Page 58 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Forty

P en waited for Adelaide’s return the next day, anticipation flickering like a stubborn flame. He paced the bookshop, retracing yesterday’s steps, but the door remained shut, the bells silent. She didn’t come. Not at sunrise or sunset. Not at all.

By the next morning, the flame had dimmed to worry.

Where was she? He told himself she probably had other things to do, a life beyond the walls of the Feather Thorn.

Of course she did. Still, the thoughts gnawed at him: What if something has happened?

What if she isn’t coming back? What if, God forbid, time has spun away again?

He stood at the window, flipping his lucky penny over and over in his fingers, his wingtip shoe tapping a restless rhythm against the floorboards.

He felt pathetic, waiting for someone he couldn’t even speak to.

It felt a little too close to stalking, and maybe it was.

Still, it wasn’t like he had a better use for his time.

It was in this state that it dawned on him: he hadn’t picked up a book or dusted a shelf or moved a single display in well over a week. Adelaide had become his orbit, and everything else had fallen away.

With a heavy sigh, he turned on his heel and went to the back room, returning with his feather duster.

He made his way to the Religion just one week, and things were already slipping.

At the end of the bookcase, something caught his eye. Tucked into the corner, half-shrouded in shadow, was a spinning wheel, the kind used to spin wool into yarn.

A spinning wheel? Where had it come from?

He approached slowly. It hadn’t been there before, he was certain of that. Adelaide hadn’t brought it in; he would have seen.

The wood was old, worn smooth in places, polished by generations past. He reached out to touch it, but pulled back as soon as his fingers skimmed its surface. It felt… wrong. Wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.

He crouched to get a better look when a sound broke the silence: the turn of a key in the front door. He stood quickly, just as Adelaide stepped inside. Relief swept over him, but it didn’t last.

The lock guy was with her again. He watched them make their way into the main space, toward the freshly painted wall. Adelaide didn’t even glance at the letterbox.

He followed them, skirting the edges of the bookcases, moving like a shadow beside them.

“Here it is! Even though you’ve seen it through the windows, it looks even better up close, don’t you think?

” Adelaide’s voice was light, flirty even.

She gestured toward the painted wall with one hand while the other slipped into the pocket of her jeans.

A slight rocking on her toes betrayed her nerves.

Pen caught the way the man hesitated before flashing a practiced grin.

“It looks great! I did a pretty good job mixing that paint.” He nudged her shoulder playfully.

She turned and smiled, and Pen’s heart deep-dived into his stomach. What he would have given to have her look at him in that way.

“So, what’s next on your list?” the man asked, reaching out and straightening a slightly crooked picture.

“I’m thinking about tackling the children’s corner next, and then the reading nook upstairs,” Adelaide replied, curling a piece of hair around her finger.

“Show me the nook, it sounds cozy,” he said, adding a wink.

Adelaide’s cheeks blushed a soft shade of pink, and she motioned for him to follow.

As they ascended the stairs, Adelaide went first. Pen’s gaze followed them.

The man’s eyes were fixed on her backside, lingering there as they made their way up.

Pen clenched his jaw. What kind of man just…

stares like that? Sure, she had a beautiful figure, but gawking like that was so blatantly disrespectful. Crude.

Pen stayed at the base of the stairs, hands fisting in the fabric of his trousers. He should turn back. Give them space. Be decent. But instead, he followed, up to the loft, toward the warmth of laughter, unable to resist the low thrum of his own rising jealousy.

As he reached the top of the stairs, the low, seductive voice of the man echoed off the ceiling. “How about a repeat of last night?”

As Pen rounded the corner, Adelaide was leaning against the wall, cheeks flushed, the man towering over her, one arm braced above her head, the other wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her closer.

Pen’s breath hitched, and his chest tightened like a vice.

Heat surged to his cheeks as his heart pounded, the rush of blood roaring in his ears.

Never in his life had he felt anything like it.

Raw, fierce, and unexpected. He couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t stop the spiral. And when she kissed him, Pen felt the air leave his lungs, a slow twisting pain coiling through his insides.

He turned sharply, willing himself to retreat, to escape the ache clawing at his ribs.

The sound of their kissing chased him back across the loft, an undeniable rage boiling in his veins.

He kicked the side table by the stairs, sharp, quick, not even thinking.

A release for his building frustration. The small framed sign— Shhhhhh I’m reading —crashed to the floor.

The glass shattered with a crack that echoed.

What had he just done? This wasn’t him; it was his father.

The outburst, the loss of control. It wasn’t who he was, and it wasn’t who he wanted to become.

But the feelings were too much: jealousy, grief, powerlessness, all of it rising too fast, too heavy.

And it spilled out before he could hold it back.

He crouched, reaching for the broken shards, when he heard footsteps.

“What the hell was that?” the man asked.

Pen’s hand hovered over the mess. Moments later, Adelaide and the man were standing there, staring down at the glass. Were they seeing this? Were they seeing the scattered glass?

He was certain he hadn’t touched the picture before. Not once. Hadn’t even been near it the day he trapped himself in time. So how had this happen?

There was no denying it now. Something was shifting; his presence was somehow bleeding through.

Adelaide tilted her head, brow furrowed. “Not sure how that happened,” she said. “I’ll grab a broom and clean this up. I’ll be right back, Ewan.” She disappeared down the stairs.

Like the light switch. Like the moment on the stairs. He was reaching through, his actions somehow rippling through the veil.

“So, you want to go out for a pint?” the man, Ewan, apparently, asked casually when she returned, broom and dustpan in hand, as she knelt to sweep up the shards. He didn’t offer to help.

Adelaide dumped the glass into the bin and looked up. “I would like to, but I probably should get to doing a bit more work here. Plus, I promised Camie I would meet her later.”

Ewan waved it off. “Oh, come on. This place isn’t going anywhere, and it’s not like you’ve got a day job. It’s my day off. Let’s go have some fun, Camie can wait.”

He stepped closer to her, arms sliding around her waist. Another kiss.

The casual way Ewan touched her, spoke to her, like she was a prize to be claimed, not a person to be respected, it made Pen’s skin crawl. There was no softness in it. No wonder. Just expectation. As if everything about her existence was about fulfilling his desires.

Adelaide didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t mind. She leaned into him briefly, then pulled back with a smile. “I guess you’re right. I can take a day off.”

“That’s my girl,” Ewan said with a smirk, giving her butt a playful smack. “Now let’s go get steaming.” He grabbed Adelaide’s hand and practically dragged her down the stairs.

Desperately trying to cool his nerves, Pen stood in the loft, gaze sweeping the room, then landing on the suspended ship, next to the model plane.

He had once imagined a life here. A future.

Now he was a ghost watching from the rafters, a prisoner in his own creation.

Watching the woman who made the Feather Thorn feel like home fall for someone else.

And if that wasn’t the definition of hell, then he didn’t know what was.