Page 68 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Forty-Seven

A delaide returned to the Feather Thorn the next day, her car packed with the last of her belongings. The cottage had run out of firewood, and with the November launch creeping closer, she was eager to settle in and dedicate herself fully to the shop.

She brought in the last remnants of her time at the cabin, the rest of her clothes, the wool tartan blanket, the ugly elephant lamps she’d somehow grown fond of, and the painting that once hung above the mantel.

Gently lifting the canvas from the box, she made her way to the stairwell to the loft, where Carolyn’s other paintings formed a hodgepodge gallery along the wall.

Adelaide held it up beside the others, looking for a spot to hang it.

The painting was as beautiful as any of Carolyn’s pieces.

But as she held it up against the rest, something about it felt different, more personal than the others, more intimate, as if it held a piece of Carolyn’s heart not meant for public display.

After a moment’s hesitation, she turned away from the wall and tucked it back into the box, and cradled it as she climbed the stairs to the flat.

At the door, she paused, steadying herself, half-expecting the little fox to dash out again.

But the flat was silent. Sunlight poured in through the windows in soft golden ribbons, warming the floorboards and bathing the space in a gentle glow.

The place looked cleaner than she recalled. A small crease formed between her brows. Had she just misremembered it from the murkiness of twilight last night?

She set the box beside the others and drew the painting out again.

Turning, she scanned the room until her gaze landed on an empty wall in the living room that seemed to need something to brighten it up.

When she approached it, she noticed something odd: a nail, already hammered into the exact spot she’d intended to use.

Rising onto her toes, she hung the painting.

It fit perfectly, as if it belonged there.

A chill ghosted down her spine. Had Carolyn painted this for Rowland?

Had it always been meant for this spot? A thread of unease wove through her thoughts.

More and more, she was stumbling upon fragments of her great-aunt’s past, fragments she wasn’t sure she would have willingly shared.

For now, she would keep this one to herself.

Returning to the box, she began unpacking her clothes and stacking them in folded piles on the kitchen table.

Once the box was empty, she tossed it toward the door and moved on to the next.

Lifting the flaps, she stopped short. The picture of her parents sat on top.

She was sure, absolutely sure, she had packed it at the bottom, with her clothes on top.

Had someone gone through her things? She glanced over her shoulder.

But she’d change the locks.

Could it have been Ewan? He knew where she kept her spare key. But why? Her gaze shifted toward the bedroom. Could it have been Rowland’s ghost? Could ghosts even move things?

She exhaled. The flat now felt less like a refuge and more like a museum, one where ghosts were still rearranging the exhibits.

Shoving up her sleeves, she grabbed her notebook and made a note: find a book on spirits.

If Rowland’s ghost was here, she needed him to know she wasn’t trying to replace him.

Maybe there was a way to speak to him, or at least show him she meant no harm.

Descending the stairs, she felt the warmth of the morning sun wrap around her.

The Feather Thorn always looked best in the first light of day, sunshine streaming through the large shop front windows.

She could hardly wait to see what it would be like in the summer months when she could open the door and let in the warm inviting scents of flowers mingling with the sweet harmony of the bakery across the street. The thought made her smile.

As she moved toward the front desk, the scent of men’s cologne hit her, but it was much stronger than normal, impossible to ignore. She spun around, scanning the aisles, the corners, the stairwell. Nothing, but she knew there was someone there, just beyond sight.

Down here, she didn’t mind the idea of Rowland’s ghost so much.

The shop didn’t feel personal in the way the flat did.

If his spirit lingered among the books, she could almost make peace with it.

But upstairs was different. Up there, it felt like stepping into someone’s bedroom uninvited, and that thought stirred a strange kind of guilt in her.

She was here to begin something new. Even if it meant sharing the space with someone unseen, she wanted to do it right.

Approaching the front desk, Adelaide’s eyes fell on the journal sitting on its old weathered top.

She had meant to grab it the night before, but the chaos with the fox had derailed her.

Just as she reached for it, a sliver of cream paper caught her eye, another letter peeking from the letterbox.

The journal temporarily forgotten, she pulled the letter free.

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.

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.

She ran her thumb over the smooth corner of the paper.

There was a gravity to these words that hadn’t been there before.

This wasn’t just another note; it felt like the closing of one chapter before the next could begin.

The implication that the journal held the final piece of Rowland’s story made her stomach knot.

If Ewan knew this, why hadn’t he gone to the authorities or told Carolyn?

Why give the journal to her, of all people?

Was she meant to pass it on, to carry the weight of its revelations for him?

Her gaze flicked back to the journal, now even more compelling. Ewan hinted at a struggle that mirrored Rowland’s, but the details were frustratingly vague, leaving her with more questions than answers.

