Page 48 of The Witching Moon Manor (The Spellbound Sisters #2)

A Raven

Symbolizes foresight, prophecy, and connection with the spirits.

Before the house had lit the fire in the grate or heard Vincent grasp the handle of the garden gate, Beatrix was sitting in the bookshop with her finger perched on the topright corner of a novel.

There was only one page left in the story, and once she pulled it back to reveal the final lines, everything would be brought to a close.

Though she had a strong sense of how the book would end, Beatrix lingered with her thumb along the back cover, in slight disbelief that she’d have to say goodbye to the characters, who had become more alive with each paragraph.

Leaning her head against the smooth velvet of the wingback chair, she closed her eyes and imagined how the last words of the story were going to make her feel.

Would they cause her chest to rumble with quiet laughter?

Her hands to grip the binding a bit tighter?

A tear that she hadn’t realized was building to slip down her cheek?

There was a wealth of possibility in just a few short sentences, but she knew every scenario would leave her feeling more at home in her soul than she had before her eyes met the first line.

Just as the tip of her finger started to dip beneath the corner of the page, though, Beatrix heard something—the gentle creaking of the front door.

Startled, she gazed over the top of her book and watched as an elderly woman bundled in layers of heavy black wool and satin stepped into the shop, her shoulders hunched against the merciless whip of the early evening winds.

As she pulled back the hood of her cloak and began to peer about the shop, Beatrix couldn’t help but think that she looked lost, her eyes unfocused and slowly shifting from one corner of the room to the next.

But then, something else entirely began to settle into her expression.

It was the same look that had crossed over Beatrix’s own face the moment she’d returned to the Crescent Moon, an almost childlike wonder that she’d somehow managed to trick time and slip so thoroughly back into a cherished memory.

“It’s the same,” Beatrix heard the woman whisper to herself. “Just the same.”

A book that Beatrix hadn’t realized was resting on the arm of the chair toppled to the floor as she shifted, the slight thump instantly drawing her visitor’s attention.

“Oh,” the stranger gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

The woman turned her back to Beatrix then, her hand reaching for the doorknob, the hasty movement conveying a deep sense of embarrassment.

“Please, don’t go,” Beatrix said as she rose from her chair and pushed her spectacles higher up her nose. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

The question took Beatrix herself by surprise. She hadn’t ever considered opening the front door and selling the books that rested along the shelves. Her thoughts only went so far as the next chapter of the story she was reading, but the words had come before she knew what was being said.

The woman shook her head, and her mouth was already forming the telltale shape of a “no.” But then her gaze landed on the book that had fallen beside the chair, the one that Beatrix hadn’t remembered putting there, and her eyes widened in recognition.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice softening as she took the smallest step away from the door.

Beatrix turned to where she was looking and leaned down to grab the book. The light pouring in from the windows was fainter now, but she could just make out the blue cover.

“It’s a fairytale collection,” Beatrix replied with a grin. “One that’s been well loved, by the look of the pages.”

The woman drew closer still then, as if she wanted to reach out and touch the cover but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.

“Would you like to see it?” Beatrix asked as she extended the book toward her guest.

The woman glanced back at the cover, clearly warring with herself. But eventually, she nodded and shifted forward, grasping the spine with a shaking hand.

Beatrix watched as she ran the tips of her fingers over the book, obviously enjoying what it felt like to touch the cloth binding and smooth gilded letters of the title.

But instead of turning to the first page, as most readers would, the woman reached for a spot in the very center of the book and flipped it open, as one does when they’ve read a story so many times that their hands remember where to find the best part.

“You’ve read it before,” Beatrix murmured in wonder. “This book was yours.”

The woman’s gaze was still locked on the page that she’d turned to, but she nodded silently.

“You must be May,” Beatrix murmured gently, finally drawing the pieces together.

“I had forgotten this,” May replied in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard Beatrix at all.

She was entirely absorbed in the book now, the feel of the pages against her thumbs and scent of aged paper drawing her away from the present and into the past. “My brother used to make me tell him the stories aloud when he was teaching me how to read. He said that everything I needed to learn could be found in fairy tales.”

