The Spellshop on Chestnut Street

• Chapter 1 The Will and the Witch
• Chapter 2 Dust, Dried Lavender, and Disasters
• Chapter 3 An Unwelcome Reunion
• Chapter 4 The Ledger of Lost Magic
• Chapter 5 Spells and Cold Brews
• Chapter 6 Sparks in the Stacks
• Chapter 7 A Mislaid Hex
• Chapter 8 Tea Leaves and Old Flames
• Chapter 9 The Midnight Inventory
• Chapter 10 Whispering Parchment
• Chapter 11 A Recipe for Trouble
• Chapter 12 The Festival of Luminaries
• Chapter 13 Bound by Charms
• Chapter 14 Secrets in the Cellar
• Chapter 15 Brewing Storms
• Chapter 16 Familiar Territory
• Chapter 17 Unraveling the Curse
• Chapter 18 Second Chances
• Chapter 19 The Chestnut Street Market
• Chapter 20 Mending the Magic
• Chapter 21 Enchantments and Apologies
• Chapter 22 The Lost Grimoire
• Chapter 23 A Pact Renewed
• Chapter 24 The Grand Reopening
• Chapter 25 Warm Hearth, Soft Magic
• Chapter 26 Happily Ever Aftereffects

The magic in Evelyn’s fingertips didn't spark anymore; it just sizzled like cold grease on a damp skillet.

Sitting in the third-floor office of the High Council of Arcane Regulation, Evelyn Starling stared at the glowing blue ink floating standard-issue notices across her desk. As a Senior Evocation Auditor, her job consisted entirely of making sure sub-urban warlocks didn't use weather-altering charms to ruin their neighbors' garden parties and checking that potion-brewers carried liability insurance against accidental polymorphs. It was tedious, grey work, designed to siphon every ounce of wonder out of the craft until nothing remained but red tape and headaches.

She leaned back in her squeaky leather chair, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone lukewarm. A faint itch hummed behind her knuckles—a ghost of the talent that had once earned her top honors at the academy. Now, after six years of bureau life in the damp, bustling city of Oakhaven, even a basic warming charm felt like pulling teeth. She was burned out, bone-weary, and thoroughly convinced that magic was a scam invented to sell overpriced crystal foci.

A polite tap sounded against the frosted glass of her door. Before she could answer, her assistant, a young gnome named Pip, nudged the door open with his elbow. He carried a parchment envelope sealed with thick maroon wax—an archaic form of delivery that usually meant someone was either very rich or very dead.

"This just came by silver-owl post, Miss Starling," Pip said, setting the heavy envelope over her stack of late-tax notices. "The bird looked furious. I think it got caught in the updrafts near the clocktower."

"Silver-owl?" Evelyn frowned, picking up the envelope. The wax was stamped with a familiar emblem: an open book draped in ivy. Her heart gave a sudden, unexpected thud. "This is Aunt Clara’s seal."

"Your aunt?" Pip asked, hovering near the desk with wide, curious eyes. "The one who ran the shop down in the valley?"

"The very same," Evelyn murmured. She broke the wax with her thumb, a sudden wave of dried lavender and old paper washing over her as the envelope split open. It was a smell that instantly pulled her back to childhood summers spent in the cozy, sunlit town of Willowbrook, sitting on a stepladder while her aunt sorted ancient grimoires.

She unfolded the thick parchment inside. The flowing, elegant script was unmistakably that of Mr. Thaddeus Vance, Willowbrook’s resident magical attorney.

Dear Miss Starling,

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the passing of your grand-aunt, Clara Starling. As per her final instructions, her estate—including the residential quarters and the retail establishment known as Starling’s Spellbooks on Chestnut Street—has been placed into a temporary trust pending the reading of her Last Will and Testament.

Your presence is required at my office at 4 Chestnut Street, Willowbrook, on Friday the fourteenth at ten o'clock in the morning. Please bring your personal wand and identification.

