Page 64 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Forty-Four

P en sprawled on the couch, the book in his hands long forgotten.

Frankie rested quietly at his feet, tail flicking now and then, but Pen hardly noticed.

It had been days, maybe weeks, since Adelaide last crossed the threshold of the Feather Thorn.

He hadn’t gone down to the shop that morning; there didn’t seem to be much point.

The day after she’d come in with the man, he’d waited from sunrise to sunset, waiting, hoping, but she never returned.

Nor the next day. Nor the one after that.

The thought he might have driven her off dug in like a thorn.

Worse was the possibility that she simply preferred the company of that man, Ewan, and she’d lost interest in the shop.

The weight of it settled low, sinking like a lead weight in his stomach.

He stared down at the open book, but the words swam, sliding off the page like water through fingers.

All that remained were thoughts of Adelaide, of her absence, of the quiet, growing fear she might never come back, and what that would mean for him.

It wasn’t just the idea of being left here forever.

It was the thought of never seeing her again.

Never hearing her voice. Never feeling the warmth she brought to the room.

Restless, he rose to his feet, setting the book aside.

He shut the door quickly, ensuring Frankie didn’t slip out.

The fox had a knack for disappearing into the shop, and Pen didn’t have the heart to chase him out of the stacks again.

He needed to move, to do something, anything, to silence the thoughts swirling in his mind.

He decided to tackle the back area and dust the shelves he’d neglected the day before.

The shop felt emptier than usual, like it was slowly sinking into a cold, lifeless state.

Shadows stretched long and low along the walls, and a chill seemed to settle over the place like a burial shroud.

Even the floorboards seemed hesitant beneath his feet, their customary groans muffled, as if the entire space was holding its breath.

The further Adelaide drifted from the shop, the more his own life and the shop seemed to wither.

Or maybe it was just him, missing her, missing the light she brought to this place.

He rounded the corner and stopped.

Against the dark forest green paint, three new paintings hung, replacing Carolyn’s familiar landscapes.

The first depicted a carnival, but twisted, nightmarish.

Rides askew, grinning faces warped into leers.

The second was a mountain range under a sky stained with hues that didn’t belong, sickly purples, bruised greens.

The last: the silhouette of a man framed against a blazing fire.

These paintings hadn’t been here yesterday. Adelaide hadn’t been here either. A chill crept up the back of his neck. Where had they come from?

The sadness that had clung to him all morning shifted into unease. Something had changed. Something he hadn’t invited in.

He reached for the edge of the first painting, then froze. The sweet jangle of the doorbells rang out, bright and familiar, and his heart kicked up. Turning, he walked fast, nearly running toward the front of the shop.

Please, let it be her. Just Adelaide. Not Ewan.

He couldn’t take another one of their necking sessions in the romance section. Not today.

She stood alone, quietly reading the letter he’d left her, and all the worry he felt only seconds before drained from him all at once.

Adelaide’s face lit up as she read, her smile curling into a perfect bow. There it was, the smile that set his soul ablaze. And just like that, the shop seemed to breathe again, the warmth coaxed back into the walls.

She tucked the letter into her back pocket. She was saving them, the letters he’d written her. He followed her as she moved to the wingback chair by the window, journal in hand. But her smile faltered. Had something in his letter stirred a memory or thought that saddened her?

He longed to touch her shoulder, to ask, to explain, to assure her he hadn’t meant to cause her pain. But all the wishing in the world wouldn’t change the fact that he couldn’t.

She sat and opened the journal; her eyebrows lifted at the name inside. Yes, read it . This was his way in. His plan. To guide her through the past, to help her see the truth without scaring her off.

But his hope was crushed, like a half-burnt cigarette stubbed out on pavement, when she snapped it shut and set it on the windowsill after only reading a few entries. She sat there in silence, staring out the window onto the quiet street.

What had she read? What entry had unsettled her?

His mind flipped through the pages he’d skimmed long ago, hunting for anything that might have struck too deep.

Then he remembered the entry about Carolyn’s illness.

How could he have overlooked that? Of course, it would hit hard.

It was her aunt. Her family. Had he made a mistake in giving her the journal?

Before he could even step closer, she rose and walked away.

Not toward the exit, toward the counter.

He followed, confused, until he saw the coffee.

And the box. It was from the Marbled Clover.

Lifting the lid, he peered inside: apple cinnamon donuts.

His favorite. Just the sight of them made his mouth ache with longing.

What he would have given to taste just one bite.

Adelaide turned, her gaze landing on the open box. She frowned, puzzled. She could see it. She could see the lid had been lifted. His hand hovered near it, fingers tingling.

“Help yourself to a donut,” she said.

Every cell in Pen’s body sprang to life at her words. Was she talking to him? He waved his hand in front of her face. Nothing. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting someone else to be there, but it was empty.

She’d said it, as if she believed someone unseen was there.

Does she think I’m a ghost?

If she did, the thought didn’t seem to frighten her. Pen stared, something slowly dawning. If she believed the Feather Thorn was haunted, it opened up a world of possibilities.

It meant she was open. To him. To this.

His mind raced, turning over a hundred different ways he could reach out to her now, how he could finally tell her the truth.

He’d have to ease her into the idea that he wasn’t actually dead, just trapped.

It would take time. He’d have to be careful.

Gentle. But for the first time in forever, hope flickered, soft as candlelight, but steady enough to see through the doubt.

Being a ghost might just be the best thing that had happened to him in years.