Page 73 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Fifty

T he silence settled thick around her as Adelaide stared at the fallen book, her fingers curled tight around its worn spine.

She’d seen it drop. Felt the air shift in that strange, impossible moment.

But now, with the book in her hands, the logic of it all began to fray at its edges. None of it made sense.

Was she losing her grip?

The question threaded through her thoughts, pulling tighter every time she tried to let it go. She looked around the room, hoping, half-expecting to see someone standing there. Someone real. But there was no one. Just stillness.

A gas leak? Hallucinations? Ewan trying to be clever?

She couldn’t rule anything out, but none of those explanations fit.

It felt impossible. A man trapped in time?

Here, in this shop? This wasn’t how reality worked.

This was the stuff of novels, of dreams. And yet she’d seen the book hang there, suspended, before it dropped, leaving little room for doubt.

She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. She’d been so wrapped up in Rowland’s story, so convinced it was his ghost lingering in the shadows, that she hadn’t considered it might have been the other man who had gone missing here.

And yet, if she could believe that Rowland’s ghost haunted these walls, then why should this be any less possible?

Then it hit her. The letters, all of them, had been from Pen. Not Ewan.

Pen.

Her heart sank, then skipped a beat, tangled in confusion, awe, and something she didn’t yet understand.

But she couldn’t walk away now. Not from this.

Not from him. He was reaching out, asking for her help, and something in her needed to answer that call.

But before she could help him, she had to understand how the watch worked, how it had bound him to time, and most of all, why he believed she could be the one to set him free.

“Pen,” she called out, a knot tightening in her throat. “I need you to show me where the hidden room is. Please. If I’m going to help you, I need to see the other journals.”

She stood there, listening, heart ticking in rhythm with the quiet, counting the seconds. Come on, give me something, anything.

Seconds dissolved into minutes, and still nothing.

Her shoulders sagged. Whatever thread that had connected them seconds ago had seemingly vanished, snapped, or frayed; she couldn’t tell which.

She turned away, the last trace of hope slipping from her limbs as she crossed back to the table. Her coffee had gone cold, bitter on her tongue, but she barely noticed as her gaze drifted back to the letter.

This is exactly what Carolyn was afraid would happen to me.

The thought struck hard, sparking a chain of questions she couldn’t push aside.

She was grateful Pen had told her his story when he did.

If he hadn’t, she might have walked into the apothecary that morning and told Carolyn she believed Rowland’s ghost haunted the Feather Thorn.

Her aunt would have unraveled. She could see it now, Carolyn’s face folding inward, old grief splintering into something fresh and sharp.

But that thought pulled at a deeper thread.

Carolyn had known about the artifact Rowland’s family was safeguarding. That much was certain. And if she had believed it had anything to do with his disappearance, how could she not have wondered about Pen too?

Why had she stayed so far from the shop if there was even a chance that Rowland, or Pen, might be trapped inside? No, there was no way she could know the whole story.

None of it added up.

There was more Carolyn wasn’t telling her, Adelaide was certain of it, but it wasn’t this.

She lingered in the flat, waiting, hoping, for any sign that Pen might return. But the stillness remained, thick and unmoving.

Maybe he’s in the bookshop , she thought, pulling on a sweatshirt.

The chill of the stone staircase slinked around her as she descended into the Feather Thorn.

When she pushed open the door, warmth greeted her.

The clock above the desk struck nine just as the sunlight crowned the tops of the buildings down the street, spilling streaks of gold light across the worn hardwood floors.

She turned toward the staircase leading to the loft. “Pen? Are you here?” she called softly into the stillness.

She waited, listening for any sign, a book falling, a shift in the air, anything that might suggest he was near.

But the silence remained unbroken. With a sigh, she climbed the stairs and stood by the railing, looking down over her kingdom of books below.

“Pen?” She tried again. Her voice echoed into the empty shop only to be swallowed by the quiet.

Resting her elbows on the railing, she cradled her face, rubbing her temples. This wasn’t going to work, calling into empty rooms and hoping that he’d answer. She needed to find a better way to reach him.