With deepest condolences, Thaddeus Vance, Esq.

Evelyn dropped the letter onto the desk, leaning back as the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. Aunt Clara was gone. The eccentric, warm-hearted woman who had taught Evelyn her very first levitation trick, who had spent decades curating the finest collection of rare spellbooks, enchanted journals, and forgotten parchment in the province, was no more.

"Is everything alright, Miss Starling?" Pip asked softly.

"I need to take some leave," Evelyn said, her voice sounding far away. "Effective immediately."

Two days later, Evelyn stood on the cobblestone pavement of Chestnut Street, her battered leather suitcase resting beside her ankles.

Willowbrook hadn't changed at all. While Oakhaven was a city of soot, steel, and high-strung bureaucrats, Willowbrook looked as though it had been painted into existence by an artist who favored warm tones and perpetual autumn. The timber-framed buildings leaned together like old friends sharing secrets, their window boxes overflowing with late-blooming marigolds and glowing moon-lilies. The air smelled of woodsmoke, freshly baked apple tarts, and the faint, ozone crispness of ambient magic.

Directly across from her stood number 12 Chestnut Street: Starling’s Spellbooks.

The shop was a three-story structure made of dark timber and river stone. A brass sign hung above the arched doorway, depicting an owl holding a rolled scroll in its talons. Through the diamond-paned bay windows, Evelyn could see towering stacks of leather-bound volumes, dimly lit alcoves, and dusty glass cases. It looked sleeping, frozen in time, waiting for its mistress to turn the key in the lock.

Evelyn swallowed down the lump forming in her throat and turned away, walking down the street toward the modest brass plaque marking Mr. Vance’s office.

The attorney’s waiting room was quiet, smelling of mahogany polish and peppermint tea. Mr. Vance himself—a tall, silver-haired elf with wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his sharp nose—came out to greet her immediately.

"Ah, Miss Starling," Vance said, offering a warm, dry hand. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Clara spoke of you often. She was deeply proud of your appointment at the High Council, though she always said they were working you into the ground."

"She wasn't wrong," Evelyn said with a faint, tight smile as she followed him into his private inner office. "I still can't quite believe she's gone. I should have visited more often."

"Clara knew you were busy building a life," Vance said kindly, gesturing toward a plush velvet armchair. "And she was not one for lingering sorrow. She lived a full, vibrant life right up until her final evening. Passed away peacefully in her sleep, holding a first-edition copy of Evergreen Enchantments."

Vance sat behind his heavy desk, tapping a brass key against a dark wooden box. "Now, as to her estate. Clara’s wishes were quite specific, and I must inform you that the terms of the inheritance are somewhat... unusual."

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "Unusual how? Did she leave the shop to her cat? Because Barnaby died three years ago."

"No, no," Vance chuckled. He pulled out a thick parchment document bound with silk ribbon. "The property, the dwelling above, and the entire inventory of Starling’s Spellbooks are to be left entirely to you, Evelyn."

A wave of profound relief washed over her, instantly followed by a cold spike of panic. Me? Run a shop? She barely had enough magic left to light a candle, let alone manage a store full of wild, unpredictable spellbooks.

"However," Vance continued, raising a finger, "there is a major contingency. Clara was acutely aware of the financial difficulties the shop has faced recently. Due to the rise of commercial magical supply chains in Oakhaven, independent spellbook shops are struggling. Starling’s Spellbooks carries a significant debt to the Town Guild, and the taxes on the property are six months overdue."

"How much debt?" Evelyn asked carefully.

Vance handed her a ledger sheet. Evelyn scanned the numbers, and her stomach dropped. The sum was staggering. It would take years of her auditor’s salary to clear it.

"Under the terms of the will," Vance explained, "you have ninety days to clear the debt and bring the shop back into profitability. If you succeed, full title of the building and all contents transfer to you permanently. If you fail, or if you choose not to accept the terms, the building will be liquidated by the Guild, and the contents sold at public auction."

