Beatrix shook her head as she stomped her boots on the sidewalk and remembered the sense of certainty that flashed in Anne’s eyes whenever they spoke of the bookshop.
In those moments, Anne reminded Beatrix so much of their mother: assured and certain once she got a clear look at a sign and knew what the outcome would be. And though Beatrix wasn’t sure she was helping in the least, whenever she said as much, Anne would merely remind her of the scent of aged paper that she’d sensed in her vision, as if that alone was enough to draw their conversation to a close.
Beatrix trusted Anne’s instincts, of course, but that didn’t keep her concerns at bay. Now more than ever, she worried that in closing herself away in stories that drew her from the present, she’d miss something important and ruin any hope of helping untangle the knots that seemed to only grow tighter the more they pulled at them.
She felt an icy trickle down the side of her cheek then and realized that her doubts had managed to pour over, taking the shape of tears that were freezing against her skin.
By the time Beatrix walked down the alleyway and slid the key into the door, it felt like she was ensnared body and soul by the most lonesome parts of winter: shoulders grown stiff from hunching too long against the biting wind, greetings cut short for fear of the cold, toes and fingers that never seemed to thaw.
As soon as she stepped over the threshold of the shop and drew in her first breath, though, the tightness in Beatrix’s chest flickered out as quickly as the wick of a candle. Startled, shestood in the doorway, wondering why the sense of dread that had consumed her only moments ago had suddenly faded, but then, as her thoughts began to still, certain details slipped slowly into her awareness, becoming more potent the longer she focused on them.
The scent of bergamot and citrus saturated the shop as it had yesterday, but new notes emerged as well, the fragrance of beeswax polish and fresh air. It was the same smell that filled the Crescent Moon the mornings after it decided to throw open a window to let out the worst of the dust and dread bottled up during the winter months. And beneath that arose the barest hint of newly cut paper, vanilla, and ink just barely dried on the page. It was a startling contrast to how the shop had smelled the first evening that Beatrix and Violet had stumbled through the threshold, the muskiness that arises from painted windowpanes and neglect all but lost beneath aromas that loosened the knots in Beatrix’s soul before she had a chance to notice what was happening.
Shrugging out of her coat, Beatrix held her breath as she gazed from one corner of the room to the next.
Had the floral buds painted along the wallpaper always looked like they were just about to bloom, the barest hint of pink petals tucked beneath lush green leaves? Why was it less of a chore to find a place to step without hitting the corner of a book with the toe of her boot? She could nearly see the intricate pattern of the rug beneath now, the rich red texture showcasing the shining walnut shelves, which had somehow shaken themselves free of dust sometime during the night except for a few patches in the farthest corners.
And, most curious of all, how was it that Beatrix was starting to feel like she could finally rest, as if all the troubles brewing within her would simply vanish the moment she sat in the wingback chair with a warm cup of tea and lost herself in thefinal chapters of a story that she hadn’t realized just how much she needed?
“You don’t have to hide from me any longer,” Beatrix whispered as she rested a hand against the side of one of the empty shelves.
Her declaration was met with silence, but she sensed the texture of the air shift, as if someone was holding an indrawn breath.
“I’ve finally realized what you are,” Beatrix continued, louder now, as if she was having a conversation with a person on the other side of the room. “And I dare say you’ve figured out that I’m not exactly normal myself.”
Again, Beatrix was met with nothing but silence, and as one moment slipped into the next, she started to wonder if she was merely being foolish, wishing for magic where there was only dust and disappointment.
Feeling an ache return to her chest just above her heart, Beatrix leaned her forehead against the bookshelf.
“I’ve felt empty without stories, too, you know,” she murmured. “And so, so lonely for the joy of turning the page and not knowing where it will take me.”
She sensed it then, a slight vibration beneath her boots and the subtle sound of pages brushing against one another.
“But it’s time that we both embraced who we are, don’t you think?” Beatrix asked. “So that we can remember why life is worth taking a chance on, even when it feels like you’ve lost your way.”
The light filtering through the windows grew stronger then, the colors of the woodwork and book spines growing more vibrant as the sun’s rays stretched across the floor.
“What’s a writer who’s forgotten the simple beauty of a book?” Beatrix said. “And what’s a bookshop who’s lost its readers? We’re searching for the same thing, you and I.”
The shop suddenly grew still, the air thickening in a way that made the emotions clinging to the walls more tangible. She could feel them now, the frustration and grief that coated every inch of the shop, ensuring that not even the barest shred of joy could slip in from the world outside.
But then, Beatrix sensed the walls expand and contract, the loose pages flying about the room as if someone had released a deep, longheld breath. In what felt like the blink of an eye, all the books snapped back onto the shelves, flying so quickly from one end of the shop to the next that it was a wonder they didn’t collide and burst into confetti.
The shop had awoken at last, eager to shake away the anger and hurt it had felt after decades of neglect and absorb the satisfaction that radiated from readers whenever they stumbled across a promising story.
Beatrix clasped her hands together and lifted them beneath her chin as she took in the shining book spines and scent of leather, wondering if there could be anything in the entire world more magical than an enchanted bookshop.
As the light hit her fingers, though, she was shocked to find that the shelves weren’t the only thing to have changed.
Just beneath the skin, Beatrix could make out the faintest swirls of letters. They were still scattered, too far apart to make any words, but there nonetheless.
“I think I’m starting to dust myself off too,” Beatrix said with a laugh, the sound a bit rough from the sense of relief that shook her to the core.
The barest thread of an idea for a story began to tug at the back of her mind then, and if she held herself still enough, Beatrix could hear the faint murmur of a character’s voice just starting to take shape. It wasn’t a sensation that she could easily craft into words, this feeling that the promise of a story was dangling precariously on the edge between imagination andawareness. But she was certain that if she reached for the thread too quickly and pulled at it in desperation, the entire tapestry it was tethered to might unravel, leaving her even more frustrated than before.
In that moment, the shop, which had always known precisely what balm Beatrix needed to soothe the wounds that no one else could see, nudged her toward the wingback chair, the nails in the floorboards lifting just enough to snag the train of her skirt and point her in the proper direction.
“I know,” Beatrix relented, letting the seed of her next story rest a bit longer so that it could grow firmer roots. “The time isn’t right yet.”
