Page 69 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Forty-Eight

A delaide stared out the passenger window, trees streaking past in muted greens and golds as the road wound back to Helensburgh.

The day had unfolded into an awkward dance; Camie kept apologizing, words tumbling over each other, and Adelaide kept insisting she was fine.

It became a script between them, one trying to atone, the other pretending not to bleed.

She told herself she hadn’t been that into Ewan.

Maybe even believed it a little bit. But her heart still ached.

Over the past week, she’d laughed more and felt lighter than she had in a long, long time.

Between his cheeky smile and those letters, the carefully constructed wall surrounding her heart had crumbled down.

Still, she needed to be positive: the day hadn’t been a complete loss.

Glasgow offered the usual big-city chaos, horns and chatter, university students buzzing like bees, but her mood was too heavy to really absorb it all.

They’d walked the tangle of Byres Road and Ashton Lane, picking through charity shops and vintage stores, Adelaide trailing behind Camie, hands brushing fabrics and spines, mind a million miles away.

The back of the van now held a mountain of their finds: two rugs, an orange velvet chair for the reading nook, a wobbly table, and mismatched chairs for the children’s area. All beautiful pieces, but they hadn’t eased the quiet ache pressing against her ribs.

By the time they pulled up outside the Feather Thorn, the sky had deepened to violet.

The streetlamp and the van’s headlights cast long, crosshatched shadows across the shopfront, like a chessboard.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Adelaide felt the harsh truths of the day rush back in full force, leaving her in checkmate.

She’d thought the sting of Ewan’s betrayal and the ache in her belly might fade with the setting sun, but it hadn’t.

“Well,” said Camie, glancing over her shoulder, “I think we did a cracking job!”

Adelaide forced a smile. “We did.”

She followed her new friend to the back, where the van’s double doors creaked open. Camie shoved aside a massive bag of clothes bound for the Common Blue.

“City clobber weighs a ton,” she huffed, then dragged the children’s table free with a theatrical grunt.

The evening had turned raw, their breath steaming in the air as they ferried the furniture inside, fingers numb by the time the door clicked shut behind them.

“Camie, thank you for today. I had a great time, and I got everything I needed. If the books I ordered arrive on time, I think I can actually open in a few weeks.”

“No bother. It was fun. I don’t usually have company on these kinds of trips.

” Camie gave the velvet chair one final push into a cozy corner of the shop.

Then her expression softened. “Hey… I know I’ve said this a hundred times already today, but I really am sorry I had to be the one to tell you about Ewan. ”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you told me. Better than looking like a complete fool,” Adelaide said.

“You’re not a fool. He’s an ass,” Camie scoffed, shaking her head. “And hey, don’t forget, there’s still someone out there leaving you those sweet letters.”

Camie was right. The letters. A strange mix of warmth and unease rippled through her. There was comfort in knowing someone cared enough to encourage her, to offer kind words when she needed them most. But the other side of it, the thought of being watched, that someone knew where to leave them…

She glanced at the darkened window, gaze falling to the letterbox. “If it’s not Ewan leaving me those notes, then who do you think it is?”

“No idea. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll keep an ear out, though, see if I can find anything out. You know what people in this town are like.” Camie was drifting toward the door. “Well, I better get going. Need to drop off the new clothes before I head home. You up for a pint next week?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Adelaide pulled the door open for her. “Thanks again. For everything.”

Camie gave her a warm, genuine smile. “Anytime.” Then she was gone, disappearing into the van, its headlights sweeping the cobbles, leaving Adelaide in the doorway of her quiet shop.

This would be her first night here. Alone.

The thought lit a bolt of excitement, and a matching jolt of dread.

She hadn’t told Carolyn face-to-face that she was moving into the Feather Thorn.

Instead, she’d taken the coward’s way out, scribbling a note and leaving it on her kitchen table.

The truth was, she couldn’t bear the thought of her great-aunt’s worried expression, the questions, the sadness in her eyes.

It was easier to avoid it altogether. She scooped up Rowland’s journal from the desk and made her way to the flat.

Time to settle, time to read. Yet, a prick of apprehension lingered.

What if something in the journal made her feel less welcome here?

But weariness had dulled her nerves. At this point, if Rowland’s ghost burst out of the walls shouting “boo” as she lay in bed, she wasn’t sure she’d do anything but roll over and pull up the covers.

Upstairs, the light was on. Adelaide paused, brow furrowing.

Had she left it on this morning? She was fairly certain she hadn’t.

The soft glow spilled onto the landing, comforting, but also not.

