Page 8 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Six

A s if pulled by an invisible thread, she’d driven to the town of Helensburgh, home to her only surviving relative, Great-Aunt Carolyn. Her father’s aunt, an eccentric old woman who lived alone in the Scottish countryside. Adelaide hadn’t thought about her in years.

She’d visited Helensburgh a handful of times during the summer holidays as a child, and remembered loving it. Picnics by the waterfront, chasing butterflies in her aunt’s field, hunting for fairies in the forest near Carolyn’s home.

Her father had always called their annual trip to Helensburgh their journey to Starfell.

He’d told her a star had tumbled from the sky millennia ago, carving out the River Clyde as it fell, a great waterway that carried the land’s stories to the sea.

He’d made the whole thing up, of course, but because he told the story, she believed it.

He had a way of turning the ordinary into something enchanted, as if each place had its own unique tale to be told.

The visits ended when her father got sick with cancer.

He died just a month before she turned thirteen, and after that, Adelaide and her mother stopped going.

It hurt her mother too much to do anything that reminded her of him, so the traditions were quietly abandoned.

And with them, Carolyn. Her great-aunt had tried to reach out for a short time after his death, but it had slowed over the years until they lost contact.

It had to have been at least fifteen years since she’d seen Aunt Carolyn.

She wasn’t even sure she was still alive.

And even if she had been pulled here by some invisible force, Adelaide couldn’t just show up on her doorstep at eight o’clock at night.

No, she’d find a place to stay and assess the situation in the morning, once the effects of this horrible day had worn off.

The town felt like a foggy memory; some parts stood out in sharp detail, while others blurred into unfamiliarity.

She had almost passed through it completely when she spotted a sign for a bed and breakfast, pointing down a narrow side street.

She followed it to a tall stone house with a sign out front that read: Emperor Moth Inn .

The place looked inviting, a warm glow spilling through white wooden-trimmed windows fitted with small panes of old glass. Tiny air bubbles lay within them, causing the lights inside to look like sparks. Sparks of magic , Adelaide thought, as she pulled into the small gravel driveway.

Weary, she turned off her engine, grabbed her bag, and walked through a rusty iron gate and up to the pale green door. She paused, then knocked.

A few seconds later, the weathered door creaked open, and a petite older woman with salt-and-pepper hair appeared in the frame.

“Good evening,” the woman greeted in her gentle Scottish brogue.

“Hello, do you happen to have any rooms available?”

The woman swung the door wide open, and a gust of air, rich with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, blew past her and out into the damp night. “Yes, come in,” she said, ushering Adelaide inside. “I’m Ellen, the owner of the inn.” She stuck out a frail hand.

“Adelaide,” she replied, taking it and giving it a gentle shake. Ellen smiled, warm and kind, but there was something else behind her eyes, something that almost resembled pity. Was it that obvious? Could she tell that she’d been crying for most of the day?

The inside of the house looked crisp and clean, almost like a museum with its antique furniture and framed art lining the walls.

Ellen led her past a large staircase and into a sitting room, where a sizable fireplace dominated the far wall.

Above the mantel hung two large glass frames, housing what must have been twenty or more different species of moths.

Their delicate bodies were pinned in place, wings spread wide, tiny silver pins anchoring them at perfect angles.

Adelaide found it a bit morbid, all those little dead bodies encased in glass.

Still, it wasn’t really any different from people who mounted heads of deer and other wild game on their walls.

She hadn’t realized she’d been staring until Ellen spoke.

“Those are all the species of moths we have here in Scotland. My husband was an entomologist,” Ellen explained with a smile. “He loved all insects, but moths were his favorite, particularly the emperor. He used to say they were the messengers of magic.” She chuckled.

“Hence the name of your bed and breakfast?”