"Ninety days?" Evelyn echoed. "Mr. Vance, I’m an auditor, not a merchant. And my magic is... well, it’s not what it used to be. I don't know the first thing about running a retail business in today's market."

"Clara anticipated your hesitation," Vance said, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Which brings us to the second condition of the will. She knew you couldn't do it alone. Therefore, she mandated that you must operate the business with a designated co-manager. A partner who possesses the practical field experience and business acumen required to clear the debt."

Evelyn frowned, feeling a subtle trap closing around her. "A partner? Who?"

Vance reached for a second file on his desk. Before he could speak, the front door of the law office opened with a loud jingle of brass bells. Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, accompanied by the distinct smell of rain, cedarwood, and spell-smoke.

Evelyn froze. She knew that smell. She would know that smell anywhere, even after four years of complete radio silence.

The door to Vance's inner office swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room. He wore a worn leather duster over a dark wool vest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms crisscrossed with faint, glowing silver scars—the marks of an active combat abjurer. His dark hair was carelessly tossed, and his hazel eyes locked onto Evelyn with a sudden, sharp intensity that made the air in the room instantly charge with static magic.

"Sorry I'm late, Thaddeus," the man said, his voice a low, familiar rasp. "The wards on the North Bridge were acting up again."

Evelyn gripped the armrests of her chair so hard her knuckles turned white. "Gideon?"

Gideon Black—former top combat mage of the Oakhaven Vanguard, current freelance ward-breaker, and the man who had broken her heart into a thousand sharp pieces four years ago—stopped in his tracks.

"Evelyn?" he blurted out, staring at her as if she were a ghost. He looked down at Vance, then back at Evelyn, his jaw tightening. "Wait. What is she doing here?"

"Miss Starling is here for the reading of her aunt’s will," Vance said calmly, gesturing toward the empty chair next to Evelyn. "Please, Gideon, take a seat."

"I am not sitting next to him," Evelyn said, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the hardwood floor. She turned to Vance, her eyes wide with shock and indignation. "Mr. Vance, what is the meaning of this? Why is he here?"

Gideon crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a forced, defensive composure, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. "Believe me, Evelyn, if I knew you were going to be here, I would have sent a proxy."

"Gideon," Vance said sternly, tapping his pen on the desk. "Evelyn. Please. Sit down, both of you. Clara’s instructions were crystal clear."

Evelyn remained standing, glaring at Gideon, who finally sighed and sank into the leather chair beside hers, radiating an absurd amount of heat and uncomfortable familiarity. Evelyn stiffened, moving as far to the edge of her seat as physically possible.

Vance adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. "As I was explaining to Evelyn, Clara’s will dictates that the shop and its property may only be retained if the business is brought out of debt within ninety days. And according to Clause Four, Section B of the testament..." Vance paused, looking over the top of his glasses at the two of them. "...you two must run Starling’s Spellbooks together as equal partners."

"What?!" Evelyn and Gideon shouted in unison.

"That's absurd!" Evelyn argued, her voice rising an octave. "Aunt Clara knew we—she knew we don't work together! We haven't spoken in four years!"

"She was fully aware of your history," Vance replied serenely. He flipped to the back page of the document. "In fact, she left a specific note regarding the two of you. Allow me to read it."

Vance cleared his throat and assumed a light, mischievous tone that made Evelyn’s stomach twist—it was a dead impression of Aunt Clara.

"'To my dearest Evelyn and my stubborn boy Gideon: If you are hearing this, it means I have moved on to the great library in the sky, and you two are likely glaring at each other across Thaddeus’s desk. Evelyn, you have buried your fire under a mountain of soul-crushing paperwork. Gideon, you have spent years running away from the only place you ever belonged, hiding behind shield-charms and moody silence. You are both wasting your talents, and more importantly, you are wasting time. You need the shop, but more than that, you need each other to fix it. If you want to keep my life’s work from being torn apart by vultures, you will put your foolish pride aside and pull together. Otherwise, the Guild gets the shop, and you can both go back to being miserable on your own terms.'"

