But it wasn’t the dangers that Beatrix thought of while her hands rested in the warmth of Jennings’ grasp.
It was the memory of how she held her breath every time her eyes searched for his in a crowded room. The sound of their laughter entangling in the train car. The list she was always adding to in her mind, of things that she’d need to tell Jennings because they were sure to make him smile.
It was, quite simply, happiness.
And with that thought in mind, Beatrix closed her eyes and let the full force of her magic flicker to life, the strains of her story glowing so bright that she knew they were illuminating the words inscribed across her hands.
She stood in silence for a few moments, terrified of opening her eyes and seeing Jennings’ kind features twisted into horror.
But before she could see if her deepest worries had come to life, Jennings’ hands were no longer cradling her fingers but wrapped in her curls, pulling her closer until his lips were on hers.
And in an instant, Beatrix was losing herself in another story altogether. One that felt just like coming home.
They would have remained there, entangled in one another as their daydreams slipped into reality, but the bookshop, which had always been a fan of a good romance, couldn’t contain its excitement.
The pink buds painted on the wallpaper suddenly bloomed, the petals coming to life and fluttering to the floorboards. And some of the books along the shelves exploded, scattering so many delicate strips of confetti that anyone glancing through the windows might have thought the snow was starting to fall through the roof.
Once Beatrix managed to collect herself enough to understand what was going on, she turned to Jennings, her lips parting to plead with him to stay and not run straight out the door and onto the street.
But, once again, he surprised her.
“An enchanted bookshop!” he laughed in the same wondrous tone that someone might if they’d found themselves stepping straight into one of their favorite fantasies. “I can’t think of anything more perfect.”
He paused then and stared down at Beatrix, his arms still wrapped around her waist with strips of torn book pages falling from his hair.
“Except for you,” he added with a smile that made Beatrix’s heart melt.
And as she reached up to pull his lips back to hers, Beatrix couldn’t help but think that Philip had been right.
A good story has no end.
CHAPTER 38
A Cardinal
Emerges alongside a message from someone who has passed on.
Snowflakes caught in the curves of Anne’s curls as she gazed at the blackthorn that had taken root in Mr. Crowley’s grave. She should have been unnerved by the sight of the thick tangle of thorns that rose from the soil and twisted upward despite the heavy weight of the ice and unrelenting pull of the wind.
But as she reached a hand toward the branches, the magic that had latched on to the soil pulsed against her skin, and all she could think about was how striking the thorns looked against the stark white of the snow. They reminded her that even the slightest seed of hope can sprout in the direst of conditions. She could nearly feel the power radiating from the roots through the soles of her shoes, a silent murmur that somehow managed to cut through the cold and warm the tips of her toes.
As Anne closed her eyes to listen to the gentle hum, she began to realize that the sound of snow crunching beneath someone’s footsteps was drawing closer and closer.
By the time she thought to turn, she could smell the scent of myrrh and had already guessed who she would see standing beside her. She would know him anywhere.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Vincent said as he stopped at the foot of the grave, just close enough that Anne could have brushed the tips of her fingers against his sleeve if she tried.
“Neither did I,” Anne replied, some of the cold in her fingers thawing as she leaned closer to Vincent and tucked a hand through the crook of his arm. “But I woke up this morning and found the outline of a coat on the rim of my cup.”
“And what does that mean?” Vincent asked.
“Sadness brought on by parting with someone you love,” Anne explained as she turned back to the blackthorn bush. “I suppose that I still needed to say one last goodbye.”
They stood at the foot of the grave and watched the branches brush against one another in the wind, more so finding their footing in the silence than slipping away from the present moment.
“Have you come to do the same?” Anne finally asked after the wind died down a bit and the branches became still again.
“I’m not sure why I’m here,” Vincent admitted. “Everything’s been put to rights. The house has opened its doors to my family again, and our power is startling to trickle back. I can hear the spirits whispering now even when I don’t call for them, their voices growing clearer and more hopeful with every passing moment.”