“Right you are, well spotted. After Ben passed, I was quite lonely, you know? It’s a big house and just me to fill it. My friend suggested I turn it into a B&B to keep me busy and help me meet people, and, well, here we are.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. The house is very beautiful,” Adelaide said. An ache formed in her chest, partly for Ellen, for having to live out her years in the company of strangers because she missed her husband so much. And partly for herself, because she didn’t know that kind of love and loyalty.

“Ah, you’re too kind, dear. I was lucky to share it with my Ben for more than forty years. I don’t get many guests, but keeping up the place gives me a sense of purpose, you know?”

She opened a door on the right and stepped inside, flipping the switch beside the doorframe.

A warm light filled the space, revealing a wide chamber centered around a four-poster bed, draped in rich navy-blue bedding.

The walls were covered in floral wallpaper in an almost overwhelming pattern of hyacinths, roses, and hydrangeas, a tiny bee on every other flower.

Two large windows overlooked the back garden, and a tall six-drawer dresser sat neatly between them.

In the corner was a chair and a small table, just big enough for a quiet cup of tea.

But the true focal point was the large painting above the bed: a lunar moth set against a dark, star-speckled sky.

The room was a peculiar mix, part classic “old lady” decor, part insectarium, no doubt a tribute to her late husband.

Ellen crossed to a narrow door, just left of the bed, and opened it.

“This here is the bathroom,” she said over her shoulder, “so you can wash up before bed.” A tiny window above the sink framed a view of the garden.

A delicate moth, a real one, fluttered gently against the pane, drawn to the light.

“I’m just down the hall on the right if you need me.

” Ellen paused in the doorway. “Breakfast is served at eight sharp.” She offered a sweet smile, then began to walk out of the room.

“Wait, don’t you want my name, or a deposit?” Adelaide asked.

Ellen paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You look like you need to wash up and get some rest. We can figure all that out in the morning,” she said with a wink, then gently shut the door.

Adelaide walked into the small bathroom and over to the mirror above the pedestal sink.

The face staring back at her stopped her cold.

Her blonde hair was a mess, matted in places, frizzing wildly in others, looking as if she hadn’t run a brush through it in days.

Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, so dark it looked like she had gotten in a fistfight and lost, badly.

But the worst part was the black streak of soot smudged across the edge of her cheek.

No wonder Ellen had looked at her the way she had when she first arrived.

Like she’d just escaped imprisonment. In a way, she kind of had.

She’d loved Jeff so fiercely in the beginning that giving up her degree hadn’t felt like a sacrifice.

He’d scoffed at her studies, Oral Storytelling and Folklore, calling it a joke, a dead-end pursuit that would get her nowhere.

And she’d believed him. When their love began to fade, she found comfort in the library, doing the next best thing, surrounding herself with books.

But even then, Jeff hadn’t taken her seriously, dismissing it as a hobby rather than a real job. Something to keep her busy.

She’d all but lost herself in becoming the woman he wanted, cooking dinners, keeping a spotless house, and throwing dinner parties for his colleagues.

She’d cut and dyed her hair the way he liked, worn the clothes he approved of, even endured a perfume she hated just because he loved the scent.

In the end, she’d been a prisoner of her own making, letting a man decide everything for her.

And for what? So he could trade her in for a younger, shinier model?

How had she been so stupid? Why had she let Jeff dictate everything in her life?

She’d been strong-willed when they met, she’d had dreams, ambitions, a voice.

Maybe it was the fear of losing him, born from the abandonment she’d felt when her father died.

Or maybe she’d never been as strong as she thought.

Somewhere along the way, she’d faded, piece by piece, until all that remained of who she once was were shadows and memories.

She stared at the broken mess of a person staring back from the mirror, and she didn’t recognize herself at all.

With a sigh, she took a washcloth from the small shelf beside the sink. Damping it with warm water, she wiped away the traces of soot, and with it the remnants of a life she no longer wanted.

Back in the bedroom, she lay down, pulled the covers over her, and as soon as she closed her eyes, she drifted off to sleep. No dreams came, just a quiet, blissful nothingness.