Page 62 of The Messengers of Magic
Chapter Forty-Three
A s soon as Adelaide opened the journal, anticipation thrummed through her veins.
Her fingers brushed the edges of the pages as she picked up where she’d left off.
Part of her hoped to witness the unfolding of a love story, Rowland and Carolyn’s, but even more so, she hoped the journal might reveal clues about what had really happened to the bookshop’s owners.
It’s hard to believe that just a few days ago, my spirits were so low.
Now, I feel as though I am walking on clouds.
Carolyn surprised me on Christmas Eve with a basket full of homemade biscuits and teas.
I invited her in, and we spent hours sitting in front of the windows, talking as we indulged in her festive treats.
From that day on, we’ve found it nearly impossible to be apart, and I find myself thinking of her every spare minute of my days.
I am glad that she found the courage to speak to me, as I am not sure how long it would have taken me to gather the nerve, being as shy as I am.
She made the conversation so easy, and there seems to be an endless number of things for us to talk about. I’ve planned a dinner for us the day after tomorrow, and I plan to kiss her for the first time. My heart leaps at the thought of it, though my nerves are set to flight.
Adelaide smiled. There was a sweetness in his words that felt almost too pure for this world.
No wonder Carolyn had been so smitten. Rowland was gentle, thoughtful, kind; they sure didn’t make them like him these days.
She turned the page, expecting more of the same, but what came next was entirely different.
January 15, 1932
It’s strange, the way things have shifted these past few weeks.
Carolyn and I have settled into a quiet sort of harmony.
Dinner together each night, reading side by side in the evenings.
There’s a peace in that, something I didn’t realize I was missing.
But last night, last night, something changed.
As she was gathering her things to leave, I heard them, chimes.
At first, I thought it was just the wind, or perhaps something from the street outside.
Then, when they persisted, I looked at Carolyn, at the small watch she wore on her wrist. I asked her if she could hear the chiming, and when she answered no, I knew.
It was “the chimes.” I’d heard the stories, of course, Uncle Roger’s warnings, the strange family legend we all grew up with.
But to hear it for myself unsettled me to my core.
When Uncle Roger died, he made it clear that if I ever heard those chimes, I was to ignore them.
Ignore them? How could I? They’re here, and they’re real.
And now that I’ve heard them, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is about to change.
The stories say the watch has the power to bend time itself, a gift and a curse that our ancestor John Dee left behind.
A power that, if misused, could unravel everything.
I never thought I’d hear them. I thought I was safe, that the stories were just that, old tales told to keep us cautious.
But now I know that the watch is real, my curiosity awakened, and I have begun searching for it in the shop.
Yet, everywhere I look, it turns up empty.
I know this might be unwise, but I feel as if they are calling to me.
Adelaide stopped reading, her breath catching in her throat as the hairs on her arms stood on end.
Was this the artifact Carolyn had spoken of?
Could a simple watch, an heirloom, truly be the cause of Rowland’s disappearance?
It seemed he hadn’t believed in his family’s legend until the day he heard the chimes.
Another chill coursed through her, and she instinctively glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. As always, the room lay empty. The thought that Rowland might be the ghost haunting the Feather Thorn settled heavy in her mind. Strangely, the idea didn’t feel absurd at all now.
She turned back to the journal and read on, entry after entry, scanning for another mention of the watch.
Page after page offered glimpses of Rowland’s quiet courtship with Carolyn.
He wrote of picnics by the river, quiet evenings in the bookshop, and their shared laughter echoing through the town’s cobbled streets.
But no mention of the chimes. Not until the very end.
May 30th, 1932
It was a quarter past six when the last customer departed the shop, and I secured the doors for the night. The day had been a blur, busy enough that the hours slipped away unnoticed. As I conducted my final inspection of the premises, ensuring all was in order, I heard them again, the chimes.
Months had passed since their first haunting toll, and until this evening, they had remained silent.
My efforts to locate the source of the sound had been entirely fruitless.
I could not fathom where they might originate, for I had personally overseen the cleaning and remodeling of the shop and had discovered nothing that could explain their existence.
Yet, once more, they rang out, seemingly from somewhere within the shop. I froze, my senses straining to discern their source. Then it struck me, they were emanating from beneath my feet. But the Feather Thorn had no cellar. Or so I had believed.
Following the sound, I made my way to the back of the shop.
I tapped the floorboards with the tip of my shoe, listening intently.
My pulse quickened as I detected it, the unmistakable hollow resonance of an empty space below.
Dropping to my knees, I knocked with my knuckles, confirming the void beneath the boards.
Without hesitation, I pried them up one by one, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadows. A damp, earthy smell rose to meet me, sending a shiver down my spine as the chimes grew deafening like a caged bird finally set free.
I lit a candle and descended into the cold dark space. At the bottom, I found a small stone chamber. It was empty, save for layers of cobwebs and grime. Yet, the chimes persisted, echoing through the space, making it hard to determine their direction.
Closing my eyes, I focused solely on the sound.
When I opened them again, I knew where to look.
A section of the wall stood out, a single stone, slightly misaligned, leaving a narrow crack just wide enough to slip a finger through.
My hand trembled as I pulled the stone free, revealing a small wooden box and a leather-bound book tucked away in the hidden recess of the wall.
Back in the light and warmth of the shop, I opened the box.
Inside, nestled in its center, lay a small gold pocket watch.
The chimes had ceased as soon as I plucked it from its hiding place, as though the artifact’s purpose had been fulfilled.
But the air around it seemed charged, the weight of its presence heavy like a storm.
I dared not touch it. The power emanating from the watch was unnerving, and the legends I had dismissed as bedtime stories suddenly felt terrifyingly real.
Stories of what might happen if one were to tamper with the watch, its destructive nature, and how it was said to bend reality.
I was seized by regret for having unearthed it.
With great care, I returned the watch to its hiding place. Yet, even now, as I commit this account to paper, its presence lingers, unshakable, pulling at my thoughts. There is something about its power that refuses to let me go.
Instead, I have turned my attention to the leather-bound book I found alongside it. The journal appears to have belonged to John Dee himself. My hands itch to uncover its secrets, to understand the true nature of the artifact hidden beneath the Feather Thorn.
Adelaide blinked, eyes sore from reading. Outside, the sky faded into an inky blue, the last of the light slipping away. The shop had grown dim without her noticing. She leaned back in the chair, gaze drifting to the floorboards.
Rowland had found the watch, here, beneath her feet. A secret staircase, a hidden chamber. Rising from her chair, she absently tapped on the floorboards as she walked toward the front counter, ears straining for that telltale hollow sound. Yet, despite her efforts, she found nothing.
Could it really be true? That somewhere within these walls, a watch capable of bending time was hidden? That the ghost she suspected haunted the Feather Thorn was Rowland?
The thought seemed absurd on the surface, yet as she stood there, alone in the quiet shop, a seed of belief began to take root.