Silence hung heavy in the room. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the tall grandfather clock in the corner.

Evelyn stared at the floor, Clara’s words striking her like a physical blow. Buried her fire? Wasting her talent? It was harsh, but... it was true. She hated Oakhaven. She hated her job. But the thought of tying her fate back to Gideon Black made her blood run cold.

She stole a sideways glance at him. Gideon was staring out the window, his expression unreadable, though his broad shoulders were tense under his coat. When he had left Oakhaven four years ago, walking out on their shared apartment and their plans for the future without a proper explanation, she had sworn she would never let him close enough to hurt her again.

"And if one of us refuses?" Gideon asked, his voice rough.

"If either of you declines the partnership," Vance said plainly, "the trust is immediately dissolved. The shop will be locked today, and auction proceedings will begin on Monday."

Evelyn felt a knot tighten in her chest. Lose Aunt Clara's shop? Allow her precious books—some of them unique, priceless historical artifacts—to be auctioned off to cold, unfeeling collectors who would hide them away in private vaults?

"I can't let the shop go," Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. She looked at Vance. "I accept."

Vance smiled gently, then turned his gaze to Gideon. "And you, Mr. Black?"

Gideon looked at Evelyn. For a split second, the guarded, distant look vanished from his eyes, replaced by a strange, quiet shadow of regret that made Evelyn’s heart skip a beat. Then, the mask slammed back down.

"Clara took me in when I had nowhere else to go," Gideon said quietly. "I owe her everything. I won't let her shop burn." He looked Vance dead in the eye. "I'm in."

"Splendid," Vance said, clapping his hands together with a sound like a pistol shot. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a heavy set of iron keys attached to a brass ring shaped like an owl. He placed them in the center of the desk. "Here are the keys to 12 Chestnut Street. The residential flat upstairs is fully furnished and accessible through the back staircase. I suggest you both head over, inspect the inventory, and figure out how you're going to pay off three hundred gold crowns in three months."

Evelyn reached for the keys at the exact same moment Gideon did. Their fingers brushed.

A sharp, violent shock of pure static magic instantly burst between their hands, crackling like blue lightning and knocking both of their arms back. A small puff of lavender-scented smoke rose from the wooden desk between them.

Evelyn pulled her hand to her chest, her fingers tingling wildly—a feeling she hadn't experienced in years. She glared at Gideon, who was rubbing his knuckles, looking just as startled as she was.

"Well," Mr. Vance observed mildy, adjusting his papers away from the singed wood. "It seems the magic is still there. Good luck, to you both. You're going to need it."

The walk from Thaddeus Vance’s office to number 12 Chestnut Street took less than three minutes, but to Evelyn, every step felt like marching through wet cement.

Gideon walked beside her in sharp, brooding silence, his long stride forced to match her smaller, furious pacing. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn duster coat. The air between them hummed with the leftover static from their hands touching—a residual spark that made the fine hairs on Evelyn’s forearms stand up.

When they reached the arched timber threshold of Starling’s Spellbooks, Evelyn stopped. She stared at the tarnished brass owl knocker, the ring of iron keys cold and heavy in her palm. Four years had passed since she had last set foot in Willowbrook, and even longer since she had stood outside this door without Aunt Clara flinging it open to welcome her with hot elderberry tea and warm flour on her apron.

"Are you going to open it, or are you waiting for the lock to melt from your glare?" Gideon asked, his voice low and laced with that familiar, maddening edge.

Evelyn shot him a look that could have curdled cream. "I am savoring my last few seconds of peace before I am forced to share a zip code of space with you, Gideon."