Her gaze caught the old ship hanging from the ceiling, a relic from another time. If Pen truly was who she thought was the ghost, then what had happened to Rowland? Had he died trying to use the device, or was he, too, lost in some sliver of time like Pen?

The thought clawed at her. To be stuck, unseen, unheard, with no way back. No one to save you. What an awful fate that would be.

She stood there, hoping the silence might crack, that Pen might find a way through again. But the minutes ticked by, and still, there was nothing.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and her attention was drawn to the large shop front windows. A young couple emerged from the Marbled Clover, carrying a donut box.

“Dottie,” Adelaide said softly to herself, straightening.

Dottie hadn’t believed Pen returned to America; she thought he’d disappeared, like Rowland.

And the way she spoke of him, so fondly, as though he were a dear friend, made Adelaide wonder if Dottie knew something more than she’d let on.

Perhaps she knew where the hidden room was.

And if Adelaide was going to help Pen, she would need to uncover more about him, to understand who he was, and how to free him.

She walked down the stairs, grabbed her jacket from the coat hook, and stepped out into the crisp morning air, her eyes set on the bakery ahead.

The sweet smell of sugar and spice enveloped her as she opened the door to the Marbled Clover, and the soft melody of the chimes rang out, alerting her arrival. Dottie came around from the back, a wide smile spreading across her lined face.

“Addie, so good to see you, dear! We saw you and Camie unloading a bunch of stuff from her van last night. Looks like the shopping trip went well.”

“Yes, it did. I found almost everything I needed. Now I just need to get it all set up and wait for my order of books to arrive.”

“Well, if you need a hand, you just say the word. Iain or I would be happy to help.”

“Thanks, Dottie, that really means a lot.”

“So, what brings you in today?” Dottie asked with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Apple turnovers, or chocolate puffs?”

“Actually, neither.” Adelaide hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “I was hoping we could talk for a minute, if you have time. If not, I can come back later.”

“Heavens no, now’s fine. What is it you want to talk about?” Dottie asked, her curiosity visibly sparked.

“The guy who owned the shop after Rowland.”

“Pen?” Dottie’s eyes drifted up to the black-and-white photo above the doorway.

Adelaide followed her gaze. She stared at the image, her heart stuttering.

That was him. The man behind the letters.

One hand tucked casually into the front pocket of his slacks, an air of confidence in his stance.

Though the photo lacked color, there was warmth in his eyes, a quiet kindness that transcended time.

The idea that this handsome man, thought to be long gone, was still somehow lingering just across the street, trapped between moments in the Feather Thorn.

It felt both strange and exciting to her.

“Yeah,” Adelaide replied, turning back to face Dottie. “Pen.”

“Come here,” Dottie said, swinging open a half-door and motioning Adelaide through.

They passed through the bakery kitchen, where Iain was sliding a tray of biscuits into the oven.

“Hey, love,” Dottie greeted, brushing his shoulder, “can you watch the front for a moment? I want to show Adelaide something.”

“Sure. Hi, Adelaide,” Iain said, flashing her his crooked smile as she followed Dottie into another room.

Behind the kitchen of the Marbled Clover, Adelaide stepped into a space that made her pause.

It was the most enchanting tearoom she’d ever seen.

The walls were half-paneled in a deep navy shiplap, while above, floral wallpaper bloomed in deep greens, oranges, golds, and pale pinks.

A long wooden table anchored the center of the room, surrounded by eight walnut chairs.

Mint-green metal tea carts stood on either side, topped with polished silver pots and neatly stacked china, adding to the whimsical vintage charm.

“What is this place?” Adelaide asked, her eyes wide as she took in the room.

Dottie giggled. “Oh, this is our hidden gem. It’s the Clover Tea Room. We use it for special events and hire it out for parties.”

“It’s beautiful,” Adelaide replied, admiring every detail.

“Wait here a minute.” Dottie disappeared and returned moments later with something tucked under her arm.

“Have a seat,” she invited, motioning to the chair opposite her. They both sat, and Dottie laid a large book in front of Adelaide.

“Go on. Open it,” Dottie insisted, nudging the book closer to her.

