Page 96 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Sixty-Eight

P en stood there, the silence stretching as his world crashed down around him. How could everything be so perfect and so unbearable at the same time?

“Pen? What’s going on?” Adelaide whispered, her voice laced with concern. She was scanning the empty space, still searching for Rowland.

“Everything is fine,” he said, but the lie barely held together on his tongue.

Rowland stood only feet from Adelaide, yet far beyond her sight.

“You still have a day with her,” Rowland said gently. “Go and enjoy it. Then do what needs to be done.”

Pen swallowed hard, nodding before turning back to Adelaide. “Rowland’s right,” he agreed. “We need to keep you away from the watch, which means staying clear of the Feather Thorn until tomorrow.”

Adelaide’s expression slackened, and she hesitated. “What? I don’t understand.”

“He thinks your proximity to the watch is causing the rip to worsen, and I think he’s right,” Pen said, walking toward her. “Do you think we could stay at the cabin without alerting Carolyn?”

Adelaide paused, chewing her lip. “Yes, yes, I think so,” she said. “But we’ll need supplies, some extra blankets and candles.”

“Then let’s get what we need and head over before she gets home,” Pen said, motioning toward the bedroom door.

Adelaide nodded and slipped past him, her footsteps fading down the stairs.

Pen turned back to Rowland. “Will we remember any of this?”

Rowland’s reply came quiet and sure. “No.”

The finality of the single word struck Pen like a bullet.

“I hope you have better fortune in your next chance at this life,” Pen said as he walked out of the room.

Behind him, Rowland said, “You as well.”

Downstairs, Pen found Adelaide at the linen closet, arms full of folded blankets.

“Look in that first cupboard there,” she said, pointing to a tall, narrow door beside the refrigerator. “The candles should be in there.”

He opened it, surprised by the assortment of items inside: candles of every shape and size, tins of oil, jars of herbs, soup bowls, and an impressive variety of liquor bottles.

“Think she’d miss this?” he asked, lifting a bottle of red wine and holding it up for Adelaide to see.

She gave a mischievous grin. “I think we can get away with it. Put it in the basket, along with a few candles and a box of matches.”

He packed them into the reed basket on the table that looked just like the handful of others hanging from the kitchen beams.

Adelaide was rummaging through the cupboards and refrigerator, muttering to herself as she searched.

“What are you looking for?” Pen asked.

“Just a few essentials for tonight. We can’t go hungry,” she said, holding up a block of cheese and a crusty loaf of homemade bread.

His stomach gave a hopeful twist at the prospect of something other than ground beef and eggs for the first time in decades.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” she said, leaning deeper into the fridge. “Where did she hide it?”

He stepped closer, watching as she shifted things around until she let out a triumphant “Voilà,” and held up a Tupperware container.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” she teased, tucking it into the basket with a smug smile. Then, straightening, she glanced toward the door. “Okay, we’d better go before she gets back. Remember, Carolyn doesn’t remember me, and if she finds us here, it’ll be hard to explain.”

“You’re right. I’d almost forgotten,” Pen said, grabbing the blankets and hoisting the basket off the table.

Pen whistled into the stillness of the house, and a rustle sounded from the far corner. Frankie bounded out. “Come on, boy,” he said. And with one last glance around, the three of them headed to the door.

The cold met him as they stepped outside, sharp and bitter.

Frost laced the grass, and a thick bank of cloud dulled what remained of the daylight.

Here, the air felt truer to the season, brisk and biting, not like the eerie warmth they’d left behind in the village.

Pen tightened his coat, fingers already beginning to numb.

He drew in a long breath. After so long sealed inside the bookshop, he’d forgotten how fresh air tasted. How the wind slid over his skin, how the trees whispered, and the ground smelled of damp leaves and moss. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it all.

But something felt different. The world seemed darker, more ominous than he remembered. Maybe it was the weight of what he knew, the fate that loomed ahead. Or maybe, somehow, he could sense the rip in time, slowly creeping toward them, like a storm building on the horizon.

“Okay,” Adelaide said, shaking him from his thoughts. “Let’s move the car up the road. We can’t leave it out here for Carolyn to spot.”

They loaded their pilfered goods into the back of the car, and Adelaide pulled onto the road, stopping just beyond a curve where the trees would shield it from view. She pulled into a small turnout and shut off the engine.

“I know a shortcut from here,” she told him, stepping out and shutting the door behind her.

Pen followed, carrying their supplies as they trudged through a field of knee-high wheatgrass, Frankie at his heels.

“There it is,” Adelaide said, pointing toward the outline of a stone cabin nestled at the edge of the woods. She glanced back at him with a smile. “Almost there.”

Suddenly, Frankie sprinted off after something through the tall grass.

“Frankie!” Pen called, whistling low and long. His voice carried through the field, but the fox didn’t come; instead, he bounded through the underbrush, leaping and pouncing, still on the chase, his red coat flickering like fire between the tall stalks.

Pen took a step to follow, but Adelaide gently caught his hand, holding him still. “He’s free now too,” she said softly.

The words hit hard. He looked down at her hand in his, warm and certain. She was right. Frankie was never meant to be a pet, never meant to be caged as he had been all these years. He was a wild creature, and he deserved to be free in nature where he belonged.

Adelaide gave his hand a soft squeeze, her eyes full of understanding. “Come on,” she said with a soft smile, motioning for them to keep walking.

