By the time she’d stepped through the threshold of the bookshop, Beatrix hadn’t even remembered to shut the doorbehind her or throw aside her snowcovered cloak, so lost was she in the words that were unfurling, ready to be printed on paper.
The bookshop, of course, had taken one glance at the hazy look in Beatrix’s eyes and recognized it for what it was—the enchantment of falling thoroughly into a story.
The walls had shaken in absolute delight, guiding Beatrix this way and that, until she’d settled on the wingback chair in the corner of the room with a towering stack of blank pages and a cup of tea that never seemed to grow cold.
As she’d scribbled, the shop had grown warmer, too, the musky scent of old books giving way to the aroma of fresh paper and burning beeswax candles.
And many hours later, when the light had grown bright from sunrise and then started to dim again, the floorboards around Beatrix’s feet were so covered in pages packed to the very edge with her scrawl that she couldn’t see the hem of her skirts any longer.
So consumed was she by the sheer delight of finding herself again between paragraphs and periods that Beatrix almost didn’t notice the sound of the front door creaking open.
It wasn’t until the shop allowed some of the harsh bite of the wind to nip at her heels that Beatrix thought to look up from her work and discover that someone had joined her.
More than one pair of hands had grasped the handle of the bookshop that day, lured by the bright covers that were now displayed in the window and the promise of an hour or so’s refuge from the winter cold, but the door had remained firmly shut to all who stood at the threshold . . . except this latest visitor.
“Jennings!” Beatrix gasped in surprise, scattering the pages that she’d been balancing against her knees.
Her spectacles, which were perched on the very edge of her nose, flew off as well, landing with a soft click on the floor.
“I’m interrupting you, aren’t I?” Jennings asked with a shy smile as he took in the sight of her practically buried beneath sheets of paper and a small mountain of teacups.
“Not at all,” Beatrix said in a rush as she sprang from the chair and stepped toward him, brushing her hands over her hair and quickly realizing that her curls must have broken free of her chignon. “What a fright I must seem.”
“You look wonderful,” Jennings said as he lifted a hand to her cheek and began to wipe away one of the spots of ink that she’d managed to smear across her face. “Just the way you always do.”
“I’m writing my next book, Jennings!” Beatrix cried, brimming over with excitement as she gestured toward the sea of papers scattered across the floor. “It’s practically pouring out of me now.”
“I can see that,” Jennings replied with a grin, but his gaze remained fixed on her face.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I’d been having trouble figuring out what to write next,” Beatrix confessed.
“I know,” Jennings said simply.
“You know?” Beatrix gasped. “What do you mean, you know?”
“You aren’t the first writer to have a bit of trouble working through a new story,” Jennings answered. “And you certainly won’t be the last.”
“But you didn’t say anything,” Beatrix said. “You didn’t tell Mr. Stuart that he should be worried.”
“There was never a doubt in my mind that you’d find your way again,” Jennings replied, leaning closer to wipe another ink stain from the tip of Beatrix’s nose. “Never a single doubt.”
Beatrix watched as a lock of his brown hair fell against his forehead, and before she could think to stop herself, she pushed it back into place, forgetting that her hands were entirely bareand that the words impressed along her skin were pulsing with the thrill of her new story.
Jennings captured them between his own calloused palms, staring at the words inscribed along her flesh with such intensity that Beatrix knew he was inspecting each and every syllable.
Shocked that she’d been so careless, Beatrix started to pull her hands away, but Jennings held them fast with a gentle pressure, not so much forcing her to remain still as extending an invitation to share a secret.
Beatrix did try to take a step back, just enough to catch her breath, but the shop didn’t let her. It snagged the hem of her dress against one of the loose nails so that she couldn’t help but remain where she was, standing in front of Jennings.
“I’ve been hiding something else as well,” Beatrix whispered. “Something that I’m not quite sure I can explain.”
Her gaze flickered across Jennings’ face searching for a sign of disbelief or confusion, but all she saw there was the barest spark of something starting to kindle in his eyes. If she didn’t know any better, Beatrix might have called it realization.
“I wanted to tell you,” Beatrix continued to say. “I almost did a hundred times. But I’ve never been able to find the right words. I don’t know if I can, even now.”
“Beatrix,” Jennings said, his voice laced with the same steady kindness that always made her erratic heart beat to a more restful rhythm. “I know this might seem like a strange thing to tell an author, but some things just can’t be expressed in words. Perhaps it would be easier if you showed me.”
Beatrix hesitated, knowing that whatever she decided to do next was going to throw her down one of two paths. It was the same crossroads her mother must have faced so long ago, when she’d fallen in love and had to decide which trail to follow. The first was laden with secrets left untold and distance that couldn’t be closed, but it was familiar and safe, a route that many witchesof her kind had stepped along. The other was more uncertain. There was a chance it could lead her toward distrust and wariness, severed ties that couldn’t be stitched back together.
