“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.”
CHAPTER 35
A Ring
Represents hope, unity, and completion.
Just as Anne and Vincent were reaching the bottoms of their cups in the kitchen of the Crescent Moon, the bells tethered to the door began to rattle, as if the house was shaking in anticipation.
“Is something wrong?” Vincent asked as his gaze darted around the room before settling on Anne.
“No,” Anne replied as she rose from her chair and rested her palms against the smooth oak of the table, listening to what the house was trying to tell them. “I think it’s just the opposite.”
“Someone’s coming!” Violet cried as she barreled into the kitchen with such force that the house had to cling to the decorative porcelain plates hanging on the walls to keep them from shattering. “The bells on the front door are jingling even though no one’s turned the handle.”
Violet took in another breath then to continue speaking, but the words on her tongue seemed to vanish when she turned andsaw Vincent sitting at the table, his gaze still darting about the room, but always returning to Anne.
Before Anne had a chance to explain why Vincent Crowley of all people was sitting in the middle of their kitchen, though, the soft murmur of two voices drew everyone’s attention to the back door.
As the sound drew closer, the ticking of Anne’s watch became louder and louder until it could have been mistaken for the grandfather clock whose chimes had enough strength to echo through the whole house. And then, just as the smaller hand hit twelve, the door opened, revealing Beatrix and May’s hooded figures in the threshold.
“I told you that everyone would be waiting,” Beatrix said to May as they turned back the hoods of their cloaks and brushed away the snowflakes that clung to their shoulders.