"You don't have to share a zip code," he said coolly, leaning his broad shoulder against the doorframe and crossing his arms. "You could hand me the keys, take the afternoon coach back to your cozy desk in Oakhaven, and leave the physical labor to someone who actually works for a living."

"And let you manage my aunt's legacy by yourself?" Evelyn scoffed, shoving the heavy iron key into the keyhole. "Over my dead body. You’d probably turn the back room into a perimeter ward station and use seventeenth-century parchment to line your boots."

"I respect old parchment," Gideon muttered, though his jaw tightened slightly. "And for the record, I was the one who helped Clara fix the roof two winters ago while you were busy writing fines for illegal transfiguration in the capital."

Evelyn’s key turned with a heavy, grinding click. The latch gave way, and she pushed the heavy oak door inward.

A wall of warm, stagnant air rushed out to meet them. It smelled overwhelmingly of dried lavender, crumbling paper, beeswax, and the lingering, sweet ozone tint of unchecked, wild magic.

The interior of Starling’s Spellbooks was a magnificent, catastrophic disaster.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of dark mahogany curved around the perimeter of the room like the ribs of an ancient leviathan. Every single shelf was crammed beyond capacity with leather-bound, parchment-wrapped, and cloth-covered volumes. Towering, precarious stacks of books spilled off every flat surface, wobbling on low oak tables, piling up around the base of spiral iron staircases, and snaking across the Persian rugs covering the hardwood floor.

Floating high up near the vaulted, timber-beamed ceiling, dozens of loose, unbound spell-scrolls fluttered lazily in the air like pale, trapped birds, caught in the thermal currents of forgotten levitation charms. On the central checkout counter, a brass inkwell was currently attempting to crawl across a blotter on four tiny, ink-stained spider legs, while a peacock-feather quill actively wrote angry, nonsense scribbles across a stack of overdue invoice notices.

Evelyn stepped over the threshold, her leather soles crunching slightly on a dusting of crushed chalk and dried thyme. "Sweet Saints of Arcana..." she breathed, turning in a slow circle. "What happened in here?"

"Clara’s organization system," Gideon said, stepping in behind her and closing the door with a firm thud. "Or lack thereof. Towards the end, her knees were bothering her, so she started using basic telekinesis to fetch books from the upper shelves. Problem is, Clara’s telekinesis was always a bit... indiscriminate."

"Indiscriminate?" Evelyn picked up a volume off the nearest stack. The title, stamped in faded gold foil, read A Comprehensive Guide to Domestic Banishments. As soon as her thumb brushed the spine, the book snapped its covers shut with a loud clack, nipping at her fingers. She dropped it back onto the stack with an annoyed yelp. "It’s a zoo!"

"They're just restless," Gideon said, walking past her toward the center of the shop. "Magic builds up when books stay closed too long. You should know that, Auditor."

"Don't use my title like it's an insult," Evelyn snapped, following him through the narrow, maze-like pathways forged through the stacks. "And under Council safety guidelines, living texts are supposed to be housed in lead-lined glass cases to prevent rogue binding charms from bleeding into the floorboards! If an inspector came in here right now, they'd condemn the building on three separate code violations."

"Good thing you're the inspector, then," Gideon said, turning to face her with a faint, irritating smirk. "You can write yourself a ticket."

Evelyn opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp retort, but her heel caught the edge of a frayed velvet rug. She stumbled backward, her hand reaching out instinctively to catch her balance. Her fingers brushed against the spine of a massive, brass-clasped tome perched precariously on a shelf marked Elemental Minor Magic.

The moment her skin touched the metal clasp, a violent blue spark hissed against her fingers.

The brass lock gave an audible snap, and the giant tome sprang open on its own.

"Evelyn, don't move," Gideon warned, his smirk instantly disappearing as his posture shifted into a low, defensive stance.

"I didn't mean to—" Evelyn started, but she was cut off by a deep, rumbling whistle that echoed from within the book's yellowed pages.

