Page 83 of The Messengers of Magic

As she rounded the back of the desk, something caught her eye. A piece of paper sticking out of the typewriter. It hadn’t been there a second ago.

She sat down, heart pounding, and read the words typed on the crisp white paper: Be careful .

“I will,” she said. Pen was there with her in the room, his presence was as real as the walls surrounding her.

She slid the key into the first lock and turned it. As the lock clicked open, a rush of nerves flooded through her.

Taking in a deep breath, she opened the drawer.

Inside lay a neat stack of journals, just as Pen had described.

She lifted one from its resting place, turned it over in her hands, and thumbed through a few pages before setting it back down.

The next drawer contained star charts and what looked like some kind of handheld telescope.

She glanced at the drawer to her left, the last one she hadn’t opened yet, and paused. The watch. It had to be in here.

Doubt crept in like a cold draft. Did she really need to open it? If the watch was locked away, wasn’t that safer? Wasn’t that better than meddling with it as Pen had advised against?

But curiosity tugged harder. She had to know. She told herself she’d just look, and if the watch was there, she wouldn’t touch it.

With a slow breath, she slid the key into the final lock and pulled the drawer open. It was empty, save for a small blue velvet bag.

Her fingers trembled as she lifted it out.

The fabric was soft and thick, the weight inside unmistakable.

Loosening the drawstrings, she pulled it open, just enough to peer in.

Nestled against the rich blue lining was a shiny gold pocket watch.

She tried to examine it inside the bag, but it slipped around too easily in its silk lining, its weight shifting with her touch.

There was writing on its side, but the bag’s shadows obscured the detail.

She knew she shouldn’t touch it, but what if reading the inscription helped her understand? What if it held a clue? It might help her figure out how it worked so that when the time came, she could free Pen. Gently, she hooked two fingers inside and edged the watch just far enough to see.

They weren’t words. Symbols, sharp and distinct, curled along the edge in a language she didn’t recognize.

A chill swept the room, brushing her skin like icy breath.

She could feel the energy pouring from it, charging the atmosphere in the room.

She flinched, pulled the strings shut, securing the watch back inside the bag.

Placing it gently back in the drawer, she pushed it shut, turning the key in a decisive twist.

“That little thing caused all this trouble?” she whispered into the empty room.

The typewriter clacked.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

The keys clacked again, sudden and sharp, just inches away. Adelaide froze; a shiver lifted the fine hairs on her arms. Her pulse thundered in her ears. He was here, not just a whisper in the walls or a feeling in the room, but communicating with her in real time.

Her gaze settled on the page, where the words glistened with fresh ink.

One word.

All caps.

YES

“Pen?”

Half of her wanted to laugh, the other half stood frozen. It was one thing to feel his presence, quite another to watch him leave ink on paper, like a ghost. He was here. She didn’t know how, but he was here. A cautious smile pulled at her lips.

“I have an idea,” she said, nudging the typewriter to the side of the desk, making room. “Let’s try talking like this. What do you think?”

The room fell still, then the tapping of keys, and on the paper, the words appeared:

I think you’re brilliant.

Adelaide smiled fully and opened the first drawer again, pulling out the journals. Five in total.

“Are these all Rowland’s?” she asked, flipping through the pages.

No, also John Dee’s , Pen typed.

She studied each journal in turn, thumbing through them slowly.

“Do you know what all of this means?” She looked at the pages filled with what looked like mathematical equations.

Yes. Over the years, I’ve learned how to read them. In my timeline, I have notes on the wall of this room that connect things from each of the journals with the watch. But it’s as if something’s missing.

“Like what? Another journal?”

A pause, then the keys clacked again.

I hadn’t thought of that. But yes. You’re one smart cookie, Adelaide.

She laughed. “You’d better believe it.” She reopened the drawer where the journals had been stored. “Are you sure you’ve checked everywhere?”

I know every inch of this room and the bookshop. If there is another journal, it’s not here , Pen typed.

“Hmm, I wonder,” she muttered, tapping along the walls and bottom of the drawer. Each knock echoed back the same hollow sound, but she wasn’t convinced. She ran her fingers along the edges, pressing gently at each corner, feeling for a catch, a groove, a hidden compartment.

Nothing.

Adelaide frowned, then pulled the entire drawer out and set it on the floor.

She leaned over, peering into the dark cavity it had left behind.

A whisper of cool air brushed her fingertips as she reached in, her hand groping along the back paneled walls.

For a moment, there was nothing, just smooth wood and empty space.

Then, her fingers brushed against a firm edge tucked down toward the side, near the base of the second drawer.

Her pulse quickened. She wiggled the object loose, slowly working it free from the narrow gap, and drew it into the golden light of the room. A beat-up leather-bound journal lay in her hands. The cover was cracked, its spine fraying, the surface soft with handling.

“Journal number six,” she breathed, setting it on top of the others, her heart still racing.

The keys of the old typewriter clicked once again.

Well, I’ll be damned , appeared boldly on the crisp white paper.