Page 16 of Charlotte's Story
“According to who?”
“The rules I created for myself when I became pastor,” he said. “I don’t always know how to help when people are grieving, but I find that if I can show my concern in a concrete way it expresses my feelings better than words usually do.”
That was surprisingly sweet.
He traced his cuff with his free hand, and my gaze caught on the black mark on his palm, which looked like some sort of sigil. “Did you figure out what that was?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess it’s part of a protection spell.” His half-smile dimmed, sadness glinting in his hazel eyes. “That poor woman. I feel terrible for what happened to her last night. I’m not sure how I could have hurt her since protection spells don’t usuallyhurt people, but if I did, then I don’t know how I’ll be able to continue calling myself a pastor.”
The necklace at my throat warmed again, conveying his worry in more than just words.
After the next turn, the museum loomed over us, snow gathering on its eaves, steep roof, and window ledges like icing on gingerbread. Flickering candles floated behind a few panes, and ivy crept along the old stone walls, enchanted to twinkle with frosted red berries and glowing winter blossoms that bloomed only in winter. A crooked iron gate held a wooden plaque with hand-lettered curving script:Museum of Regrets.It opened with a melancholy moan. A small notice board stood guard by the front door with a paper tacked on that said,12 Regrets of Christmas—coming soon.
“We need to find the owner,” I said as I pushed open the door and slipped inside. The scent of pine resin, old books, and sugared plums hung in the air, blending with the faint chime of music boxes that played ghostly carols. Floating lanterns cast soft halos over the velvet-lined displays along the walls. “I’ll go this way”—I pointed to the hall with a broken mirror and a plaque underneath covered with text that readIf only—“and you go that way.” I gestured to the farther path where the first regret was a clock whose second hand kept ticking onto the same moment.
“Splitting up increases risk and reduces efficiency. It makes more sense to stay together.” William took a step closer, and I backed up.
William was nothing like the man I’d married, and I wasn’t sure how smart it was to spend too much time with him. This new side of him was harder to ignore.
“I think it’s better if we separate. We’ll cover more ground that way.”
“We’re spending the first day of married life on a murder case.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The least I can do is stay with you.”
I sighed and took off down the hall. “All right.” I’d just need to keep reminding myself that even if he’d changed his clothes, he was nothing like Hugh.
A lantern flared to life as we passed, the words,I regret her finding out the truthglowing on the plaque underneath. Nearby, a star pulsed weakly, snuggled softly in its velvet display case, although its light barely flickered. In the next display, a letter sat beneath a quill that scribbled,return to senderacross the envelope in an endless loop.
“This museum is fascinating.” William paused to study the enchanted quill like it might reveal something. “I’d love to study how the magic works here.”
“Haven’t you ever gone on one of the tours?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, the official story is that when Mr. Ashford’s grandfather and his wife were married, a powerful high-born fae cast a spell on the house that they would be able to live a life of no regrets.”
“Like a fairy godmother,” he murmured.
“Exactly.” My lips twisted in a frown. “But something went wrong, and now instead of repelling regrets, it attracts them. So eventually the couple decided to turn it into a museum, and it’s been passed down through their descendants over the years, fueled by the family’s magic.” My words brought back William’s grumpy neighbor Harold and his dislike of Dahlia’s magic. Maybe he didn’t like that it fueled a museum based on regrets.
“Attracts them?” William said.
“Like Mrs. Bennet to a secret.”
“Speaking of secrets, I’ve forgotten our dating history and it would probably be prudent to apprise myself of the situationfrom your point of view.” He pulled out a small notebook and flipped through a few pages. “What was our first date?”
“You prepared food for a picnic, and then we did a historic walking tour of Austen Heights.”
“Oh? Who was the tour guide?”
“You were.”
He scribbled something, then asked, “And how exactly did I propose?”
I passed another regret on the wall, a broken cell phone, its screen flickering on and off like a candlewick fighting the wind. “You proposed in the church after a service you invited me to attend. You pointed out a few verses in the scriptures that talked about the benefits of marriage and topped it off with something about Lady Catherine’s approval.”
“I see.” More scribbling. “And when did we fall in love?”
“Oh, look. There’s someone.” I pointed to a man standing in the room at the end of the hall. His long gray hair was pulled into a low ponytail that seemed at odds with his black slacks and red button-up, although his slumped shoulders and rumpled clothes betrayed exhaustion.