A sudden, localized gale of ice-cold wind erupted from the center of the book. It swept through the narrow aisle with the force of a mountain squall, sending loose papers, dried lavender sprigs, and small brass trinkets flying into the air. The floating scrolls near the ceiling shrieked—a high, paper-thin sound—and swooped down like frightened gulls.

"It’s a micro-cyclone!" Evelyn yelled over the roar of the wind, her hair whipping wildly across her face as she tried to shield her eyes. "Clause Nine of the Elemental Containment Act—!"

"Forget the manual, Evelyn!" Gideon shouted.

He lunged forward, placing his heavy body directly between her and the raging book. He threw his left hand out, fingers flared, and slammed his heel against the floorboards. A bright, amber circle of ward-magic flared into existence on the floor, expanding outward like a shimmering dome of light. The wind battered against his invisible shield with a sound like tearing silk, sending sparks cascade-rippling across the glowing barrier.

Evelyn stared at his back. Gideon’s shoulders were broad, his posture rigid and unyielding as he fought against the pressure of the spell. Even through her frustration, she felt a sharp, unwelcome pang of recognition. How many times had she stood behind him while he warded off rogue magical blasts back in their Oakhaven days? He had always been an unshakeable wall when chaos broke loose.

"The binding lock!" Gideon called back over his shoulder, his voice strained as the amber ward flickered under the assault of freezing wind. "It needs a dampening counter-charge! Can you pitch one in?"

Evelyn reached into her pocket and whipped out her wand—a slim, dark wand of polished rowan wood that hadn't seen field action in four long years. She pointed it at the open book, focusing her mind on the standard dousing charm she had rehearsed a thousand times during her academy days.

Cessare Ventus, she thought, pushing her magic down her arm.

Instead of a smooth, directed beam of dampening blue light, her wand gave a sad, wet sizzle. A tiny shower of limp, lavender-scented sparks dripped out of the tip like melted butter, falling harmlessly to the rug.

Evelyn gasped, her face heating up with burning shame. "I... my magic is stuck!"

Gideon shot a quick, bewildered glance over his shoulder. "What do you mean, stuck?"

"I mean I have severe magical burnout and I can't throw a proper charm to save my life!" she yelled back, her cheeks hot. "Use physical force!"

"Physical force?" Gideon grunted, turning back to the storm. "On an enchanted volume?"

Without waiting for his approval, Evelyn reached around his waist, using his sturdy frame as a windbreak. She grabbed a heavy, wooden bookend shaped like a sleeping dragon from a nearby shelf, leaned out past Gideon's shoulder, and slammed the heavy wooden dragon flat against the open face of the howling tome.

CRACK!

The book slapped shut under the weight of the bookend. The wind instantly vanished. The floating scrolls plummeted to the floor like dead leaves, fluttering down around their ankles in total silence.

The shop was dead quiet, save for the heavy breathing of the two people standing locked together in the narrow aisle.

Evelyn was pressed flush against Gideon's back, her arm still extended, her hands resting tightly against the leather of his coat. She could feel the steady, hard beat of his heart through his vest, and the warm heat of his skin radiated right through her clothes. The smell of cedar, rain, and fresh magic rolled off him in waves.

Gideon slowly lowered his hand, his amber ward dissolving into faint, glittering dust. He turned his head sideways, his hazel eyes dropping down to where her hand was resting against his chest, then rising to meet her eyes.

Evelyn snapped her hand back as if she had touched red-hot iron. She took three quick steps backward, smoothing down her wrinkled travel coat with brisk, hurried motions.

"Well," she said, her voice a little too high, a little too fast. "That was... poorly anchored magic. Clara should have maintained the binding charms on the elemental section."

Gideon turned around fully, his arms dropping to his sides. He looked at her with a quiet, penetrating gaze that made her want to squirm. "Your wand sputtered, Evelyn. A basic dousing charm."