Grabbing the journal from the counter, she headed for the wingback chair by the window, just as the door chimes rang out.

“I hope you have your roadtrippin’ pants on,” a familiar voice called out.

Adelaide turned to see Camie in the doorway, swaddled in a bright purple puffer jacket and topped with a wildly out-of-place Western-style hat.

“Road trip?” Adelaide asked.

“Don’t tell me you forgot? It’s Thursday, remember? Secondhand shopping day!” Camie beamed.

“Oh my gosh, I nearly did.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I got here early to remind you,” Camie said, stepping inside. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the surroundings. “Wow, I’ve always wanted to come in here. It closed down long before my time.”

“Have a look around while I grab my things,” Adelaide offered.

Camie meandered in and out of the rows of books while Adelaide took her coat off the hook and retrieved her bag from under the counter.

“This place is fantastic,” Camie called out. “Folk’ll be buzzing when you open again.”

“I hope so. There’s still a few bits to sort, but it was in pretty good shape when I bought it. Just needs a bit of updating,” Adelaide replied as Camie returned to the front of the shop. “Hence today’s shopping trip.”

“Well, lucky for you, you’ve got the queen of secondhand bargains by your side. I’ve got you covered, and now I have a better idea of the space, so I can really help.”

“I need all the help I can get.” Adelaide smiled, leading the way out.

Outside, a big brown Ford Transit van idled at the curb.

“Meet Tina!” Camie announced, sweeping an arm like a game show host. “Tina Turn’ya dreams into reality with all this space in the back for all your treasure hunting finds!” She swung the door open and hopped in.

Adelaide laughed, warmth bubbling up. She loved Camie’s free spirit, and her energy was infectious. It reminded her of what she’d been missing out on life all these years: friends, spontaneity, a bit of silliness.

For the first leg of the drive, Camie unleashed a torrent of gossip. Adelaide nodded and smiled, though most of the names meant nothing to her. Eventually, the conversation took a turn.

“Okay, spill,” Camie said, eyeing her sidelong. “I heard someone spotted you leaving Ewan’s place mid-morning. So, unless you two are into breakfast dates, I’m guessing you spent the night.”

Adelaide groaned. “I figured someone would see me. Has the gossip mill gone wild?”

“Oh, don’t worry about what people in town are saying. This’ll be old news in two days, and they’ll have found someone new to talk about.”

“Wow, that bad, huh?”

“Never mind about them? I want to know what you think about Ewan.”

“He’s… great. Funny, charming, handsome… and romantic,” Adelaide said, trying not to let her smile betray how much she was swooning over him.

Camie arched a brow. “Romantic?”

“Yeah, he’s been leaving me these sweet little notes at the shop,” Adelaide told her, unable to contain the warm feelings that swelled in her belly when thinking about the letters.

“No way,” Camie said sharply, but her tone didn’t sound like disbelief; it sounded like fact.

“Seriously, he has.”

“I’ve known Ewan forever, Addie. It’s not him sending you those letters. Ewan might be handsome, but he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. And he’s the last person who would be writing love letters…”

“What do you mean?” Adelaide asked, as her smile faltered into a frown.

“Listen, I wanted to see how serious you were about him before saying anything, but you should know, Ewan’s a laugh, sure, but that’s all he is.

He’s not someone who’s ever going to settle down.

I figured he was just a rebound, you know, after your husband.

The perfect ‘dip-your-toes-back-in’ kind of guy.

But he’s not a romantic, and he’s definitely not the one leaving you those notes. ”

“He is. I mean, it has to be him. Who else would it be?” But even as she said it, doubt crept in. Camie sounded so certain, but who else knew what she was doing inside the shop?

Camie let out a sigh. “Addie, Ewan’s seeing three other women right now.

I hate to be the one to tell you, but I’d rather you hear it from me before you fall any harder for him.

Honestly, I didn’t think you’d get serious with him.

And believe me, he has zero time for writing love letters with a rotation like that. ”

Adelaide went still. Cold washed over her, and the world seemed to tip upside down.

The feeling was nauseatingly familiar, like the day Jeff left.

Her throat tightened. How had she been so naive?

She’d tried to stay guarded, but with the letters and their time together, she’d built up this fantasy of who he was.

“Addie, are you okay?” Camie asked, glancing at her, pity in her eyes.

Adelaide hated that look. She’d seen it too often after her father died. Poor little Addie. “I’m fine. I should’ve seen it coming, I guess.”

“I know it stings,” Camie replied, “but Ewan’s not the end of the road. There’s someone out there who’s going to be perfect for you. Hell, maybe the mystery guy leaving you those letters is the one.”

The line fell flat, and they both knew it.

Adelaide turned to the window, looked out, watching the world blur by. If it wasn’t Ewan leaving the letters, then who was?