Adelaide flipped open the cover. Inside, pages of black-and-white photographs unfolded, candid shots, stiff portraits, playful memories. Dottie reached over and turned to a page marked with a red ribbon.

“This one here,” she said, tapping the image, “is Pen.”

He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, impossibly handsome, with a calm smile and a powdered donut in hand, seated beside Iain on a sunlit bench.

In the next photo, he stood at the edge of a wooded trail, caught mid-step as if about to disappear into the trees.

Another showed him right here at this very table, cards fanned in his hands, laughter frozen in time.

And finally, the same photo as the one framed above the bakery doorway.

“I wish I had more,” Dottie added, voice catching, but I had only got the camera a month before he disappeared.”

Adelaide studied her, at the sorrow in her expression. “You two were close?”

Dottie nodded. “He was like family. You know when you meet someone and it feels like you’ve known them your whole life? That’s what it was like with Pen. He was easygoing, so sweet, and full of hope. He had a rough upbringing, but inheriting the Feather Thorn meant the world to him, a fresh start.”

“How old was he when he went missing?” Adelaide asked, easing into the more difficult questions, like whether or not Dottie knew about the hidden room.

“About your age,” Dottie answered, turning the page. “He was only here for six months or so before he vanished.”

“What makes you so sure he vanished and didn’t go back to America, like Iain seems to think?”

Dottie hesitated, then lowered her voice. “I never told anyone this, but I saw him the night before he disappeared. He was in the flat, cooking dinner, watering his plants. Who does that and then just leaves the next day without a word? It didn’t make sense.”

A flush touched her cheeks, and Adelaide saw it then. Dottie had harbored a crush on Pen. Married to Iain or not, it was clear. But who could blame her? Pen had that classic, irresistible handsomeness that made women swoon.

“Iain thinks I’m daft, but every now and then, I swear I see his reflection in the windows of the Feather Thorn.”

Adelaide’s pulse quickened. Had Dottie glimpsed him through a gap in time, or was it just her longing playing tricks with the mind?

“Didn’t his family come looking for him or at least reach out to the police?”

“No, not that I know of. Maybe they called MacDuff, but if they did, word never got back to me. That’s why Iain’s convinced he went back to America.

But I just don’t think he would’ve left without saying goodbye.

Pen loved that bookstore. He was planning on getting a giant Christmas tree and decorating it with books.

You don’t dream up things like that if you’re about to run away. ”

Turning to the back of the album, Dottie pulled out two yellowed newspaper clippings and placed them side by side.

The first article was about Pen’s disappearance, featuring the same smiling photo that Dottie had shown her.

The second article, much older, had a photo of a young man, with the headline: Proprietor of The Feather Thorn Bookshop Missing.

“Is that Rowland?” Adelaide asked, her throat going dry.

Dottie nodded. “Handsome, wasn’t he?”

He was. Tall and slender with a warm smile and sharp, intelligent eyes. After hearing so many stories about him, it was strange seeing his face for the first time.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?” Dottie asked. “Two men, years apart, both vanished without a trace from the same building?”

Adelaide nodded. Odd didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Can I ask you one last question?” said Adelaide. “Did Pen ever tell you about a hidden room in the bookshop?”

Dottie’s eyebrows shot up, and her attention snapped back to Adelaide. “No, why? Have you found one?”

“No, but I found an old note about a room that I can’t seem to find anywhere in the shop.” She knew she couldn’t share the truth.

“Well, I highly doubt there’s one. If there had been, Pen would have definitely told us about it,” Dottie replied, closing the album with a soft thud. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you want to know all this about Pen?”

“Just curious, really. There are a lot of little touches here and there that I can tell were his doing.” She was at it again, lying. But she couldn’t reveal all she knew. Or what she thought she knew.

“I wish you’d got to meet him, darling. He was a wonderful man, probably one of the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever met. I miss him still.”

Well, Dottie’s wish might just come true , Adelaide thought. If she could find the hidden room, if she could unlock the secrets Pen left behind, she might not only meet him, she might be the one to set him free.