Page 1 of Foresyth Conservatory
Chapter 1: Blackburne Bookstore & Gifts
Greenwich, North Carolina, December 1919
Most children inherit jewelry or surnames. I inherited death, debt, and a door I should have never opened. A brooding sky pressed down on Wicker Street, its clouds limned in spectral light, mourning the path that led to my decaying little bookstore. I was wiping down the windowsill and balancing a stack of unsold books against my hip when I saw him.
A flicker of movement beyond the window—sharp eyes, green as cut glass, watching me. For a moment, I thought I had only caught my own reflection, blurred by the damp cloth in my hand.
Then came the knock.
I turned so quickly I nearly dropped the books.
It was well past closing, the street outside empty save for the lengthening shadows. I cursed under my breath, realizing I had forgotten to flip the sign on the door.
“We’re closed,” I called, blinking away the afterimage. I turned back toward the shelves—Another knock.
I sighed, setting the books down with a quietthump.
New patrons always unnerved me. There was nothing more cumbersome than reading for atabula rasa, as my grandmother called them. It took more mental effort to sift through the rummage of their lives, finding the true crux of their nature. And on this dark December day, with thesun already setting behind the hills, I wanted to spare my faculties for my latest treasured tome waiting by my bedside.
I had just acquired a third editionLesser Key of Solomonfrom a rather adamant seller, who claimed the book’s seventy-two demons haunted him. I had chuckled at his assertion, but my curiosity got the best of me, and I left with the book tucked under my arm. Gabriel would be furious with me for making such a ghastly purchase. But given that I’d read every book in my store thrice over, I desperately needed something novel.
Being haunted seemed better than being bored, anyway.
Ignoring the stranger at the door, I returned to the counter and began counting the day’s total. I wetted my forefinger as I thumbed to the most recent page in my ledger. I recorded just shy of three dollars, a dreadfully low sum.
“I’ll pay double your rate,” a deep voice called through the door.
He waved through the window and tipped his hat back. When I caught his gaze his eyes glowed, shifting to a bruised green. The window was most certainly filthy.
My arm jerked toward the door instinctively. I knew I needed every penny after my mother’s procedure, but this stranger unnerved me to the core. If there was such a thing as intuition, I should have listened to it. It was only a whisper, but it pleaded with me to close the curtains and run upstairs.
Maybe I could summon those seventy-two demons to deal with him.
“Triple,” the voice called through the door.
A vile mix of curiosity and greed made me stand up. Against my better judgment, I closed the space betweenmyself and the door. I opened it to greet the stranger, itching to satisfy my curiosity about his color-changing eyes.
But when he raised his cap, I found two steady, sage irises staring back at me. There was nothing supernatural about them, but they glinted with an internal light, reminding me of my grandmother’s emerald necklace—the one I had sold to keep the bookstore alive after my father died. It wasn’t just the hue that drew me in, it was the depth of intellect. I wanted to read him—no, Ineededto. And if he was so generous, I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on his pocket money, either.
My hands shook as I opened the door further, but I forced a smile and said, “Welcome to Blackburne Bookstore and Gifts.”
He tipped his hat, removing it. And as the stranger entered my shop, I suddenly felt bare without my shawl. I grabbed the iridescent fabric from the coat hanger and wrapped it around my hair, tugging it tight. The thin veil tamed my mass of frizzy black curls and gave me the mystical air befitting my trade name.
“Madame Blackburne, is it? I’ve heard a great deal about you. I’ll honor my price—triple a regular patron. That’ll double your earnings today,” the stranger said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“How did you—” I began, tightening the shawl to mirror the knot in my stomach.
“Well, you aren’t the only one who does their research. I’ve read much about you in theObserver. Please, lest I keep you longer than necessary. My name is Christopher Renate, though most call me the Meister. I must say, your moniker ages you—you can’t be more than twenty.”
“I’m five-and-twenty, sir,” I huffed, lifting my chin. “And one does not need to be old to be wise.” I narrowed my eyes. “Meister, is it? And what do you ‘meister’ over?”
“Well, that’s for you to tell me, Madame Blackburne. If your talents live up to their reputation, of course,” he said with an uptick in his voice. Not quite mocking, but testing. What an infuriating stranger. Was he here to ask about an extramarital affair? Or an investment property in the Glades? It didn’t matter what he came here to ask, the truth was I’d seen it all before.
Earlier that day, I’d counseled Lady Florance out of jaw-wiring her twenty-year-old orange tabby and recommended a timed feeder instead (I even equipped her with the invention myself, for an additional price). The Lady’s senility caused her to set out supper multiple times a day, and was also evidenced by her frequent visits to my shop—each time forgetting the last. I was only slightly ashamed of accepting her reoccurring payments. But given how lavishly the fat cat lived, I figured she could part with it.
And now, I would welcome my next new source of income.
“Very well,” I said, leading the patron past the main display table of books to the nook nestled between two grand bookshelves, next to the only other window in the shop.
