Page 78 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Fifty-Three

T he sunlight slicing through her curtains woke Adelaide the next morning.

As her eyes adjusted to the pale wash of morning light, she threw off the covers and dressed in a flurry of movement, her thoughts already racing ahead of her feet.

She hurried down into the bookshop, heart pounding in time to her footsteps, as she made a beeline for the letterbox.

When she lifted the lid and saw the folded paper inside, it was as if a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach.

Clutching it, she crossed to the wingback chair and sank into its worn embrace, and rubbed the lingering sleep from her eyes. Her fingers fumbled over themselves as she unfolded the paper, her breath catching when she landed on the first line: Dearest Adelaide.

Warmth spread through her as she devoured the letter, taking in every word. When she reached the end, she barely paused before starting over, this time slower, lingering over every phrase.

At first, she felt a sting of disappointment.

Pen didn’t trust her enough to reveal the location of the hidden room.

But by the third reading, that feeling gave way to something quieter, more forgiving.

She saw the care threaded between his words; he wasn’t shutting her out, he was trying to protect her from the device, from the consequences of stepping too close.

Several parts of Pen’s letter snagged in her thoughts.

The idea that time reset each day; if that were true, then he hadn’t aged a day beyond the photographs in Dottie’s album.

This opened a corridor of questions she wasn’t ready to walk down.

She forced herself to focus instead on something more immediate.

Rowland.

Pen had said he wasn’t here in the bookshop. Which meant Rowland’s fate still remained unknown.

But it was the final part of the letter that stayed with her.

He’d said that she’d brought him back hope, that her voice had stirred something deep inside him.

Adelaide’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she recalled all the times she’d danced and sung in the shop.

But beneath that flush of awkwardness, she felt something else stir, something far more dangerous than mere bashfulness.

A flicker of emotion she dared not name, let alone indulge.

Now that she knew he could see and hear her every move, she resolved to be more mindful of how she carried herself inside the Feather Thorn.

She glanced out the window as a thick quilt of dark clouds crawled across the sky, casting a shadow over the rows of books. Then, with a quiet breath, she got to her feet and turned back to the shelves.

“Good morning, Pen. Looks like we’re in for a storm today,” she said.

She should have been unnerved by the idea of an invisible man roaming the shop, but instead, there was a strange comfort in knowing he was there. The place felt less lonely, the silence less heavy.

She turned to make her way back to the desk, but froze at a loud thud. A book had fallen from the gardening section. She quickly crossed the shop and found a book lying face down. Picking it up, she saw it was titled Morning Glories: A Guide to Planting and Growing .

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Clever,” she murmured, slipping the book back onto the shelf. Another thump echoed from across the room. She turned and walked briskly toward the sound, stooping to retrieve The Tempest and the Sunshine by Mary J. Holmes.

A laugh escaped her lips. “We’ll be lucky to see any sunshine today, by the looks of it.”

She didn’t need to see him to know he was standing near.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she let out a quiet breath, her smile lingering.

“Well, I could certainly use some coffee,” she continued, pretending to grumble.

“Unlike yesterday, no one had it ready for me when I woke up this time.” With a playful huff, she crossed to the back of the shop and slipped through the narrow door that led to the stairwell.

When she reached the flat and stepped into the living room, she stopped.

There, curled up in the corner, was the little fox. Its russet coat rose and fell with its soft steady breaths. She didn’t move, only watched, mesmerized by the impossible.

How did he slip so easily between timelines? Was it his instinct to sense the frayed edges where time wore thin?

She inched forward, the floorboards creaking underfoot. Frankie’s ears twitched, and his eyes blinked open, locking onto Adelaide.

In a flash, the fox sprang to its feet, scrambled toward the door, and then vanished into thin air.

Adelaide exhaled slowly. “Thank God I already know what’s going on,” she said, hand on the doorframe, “otherwise, that would’ve sent me straight to the loony bin.”

But she did know better. And now, she had to focus.

The weight of the day settled on her shoulders as she moved to the kitchen.

She filled the kettle, set it to boil, and scooped the fresh grounds into the percolator.

Her breakfast was quick and simple, toast and a smear of jam, and with the coffee, it was just enough to shake off the fog of sleep and coax her into motion.

Once finished, she slipped into her old painting clothes, smudged with the previous day’s paint, and headed downstairs to tackle the last drab wall in the shop. In the little reading nook, she shifted the chairs and the small end table aside, then unfurled an old sheet to protect the wooden floor.

“You’re lucky you’re stuck in another time,” she called into the quiet, a teasing edge to her voice. “If you weren’t, I’d have you painting this wall.”

As rain battered the old slate roof of the Feather Thorn, Adelaide spent the day painting, her brush moving steadily as she spoke to Pen. She told him how singing had once been more than comfort, it had been a dream, and that was why he’d heard so much of it lately.

She explained that back in uni, she’d been in a band called The Dusty Brocade, and they’d been good.

Good enough to start turning heads. But then she met Jeff.

Her voice softened as she shared how her dreams of singing faded, eventually disappearing altogether when she married him, as he didn’t like the idea of her out at the pubs, and he was jealous of the guys in the band.

He’d told her it wasn’t the kind of life a married woman should live, and she’d believed him.

She gave it up, thinking it would win her a quieter, steadier kind of happiness.

She had wanted to make him happy because when Jeff was content, it was like basking in the warmth of summer.

But when he wasn’t, it felt like winter had arrived, cold and hollow.

Once she began speaking of Jeff, it was as if a floodgate opened and the words poured out, all the compromises she had made, all the ways she had shrunk herself to become what he wanted. And in the end, it still hadn’t been enough.

She continued well into the afternoon, still painting, telling Pen every heartbreaking detail of her life, her relationship, and his betrayal.

There was something liberating about talking to someone who could only listen.

No interruptions, no judgment, no rush to fix or explain.

For the first time since it all unraveled, a lightness came over her, like the last of her hurt had finally drained out of her system.

By the time she stepped back from the wall, brush limp in hand, she was spent, mind a worn thing, and body heavy with a good kind of ache.

“Well, I’m shattered,” she said to the dusk-filled shop. “Think I’ll grab a bite and turn in.”

She was halfway to the stairs when a thud came from the children’s section. She veered off course to see what book Pen had left her. Lying face up next to the low shelves was Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown.

A smile curved the corners of her mouth.

“Goodnight, Pen,” she whispered into the stillness.