"I am aware of what happened to my wand, thank you," she said stiffly, thrusting the rowan wand back into her coat pocket. "I told you, I work in regulation. My job is administrative. I haven't needed to cast high-output spells in years."

"That wasn't high-output," Gideon said softly, step-by-step parrying her defensive walls. "That was basic household magic. What happened to you in Oakhaven?"

"Nothing happened to me," she snapped, her chin rising defensively. "I worked fourteen-hour days processing permits and auditing illegal covens for four straight years. It turns out that drowning in paperwork slowly drains a person's spark. Not that you would know anything about that, considering you ran away to break wards in the mountains the second things got slightly complicated."

The air in the narrow room grew heavy, a different kind of storm brewing between them.

Gideon’s eyes darkened, a shadow crossing his face. "I didn't run away."

"You left a note on the kitchen table, Gideon," Evelyn said, her voice dropping, sharp as a razor. "A two-line note that said you were leaving the city and wasn't sure when you'd be back. You didn't write. You didn't call. You vanished. So don't sit there and tell me you didn't run."

Gideon opened his mouth to reply, a muscle in his cheek working frantically, but he closed it just as quickly. He looked away, staring down at the battered book with the dragon bookend still lying on top of it. "We aren't here to discuss Oakhaven," he said, his voice flat and tight. "We're here because Clara left us a three-hundred-gold-crown mess to clean up."

"Fine by me," Evelyn said coldly. "Let's inspect the rest of the disaster."

They moved through the ground floor in a cautious, unspoken truce.

Beyond the chaotic retail space, the back room was a dense labyrinth of storage crates, uncatalogued shipments, and half-finished tea mugs that had developed their own localized ecosystems. A small fireplace sat cold in the corner, its hearth full of ash and discarded spell-formula scribbles.

Behind a heavy velvet curtain near the back stairwell sat the ledger desk. Evelyn walked over to it, her heart sinking as she took in the mountain of parchment piled upon the dark wood. Bills from parchment suppliers, notices of unpaid water taxes, stern letters from the Oakhaven Book-Binders Guild, and glowing pink demand notes from the Willowbrook Merchant Association.

"It's worse than Vance made it sound," Evelyn murmured, pulling out a squeaky wooden chair and sitting down. She began flipping through the pages of the primary financial ledger, her auditor instincts taking over despite her exhaustion. "Clara wasn't just losing money; she was practically giving inventory away. Look at these entries."

Gideon leaned over the desk, resting his palms on the wood. Evelyn tried to ignore his proximity, focusing entirely on the ink columns.

"'Three silver pieces for a third-edition herbalism guide sold to Mrs. Higgins,'" Evelyn read aloud. "That book is worth at least fifteen silver! And here—'Gave A History of River Magic to young Timmy on credit.' She didn't record a single payment from him in six months!"

"Timmy’s family was struggling after the floods last spring," Gideon said quietly. "Clara wasn't running a bank, Evelyn. She ran a shop for the town. If people needed magic to fix their fences or heal their goats, she gave it to them."

"And that kindness is exactly why the Guild is three months away from putting a padlock on the front door and selling her personal collection to highest-bidding merchants in the capital!" Evelyn shot back, slamming the ledger shut. A plume of gray dust erupted from the cover, making her sneeze violently.

"Bless you," Gideon said automatically.

"Don't be polite," she huffed, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. "It distorts my perception of you."

Gideon let out a dry, breathy sound that was almost a laugh, though he quickly smothered it behind a cough. "Right. Wouldn't want that. So, what's the grand plan, Auditor? Since you're the one with the numbers brain."

Evelyn leaned back, rubbing her temples where a dull ache was beginning to bloom. "First, we need a complete inventory audit. We have to know what we actually own versus what is damaged, useless, or dangerous. Second, we need to price the rare stock accurately and hold a specialized sale. Third, we need to organize this chaotic mess so a customer can actually walk through the front door without being attacked by an elemental storm."

