.

As the day slipped into evening, Pen crept upstairs with the letter and Rowland’s journal in hand. He placed them in the letterbox and stepped back. If she was as curious as he hoped, she’d open the journal. And once she did, the door to the truth would begin to open.