“Is he the one who left the note?” Beatrix asked, gesturing toward the very back of the book where the text had been crossed through.

“Yes,” May murmured, her gaze still fixed on the words beneath her fingertips. “He was always saying that . . . a good story has no end.”

Beatrix knew that she should have pressed May then, begged her to help them so that everyone could meet a happy fate.

But in that moment, all she saw was a reader slipping into the familiar comfort of a beloved story, and she didn’t have it in her to disturb that kind of magic.

“Was this your favorite?” Beatrix asked with a smile as she stepped beside May and looked down at the page.

As she expected, it was the tale that had been dogeared so many times that the corner at the top was nearly falling away, the one about the sister whose brothers turned into ravens.

“It was,” May whispered. “I haven’t given it a thought since I was a child, but now it seems as if I could recite it word for word.” “The stories closest to our hearts have that effect,” Beatrix agreed with a nod of understanding. “We may forget them, but they always find their way back to us.”

“Whenever I read it to Philip, I’d tell him that I was going to be like the girl in the tale one day,” May said, her voice rough with the tears that she was holding at bay. “That if he ever needed me to, I would walk across the whole world to save him.”

Beatrix remained silent, sensing somehow that she needed to let May wander down the path she’d stumbled onto instead of pushing her in a particular direction.

“This was Philip’s shop, you know,” May said as she looked about the shelves. “He opened it after our parents passed the mercantile store on to him. Said he wanted to fill it with what people really needed: stories that would help them discover what was worth living for.”

She took in a deep breath then, the barest start of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips as she sank into the scent of polished wood shelves, aged paper, and leatherbound books and let the aroma carry her back.

“After he died, I couldn’t bring myself to step foot in here,” May continued. “And when I finally wanted to return, I heard it was dusty and broken. I didn’t know if I could face it then either.”

“It seems to have come alive again,” Beatrix said as she ran her hand across the shelf and took in the sight of the shop alongside May.

It had struck a few lamps, and now shadows were dancing playfully across the edges of the books, as if tempting them to wander with their hands trailing along the spines until they felt like they’d found just the right one.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” May murmured, her eyes turning toward Beatrix then. “You’re like her, aren’t you?”

Beatrix’s brow creased in confusion.

“The woman who came to see me yesterday,” May explained. “The one who told me that I needed to stop holding on to Philip. She looked just like you.”

“We are sisters,” Beatrix said with a nod, understanding now.

“Tell me,” May said as she stared down at the open book. “Would you let her go? Even if you weren’t certain you’d see each other again.”

Beatrix paused, trying her best to find the words to describe something that seemed inexplicable.

“I’m like you,” she finally answered. “I’d walk the whole world for my sister if she needed me to save her. Even if it meant losing her in the end.”

The tears that May had been holding back slid down her cheeks then, and suddenly, the scent of rosemary began to rise alongside the aroma of stories waiting to be read.

“I believe you’re right,” May said after she wiped away the worst of her tears. “We are the same.”

Beatrix stepped forward and grasped May’s hand in her own, and when their fingers met over the pages of the book, the words that had been lingering just beneath Beatrix’s awareness sprang to life, unfurling a story that needed to be told.

And as the voices of her characters grew stronger, sentences spilled out across the groves of her fingers and palms until the entire surface of her hands was impressed with the threads of her next novel.

Then, as she watched May’s eyes widen and felt the rumblings of another story come to life beneath her skin, Beatrix felt the distinct sensation of warm oil pouring down the crown of her skull and sinking deep within her bones.

It was so strong that she had to lean against the nearest bookshelf for support, worried that her legs were going to give out beneath her.

Suddenly, she remembered Violet describing the same sensation when the three of them had stood in the circus ring after her first performance, just after she completed her Task.

Could it be?

“Maybe there’s still a bit of magic left to discover after all,” May whispered as she gazed in wonder at Beatrix’s hands, just as a child does when they first turn their head up toward the night sky and see the stars.

“There certainly is,” Beatrix said as she faced May and smiled. “For all of us.”