"I can handle the dangerous stock," Gideon said. "Half these dark-magic references need safety wards installed before you can even open the covers without catching a phantom curse. And I can fix the floorboards and the shelving."

"Good," Evelyn said. She looked toward the narrow wooden staircase tucked into the corner of the back room. "Where are we sleeping?"

Gideon hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah. About that."

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. "Gideon. Tell me there are two apartments upstairs."

"It's a small shop, Evelyn," Gideon said, pointing toward the stairs. "There’s Clara’s private flat on the second floor. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living area."

Evelyn stared at him in utter disbelief. "You expect us to live together? In the same flat?"

"Do you have three silver crowns a night to spend at the Prancing Stag Inn down the street?" Gideon asked realistically. "Because I certainly don't. Every copper I have went into paying off my contract break with the Vanguard."

Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut. The universe was playing a sick, twisted prank on her. Not only was she forced to run a failing business with her ex-fiancé, but she was going to have to hear him walk down the hallway in his socks every night.

"I take the room with the south-facing window," she said, opening her eyes and staring at him with firm resolve. "The one with the vanity desk."

"Fine," Gideon agreed easily. "I'll take Clara’s old room near the back balcony. It’s closer to the roof access anyway, in case I need to inspect the chimney wards."

"Great," Evelyn said, standing up from the desk. "I'm going upstairs to drop my bag and see if the water pipes still work. Don't touch any of the ledger sheets while I'm gone. I have a specific filing system."

"Wouldn't dream of disturbing your precious paper stacks," Gideon murmured, though there was a soft, tired look in his eyes as he watched her head toward the stairs.

Evelyn carried her suitcase up the creaking wooden staircase. The air upstairs felt warmer, softer, and steeped in memories.

The living room of the second-floor flat was lined with faded floral wallpaper and soft, sunken armchairs covered in hand-knitted blankets. A small brick fireplace sat cold against the far wall, flanked by shelves filled with non-magical novels, tin teaboxes, and framed photographs.

Evelyn paused in front of a small silver frame resting on the mantlepiece.

In the photograph, taken five years ago during a summer festival, a younger, brighter-eyed Evelyn was laughing uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed with cider. Standing right next to her, with his arm draped comfortably over her shoulders, was Gideon. He wasn't wearing his heavy duster or his scowling, guarded expression; he was smiling—a real, crooked, genuine smile—looking down at her as if she were the only thing in the room. In the background, Aunt Clara was peeking into the frame, holding up two fingers behind Gideon’s head like ears.

Evelyn’s heart gave a painful, sharp wrench.

She quickly turned the frame face-down on the mantle, unable to look at it for another second.

She retreated into the south bedroom, setting her bag on the double bed covered in a blue patchwork quilt. The room was clean, though light dust coated the wooden surfaces. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting soft geometric patterns across the floorboards.

She sat on the edge of the bed, dropping her head into her hands.

Ninety days. Three hundred gold crowns. A shop full of rebellious, semi-sentient books, a broken magical spark, and a partner who reminded her of every mistake she had ever made.

From down below, she heard the muffled sound of heavy footsteps, followed by the deep, scraping noise of Gideon hauling a heavy wooden crate across the shop floor. Then came the sound of his low, rich voice, muttering a soft, rhythmic warding chant to soothe a buzzing, angry text.

Evelyn leaned back onto the quilt, staring up at the white plaster ceiling.

"What did you get us into, Aunt Clara?" she whispered to the quiet room.

A light breeze stirred the lace curtains, bearing the soft, unmistakable scent of dried lavender and old paper. No voice answered her, but as Evelyn lay there, she could have sworn she felt a soft, comforting pat on her shoulder—gentle as a feather, and just as persistent.

Downstairs, a heavy book slammed shut, and Gideon swore loudly.

Evelyn sighed, pushed herself off the bed, and headed back down to the battlefield.