chapter 2 Pages and Premonitions

Nightingale Books has been in my family for three generations. The old Victorian that houses it has been in the family for even longer five generations of Nightingales have walked its creaking floors and ducked beneath its low-hanging doorways.

I unlock the front door, the familiar scent of paper and binding glue washing over me as I step inside. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the stained-glass transom window that casts blue and purple shadows across the worn floorboards.

The bookstore occupies the entire first floor shelves crammed with everything from bestsellers to obscure poetry collections. The second floor is my apartment, and the third... well, the third floor has been locked for as long as I can remember. My parents' private domain, and now just another space filled with questions they took to their graves.

"Morning, Oscar," I say to the fat orange tabby curled on the checkout counter. He yawns in response, stretching luxuriously before settling back into his self-appointed position as store guardian.

I flip the sign to OPEN and start my morning routine—dusting shelves, rearranging displays, processing the new shipment that arrived last night. The methodical work usually calms me, but today my hands keep fumbling with book covers, my mind circling back to the man with no aura.

Cain Blackwood. The name itches at the back of my brain.

The Blackwoods were Moonhaven's unofficial aristocracy until they abruptly left town a decade ago. I would have been thirteen then, still learning to control my "gift," still believing my parents when they said I was special rather than cursed.

I vaguely remember whispers about the Blackwood boy—trouble at school, concerned talks between parents that stopped when kids entered the room. Then they were gone, and Moonhaven continued on without them.

Until now.

The bell above the door chimes, and I look up, half-expecting—hoping? fearing?—to see him again. Instead, Mrs. Holloway shuffles in, her plum-colored aura preceding her like a regal announcement.

"Good morning, dear," she says, unwinding a scarf from her neck. At seventy-eight, she's still the town's head librarian and knows more about books than anyone I've ever met. "I've come for that collection of folklore we discussed."

"Just finished cataloging it last night," I say, retrieving a stack of leather-bound books from behind the counter. "First edition Grimm, just like you suspected."

Her eyes light up as she runs a wrinkled hand over the embossed cover. "Magnificent. The library fundraiser auction will do very well with these as the centerpiece."

I ring up her purchase, watching the unusual patterns in her aura. Most people's emotions flow in predictable ways, but Mrs. Holloway's always move in deliberate, almost geometric patterns—like they're organized alphabetically, the way she arranges her beloved books.

"I heard Cain Blackwood is back in town," she says suddenly, fixing me with a sharp look over her reading glasses.

I freeze, credit card reader in hand. "News travels fast."

"Small towns have excellent acoustics." Her aura shifts, darkening at the edges. "You'd be too young to remember, but there was quite the to-do when the Blackwoods left."

"I was thirteen," I say. "I remember a little."

She hums noncommittally. "Your mother was quite... affected by their departure."

My hand stills on the paper bag I'm sliding the books into. "My mother? Why would she care about the Blackwoods leaving?"

Mrs. Holloway's aura contracts sharply, a sure sign she's holding something back. "Old town families often have... connections."

"Mrs. Holloway," I say carefully, "if you know something about my parents—"

"I know that curiosity is both a gift and a burden for a bookseller," she interrupts, taking the bag from my hands. "Just like certain other gifts."

My breath catches. She's never directly acknowledged that she knows about my ability, though I've suspected for years that she sees more than she lets on.

"Be careful around young Mr. Blackwood," she says, her voice lowered despite the empty store. "The connection between your families runs deeper than you know."

"What connection? My parents never mentioned knowing the Blackwoods."

Her aura pulses with what I can only describe as ancient sadness. "There are things in Moonhaven's history that are better left in the past. But sometimes the past doesn't stay buried."

She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "There's a book you should read. In your father's collection, I believe. 'Convergent Histories of Coastal New England Towns.' Dreadfully dry title, but... illuminating content."

With that cryptic recommendation, she's gone, leaving me staring after her, the bell's chime echoing in the empty shop.

I've catalogued every book in this store, including my father's prized collection of local history. I've never seen that title.

The day passes in a blur of customers and mundane tasks, but my mind keeps wandering to Mrs. Holloway's warning and the mystifying absence of an aura around Cain Blackwood. By closing time, I've made up my mind.

After locking the front door and feeding Oscar, I climb the narrow stairs to my apartment, then continue up to the third floor. The key to the padlocked door has hung on a chain around my neck since my parents' funeral five years ago, yet I've never used it.

Until tonight.

The lock resists, stiff from disuse, but finally gives way with a reluctant click. The door swings open on protesting hinges, revealing a darkness so complete it feels solid.

I fumble for a light switch, heart pounding in my ears. A single bulb flickers to life, illuminating what appears to be an ordinary study—bookshelves lining the walls, a massive oak desk by the window, filing cabinets in the corner.

Yet something about the room makes the hair on my arms stand up. Maybe it's the layer of dust that softens every surface into gray uniformity. Maybe it's the strange symbols carved into the window frames, or the peculiar arrangement of the furniture that seems to form patterns on the floor.

Or maybe it's the large, leather-bound book displayed on a wooden stand in the center of the desk, open to a page filled with handwritten text and diagrams of the night sky.

I approach slowly, as if the book might snap shut on my fingers like a trap. The page shows a chart of celestial bodies, with a date circled in red ink: November 15, 2025.

Less than a month from now.

Next to the date, in my mother's precise handwriting: "Convergence. Blackwood returns. Find the girl."

The girl. Me?

I turn the page with trembling fingers. A detailed drawing of what looks like a ritual chamber, with a circular opening in the ceiling. Exactly like the vision I saw when I touched Cain Blackwood.

My stomach drops as I turn another page and find a family tree. The Nightingales on one side, the Blackwoods on the other, the branches intertwining at various points throughout history, marked with small stars.

And at the bottom, my name connected by a dotted line to Cain's, with a question mark between us.

The sound of glass breaking downstairs makes me jump. Oscar, probably knocking something off a shelf. Still, I close the book and hurry back to the second floor, locking the third-floor door behind me.

I'll return tomorrow with a flashlight and proper supplies to investigate. For now, I've seen enough to know that Mrs. Holloway was right and that my parents kept secrets far darker than I ever imagined.

As I prepare for bed, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. I go to the window, peering out at the deserted street below.

For just a moment, I think I see a figure standing in the shadows across the road, face tilted up toward my window. Then the wind gusts, branches swaying, and when they settle, the figure is gone.

If it was ever there at all.