Page 66 of The Messengers of Magic
Chapter Forty-Six
T hat night, Pen didn’t sleep a wink. Nervous anticipation thrummed through him.
Adelaide might be moving into the Feather Thorn, his Feather Thorn, and that thought alone made sleep feel quite impossible.
After hours of staring at the ceiling, he gave up and began cleaning.
He wasn’t sure if his efforts would translate into her timeline, but he couldn’t stand the thought of her arriving to find the place looking like the bachelor pad it was.
He scrubbed the bathroom, washed the dishes in the sink, and tidied every corner. All the while, his mind churned, racing with everything he wanted to tell her, the truths he longed to pour into a letter.
He wanted her to know it was him, not Rowland, who was here with her.
That he was trapped in time, not some wandering ghost. He wanted to tell her how her presence had reignited a spark of hope he thought had been extinguished long ago.
That he found her captivating, and the sound of her voice was something he could listen to for the rest of his life without ever growing tired of it.
As he descended the stairs into the hidden room, it pulsed with a strange energy, a hum that rose through the floor, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
He knew what was coming before it even began.
Moments after he sat at the desk, the watch began to chime.
Two quick notes followed by one long, drawn-out tone, then silence.
Each time, the chime was different, but still haunting.
Pen had only heard it sound a handful of times since the night it had trapped him, and he still hadn’t deciphered what its melodies meant.
The only pattern he’d found was celestial: the chimes seemed to correspond with astrological events.
Tonight, a full moon aligned with Saturn, a rare dance that he suspected had to do with the watch’s song.
Over the years, Pen had become something of an amateur astronomer, pouring himself into the study of the night sky.
Charting the stars, tracking planets, and noting alignments had become both a pastime and a lifeline, giving him purpose as he searched for the rhythm of the watch’s mysterious tolls, something that might be his key to freedom.
The thought jarred him from his lovestruck stupor.
Adelaide wasn’t just a beautiful distraction; she was his best hope of escape.
But to get there, he needed to keep his wits about him, to focus on the puzzle at hand, not on winning over a woman who couldn’t see or hear him.
The stakes were too high to let his heart steer him off course now.
He had to give her information: dates, times, possibilities, not just longing on a page.
So, instead of drafting another letter, Pen reached for his star ledger and jotted down the date and time of the chime. The simple action steadied him, grounding his thoughts.
He thumbed through his previous entries, looking for patterns he might have missed, a clue that might reveal when the next activation would occur.
He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his wavy hair, frustration mounting as he leaned back in his chair. The back legs wobbled slightly under his weight, mirroring his own heavy thoughts. His feelings for Adelaide had complicated everything.
She wasn’t just a means to an end anymore. She had become his anchor. His light. A reminder of all the things he’d once dreamed of. But dreams wouldn’t set him free.
He needed focus. He needed clarity and control. He needed her to finish the journal. Pen pulled a blank sheet of paper from the desk drawer and slid it into the typewriter. The metal arms lifted, the keys clacking sharply as he began to type.
Dear Adelaide,
I am glad to see that you are reading Rowland’s journal.
It explains so much about the origins of the bookshop and the tragic situation Rowland found himself in all those years ago.
When I first discovered it, it felt like a lifeline, and I clung to every word, hoping it might shed some light on my own situation.
Pen paused, fingers hovering as he read over the words. He wanted to tell Adelaide everything, but the time wasn’t right. Not yet. But if he waited until she finished the journal, he would be able to confide his own tale, and everything would change.
He took a deep breath, nodded to himself, and typed the closing lines:
When you reach the end, the secrets held within the Feather Thorn will become clear. Until that moment, I will hold off on sending you my next letter.
P.S. The shop is coming back to life again, thanks to the care and dedication you’ve poured into it.
He pulled the paper out with a snap, folded it neatly, and tucked it into the letterbox before returning to the apartment.
At the top of the stairs, Frankie was perched by the door, chittering away as though scolding him for taking so long.
“Sorry, buddy. Time kinda slipped away,” Pen said as he pushed past him.
Pale morning light had begun to creep across the apartment walls, tracing long shadows.
His heart quickened at the sight of the new day, and the possibility of Adelaide moving in, that his solitude might finally be broken.
He made a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs for Frankie before heading to the bathroom to shower and shave.
Freshly washed and wrapped in a towel, he sifted through Rowland’s old wardrobe.
He wanted to wear something a bit nicer than his normal attire, and Rowland had much more dapper clothing than he did.
He settled on a pair of dark tan trousers, a starched white button-down shirt, and a rich brown tweed vest, the color of freshly tilled earth.
Back in the bathroom, he slicked his hair back with pomade, the scent conjuring memories of Ward.
He swallowed down the sorrow that came with that memory.
Staring at his reflection, he let out a soft laugh.
“Why are you getting yourself dressed to the nines for a woman who can’t even see you? ”
His smile faded, slipping into something quieter, something between longing and grief.
He stood there, a man dressed for someone who would never see him.
Still, he had done it. Fixed his collar, shaved, even smoothed his hair.
For her. And somewhere in the middle of it, he realized he wanted to be seen.
Not just looked at. Seen.
The ache of it settled low in his chest, strange and sharp. He hadn’t felt anything like this, not even before he was trapped. How had he gone so long without ever wanting something like this? Without realizing what he was missing?
There was so much of his life he’d never really lived.
In the kitchen, Frankie was licking the last of the egg from his bowl. The fox flicked his tail and cast him a pointed look, as though unimpressed by his effort to look nice.
“Don’t start,” Pen warned, clearing away the plate.
Making his way toward the apartment door, he paused, glancing up at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Give me a sign,” he whispered. “A sign that I’m at least moving closer to an escape.”
And then, as if the heavens themselves answered back, the chimes from the shopfront door jingled, cutting through the silence like music.