Pen paused, just a second, scanning the field for one last glimpse. Then, as if summoned, Frankie’s head popped up through the grass. Their eyes met, and Pen could see the happiness there. Then the fox dashed off again, vanishing into the thick wheatgrass.

He bit the inside of his cheek and forced down the tightness rising in his throat, the sorrow at seeing his companion for the last time, then he turned back to Adelaide and followed her down the path.

At the cabin, Adelaide pulled a set of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. “Glad I didn’t give these back to Carolyn this week like I planned,” she said as they stepped inside.

The door creaked open, and cold air rushed out to meet them. The thick stone walls held the chill like a tomb.

“We’re going to need firewood,” Pen said, stepping in. “It’s freezing.”

“Yeah, this place is an icebox. We’ll have to sneak back and grab some logs from Carolyn’s woodpile.”

They set their things on the table and stepped back outside, following the narrow path through the frost-tinted field. Pen glanced around, hoping for a final glimpse of Frankie, but the little fox was gone, and the emptiness at his heels made his heart ache.

Ahead of him, Adelaide moved easily, hair swaying from side to side with each step. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. For one gut-wrenching moment, he wished he could freeze time, to stop everything right here, with her, in this quiet moment of peace.

Time had once been his prison, an endless loop of solitude and waiting. And now? Now he would have gladly taken that cage again if it meant getting to see her every day. Still, he knew how that ended; his fate would mirror Rowland’s eventually. Alone. Watching the person he loved grow old and die.

They had to destroy the watch.

What crushed him, though, wasn’t just the loss. It was knowing he wouldn’t remember any of it. Not her laugh, not the way her eyes met his, the way her body felt against his. And she wouldn’t remember him.

He ran a hand through his hair, palm dragging down the back of his neck. Focus. Be here. Make these last moments count. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. No matter how hard he tried, it kept circling back to the ache in his chest, the inevitable loss waiting just ahead.

They returned with armfuls of firewood, and Pen lit a fire in the hearth while Adelaide laid out a picnic on the floor in front of it.

The flames crackled, filling the small stone cabin with warmth, chasing away the lingering chill.

Shadows flickered along the walls, stretching and swaying like silent witnesses to the night unfolding before them.

Pen watched her as she poured the wine, her eyes sparkling in the firelight as she told him a story about her childhood. He let himself drift into the moment, into her voice, into the comfort of something that felt heartbreakingly right. For a while, it was easy to forget.

Adelaide leaned back on her elbows, her eyes finding his. “Can I tell you something?” she said.

“Of course.”

She hesitated, fingertips grazing the rim of her wine glass.

“It was your letters,” she said finally, her voice quiet.

“The ones you left in the old letterbox. You don’t know what they meant to me.

” Pen stayed quiet, watching her. “When I first got here, I felt completely adrift. I hadn’t done anything on my own in…

I don’t even know how long. And then I found the bookshop.

But I felt like maybe I wouldn’t be able to do it.

Until I found one of your letters. You told me I was doing a great job.

That the Feather Thorn was coming back to life because of me.

You made me believe it was possible. You kept me going when I couldn’t see the end. ”

Pen’s heart clenched, his throat tightening around words he couldn’t say.

She didn’t know that tomorrow, none of this would exist. That their story would be unwritten, their memories erased.

He would become a stranger to her, and she to him, and everything they had would be nothing but dust in the wind.

He forced a small smile. “I just… wanted you to know what I saw. You were bringing something beautiful back into the world, and I thought you should hear it.”

Adelaide reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. “It was more than that, Pen. You helped me believe in myself again. You reminded me I was capable of being more than just someone’s wife. That I could make a life here for myself.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He looked down at their hands, his thumb brushing over hers.

“When I came to Helensburgh all those years ago, I wanted to be someone different, someone better than the poor kid from Oak Ridge. I thought if I could make something of myself, then maybe it would mean I mattered. But being here… being with you … it’s made me realize I don’t have to be anyone else.

” He paused, swallowing the ache rising in his chest. “ You made me see that.”

Adelaide’s expression softened. “You’ve always been enough, Pen. Today and forever in my eyes.”

Pen tightened his grip on her hand, memorizing the feel of it, the shape of her knuckles, the curve of her palm. By tomorrow, you won’t even remember me , he thought, and the thought nearly broke him.

All those years trapped inside the Feather Thorn, he’d dreamed of freedom, of what his future might look like if he ever got out of the loop. Now that he had, the future felt like a curse. He couldn’t bear to look ahead, not when every step meant leaving her behind.

So he stayed here. In the moment.

He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms and kissed her with the urgency of someone whose time was running out. “You gave me more than you’ll ever know,” he whispered as they sank back onto the makeshift bed on the floor and made love once more.

Later, as the fire burned low and the cabin filled with the soft rhythm of their breaths, she curled against him, into his arms like she belonged there, and drifted off to sleep.

He held her tight. The thought of letting go, of giving her up, felt impossible.

“I love you,” he breathed into her hair, so softly she wouldn’t hear. “Always.”

He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to miss a single second with her.

Instead, he watched her breathe, watched the firelight trace the curves of her face like a memory he didn’t want to lose.

He burned every detail into his mind, desperate to hold on to it, even knowing it would slip through his fingers like sand tomorrow.

But tonight, tonight he would let himself dream, dream of what life might have been like if things had gone differently.

If this had been their beginning instead of their end.