Page 99 of The Messengers of Magic
“We actually just need a few things. Lavender, cinnamon, cedar, and chamomile,” Adelaide said.
Carolyn arched a brow. “I have all of those. Now, either you’re making a soothing bedtime brew, or you’re planning to destroy something.” She gave a small chuckle as she turned and pulled the jars down from the shelves.
Adelaide shot Pen a glance, half-smile, half-grimace, then busied herself inspecting the jars while Carolyn worked.
Once everything was measured and bundled, Carolyn rang them up behind the counter. “That’ll be one pound.”
Relief washed over Adelaide’s face at the familiar currency, and she quickly pulled the coin from her pocket, placing it on the counter.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the small bag offered. “It was really kind of you to stay open a few minutes longer for us.”
“No trouble at all, my dear,” Carolyn said with a warm smile, the same smile Pen remembered from all those years ago, but also different at the same time.
Adelaide turned toward the door, but Pen remained where he stood, still caught in the strangeness of it all.
Carolyn met his gaze one last time, then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the back room.
Back out on the cobbled street, Adelaide turned to Pen, eyes wide. “Holy shit, how did she recognize you? She didn’t even know who I was, and I’m her niece.”
“I have no idea,” Pen said, his voice tight. “But if there’s another version of me out there… We should get out of sight before anyone else sees us.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. His pace quickened as they crossed the street and ducked back through the Feather Thorn’s entrance, slipping past the blacksmith once again.
Upstairs, the attic greeted them with its stark emptiness, the ghost of a life once lived.
“How much time do we have?” Adelaide asked.
Pen walked to the window and peered out.
The sky was darker now, but still wrong .
He squinted, searching for stars he’d memorized over countless years, but the constellations were fragmented, scattered, as if a celestial hand had shaken the night sky and left the pieces to fall out of place.
His stomach twisted. The North Star was missing.
It had always been his constant, the first to appear, fixed in its position, a quiet reassurance that some things never changed. But now? It was gone.
“What’s wrong?” Adelaide asked, moving to his side.
“I can’t find it,” he said, voice strained. He kept scanning the sky, willing it to appear. “The North Star, it’s not there.”
“Are you sure?” She leaned forward, gaze following his.
Fear rushed through him, thick and suffocating. What if they were wrong about the solstice? What if the timeline had already drifted too far off course? They’d seen it rewrite the seasons. Summer had taken hold when it should have been winter. Had they missed their window here in this reality?
He swallowed hard, trying to calculate and map the sky. Hoping that the rip hadn’t spread past the borders of town, that there was still more of his world left than this one. If that were the case, the ritual could still work.
“Look, there!” Adelaide pointed toward the distant mountains.
His gaze followed.
Tucked into the crook of the peaks, just rising from the horizon, a single star glimmered, brighter than all the others in the sky.
“Yes,” he breathed, gripping her hand. He squeezed it for just a second before stepping back. “The North Star is out,” he said. “Which means we can start whenever we’re ready.”
“Great. Let’s gather the rest of what we need,” Adelaide said, opening the journal and flipping to the list. “We have the herbs, now we just need a few bowls and a knife.” She glanced around the empty space.
“The bowls…” She sighed. “We don’t have any.
God, I wish I had thought about that when we were still at the cabin.
” Her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked around.
Pen thought for a moment, then walked back to the window. He scanned the town below, sweeping over the darkened streets. Just a few doors down from the apothecary, a house sat with four small pots perched on the windowsill, tiny green sprouts pushing through the soil.
“I have an idea,” he told her, turning from the window. “I’ll be right back.”
Before Adelaide could question him, he went into the bedroom and grabbed Rowland’s old paperboy hat off the back of the door, then slipped out the door, moving quickly down the stairs and onto the street.
The silence outside pressed in like fog.
He looked both ways, making sure no one was watching, then sprinted toward the house. At the windowsill, he quickly dumped the dirt unceremoniously onto the cobbles, stacked the pots, and tucked them into his coat.
But as he turned to run back, footsteps echoed down the lane.
A figure appeared; Pen froze.
His pulse pounded in his ears, louder than the wind that stirred the leaves around him. Instinct made him duck his head, shoulders drawn tight as he tried to shrink into nothing, hoping, no, wishing that he was invisible to him, just as he was to the man in the forge.
He knew, knew , he shouldn’t look, just in case it was his alternate self. Because if what Rowland had said was true, and two versions of the same person became aware of each other, then this moment could tear apart the last fragile seam holding everything together.
But… he couldn’t help himself. He was like a moth to a flame.
A chill passed through him, something unseen curling around his spine, an invisible thread drawing his gaze upward like a string being pulled.
His eyes lifted for just a second, but it was long enough.
Long enough to see the man walking toward him, trench coat flaring around his boots, his face half lost in shadow. But Pen didn’t need the light to know who it was.
Because it was him .