There was still a faint, unsettling sense that she was in someone else’s space, stepping into a room that someone had just stepped out of.

It brushed the back of her neck, but before her unease could take root, her stomach growled, a sharp human reminder of her more immediate needs.

She hadn’t eaten since lunch with Camie, and that had burned away long ago.

She should have picked up something for dinner in Glasgow.

She approached the fridge and rested her fingers on the cold metal handle.

Had anyone cleared it out after the last owner went missing?

Sooner or later, she’d have to face it. She drew in a breath, held it, then pulled.

The door released with a faint pop, followed by a burst of cold air to her face.

The shelves were bare, except for a lone yellowing box of baking soda slouched in the back.

A small mercy. She hadn’t known what she was bracing for, but it wasn’t that.

“Note to self: get food,” she murmured, rubbing her stomach.

She clutched Rowland’s journal closer to her chest. The day had stretched her thin, and all she wanted now was a warm bed and the quiet comfort of her new space. A food run would have to wait until tomorrow.

Snatching up the wool blanket from the pile of her things on the table, she padded to the bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed, she braced for a cloud of dust, but none came; instead, the mattress welcomed her with the crisp, faintly floral scent of fresh linens. She inhaled, slowly, suspicious.

Odd , she thought. She leaned over and clicked on the side lamp.

The room blinked into light, and for a split second, Adelaide could have sworn she saw a figure in the doorway. She closed her eyes, opened them and looked again. The space was empty, just the hallway softly lit by the glow from the kitchen. Rowland?

She looked around at everything he’d left behind: books stacked on the table, a hairbrush on the dresser still threaded with his hair, clothes waiting in the closet for a man who wasn’t coming back.

It felt like a time capsule, untouched and deeply personal.

What was she supposed to do with it all?

She didn’t feel right just throwing it away.

She would ask Carolyn tomorrow; she would know what to do.

Adelaide turned the journal over in her hands. “I know this is probably an invasion of your privacy,” she said softly to the room, “but I’m only reading it to find out what happened to you so I can tell Carolyn and give her some peace.”

The journal warmed beneath her fingers. Whoever had been leaving her the letters knew something about the history of this place, something tied to Rowland’s past. How had she ever thought it had been Ewan?

Camie was right, Ewan was all charm and no substance.

When she’d asked him the last thing he’d read, he’d said the TV guide.

That should have been her first red flag.

Adelaide snuggled deeper into the blankets, flipping to the last page she’d gotten to.

Rowland’s words spilled across the paper with the same tenderness and precision she’d come to expect, entries about a trip Rowland had planned to take Carolyn to Rosslyn Chapel.

He wrote of it like a pilgrimage, every detail meticulously imagined, his joy palpable at the thought of their first holiday together.

Then abruptly, the tone shifted. The handwriting grew erratic, slanted, the ink pressed harder into the page. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Carolyn had fallen ill. Tuberculosis.

She already knew this part of the story, but through Rowland’s eyes, the tragedy felt raw.

He blamed himself for her illness, for taking Carolyn on the trip, knowing that TB was spreading throughout the country; he blamed himself for wanting too much, for stealing time.

He wrote of her likely future, of children she wouldn’t be able to carry, a truth that seemed to have shattered him into bits of the man he had been.

Adelaide’s eyes burned. Now she understood why Carolyn refused to believe he had just abandoned her. Perhaps something had gone wrong, and he had died trying to save her?

Her breath stilled as she turned the page. Only one entry remained.

I have just returned from Carolyn’s house, where she lies ill upon her deathbed. The doctor has informed me that if the fever does not break soon, she will not likely survive the night. In a last, desperate attempt to save her, I have taken leave while Susan remains at her side.

I feel I have no choice but to use the one thing that might save her: the Astral Synchronum.

If any fortune exists in this dreadful situation, it is that tonight marks a lunar eclipse, an activation point that will allow me to use the device and move back in time, to stop us from ever taking our trip to Rosslyn Chapel.

Over the past week, I have read and reread every entry in John Dee’s journal. I know that by activating the watch, I will shatter the centuries-old protection my family guarded, risking reopening the fissure in time. But for Carolyn, my love, my life, it is a risk I must take.

I have promised myself that if I succeed in rewriting history, I will lock the Synchronum away, hidden, so that no one else may find it. No one should ever have to make this awful choice between the fate of time and the life of someone they love.

I pray that God is on my side, and that tomorrow I wake in the arms of my love, alive, well, and that this, all of this, will be but a bad dream.