What Magic Lies Beneath
Chapter 1
Everbelle
A well-dressed lady—in all black, mind you—marched her way toward my bakery. It was easy to spot customers through my window. They all approached in a similar manner, their gazes focused on my front door. But hesitation peppered their steps. Some even passed my shop but doubled back.
Winter had come early to London, but that didn’t stop the lady in black from tilting up her chin to the overcast sky. She plowed forward as the ribbons of her bonnet trailed after her like Queen Victoria’s royal banners.
I sighed. For every time the bakery door opened, other secrets spilled out. And not all of them were as delightful as the nuts I sprinkled on freshly prepared mazarin pastries.
“How may I help you?” I asked her.
She’d barely crossed the threshold into the shop. “Miss Amberglass, please tell me the rumors are true.”
I drew in a sharp breath—not too big since my corset wouldn’t allow it—as the chill from outside swept through the store. In the kitchen in the back of the bakery, I caught the faint clink of saucers shifting on a shelf. The woman’s attention never wavered. Good.
“Please come inside.” While I washed flour off my hands at the nearby sink, I said, “Madame, I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“Don’t turn me away.” The door whispered shut and the bell jingled softly. “I hear you can pull the past into your pastries.”
Another saucer clinked, reminding me my customer and I weren’t the only people in this room.
The only living ones, anyway.
The woman continued. “My dearest brother, Richard, he was a talented baker like yourself. Every Christmas he used to prepare nesselrode cream.” Her face brightened and tears glistened in her blue eyes. “After he passed, my siblings and I tried to replicate his efforts, but…”
While she spoke of her brother, the face of a chubby, freckled-cheek child came to mind. My brother. He had a mischievous smile and ruddy skin. The bitter smell of soot trailed after him. His name sat on my lips, but to speak it would cause a ruckus in my kitchen and frighten my poor customer.
My hand rose. She didn’t need to explain any further. “Come back in two days, and you’ll have Richard’s nesselrode cream.”
She grasped my damp hand between her gloved ones. Her gratitude sent warmth into me. With a small smile, she left the shop as another customer came inside.
“Just a moment.” I dried my hands on my apron and glanced up with a smile. A man had entered my store.
A handsome one at that.
“Miss Everbelle Amberglass.” He spoke as if he stated fact. “I’m Malcolm Featherton.”
“What can I do for you?” Invisible hands tugged my apron closer to the counter. Closer to the man with tufts of mouse brown hair peeking from under a worn bowler hat.
Brother, why can’t you be still today? I thought.
Mr. Featherton strode deeper into the shop, weaving around my bread stand. For some reason, he side-stepped an empty space. My gaze swept from his shiny shoes to his wide shoulders. His angular face resembled a cat’s—symmetrical and pleasing to the eye. Mr. Featherton’s nose was perfectly straight, while his full lips, which were wonderfully shaped, quirked into a grin.
Did I have a troublemaker in my midst?
“It’s not what you can do for me,” he said smoothly. “It’s what I can do for you.”
I licked my dry lips in annoyance. What he could do was march right back out the door. This wasn’t the first time a man had sidled into my shop to speak lies dusted in sugar.
I opened my mouth to deliver a barbed reply, but a set of decorative china near the front window slid a few inches to the right.
Let him not see.
With a hawk’s razor-sharp focus, Mr. Featherton’s gaze flitted to the china.
Damn it, he saw it.
“How long have you been like this?” he asked.
“What?”
“You know very well what I’m talking about, Miss Amberglass. How long do you plan to leave him like this?”
The forced smile on my face keeled over and died.
“You’re not making any sense,” I said crisply. “Perhaps you’d like to buy some pastries instead?” I gestured to a plate of apple turnovers. Maybe a meal would set his head straight.
To my horror, the plate moved away from my hand.
“He’s rather mischievous,” Mr. Featherton said with a chuckle.
“Excuse me? He?”
Mr. Featherton’s smile widened and his gaze bore into me. “There’s a man in here with us—I won’t tell you much more—but I know you two are related and he cares for you.”
My knees turned to ash. The floor could’ve opened up and swallowed me whole. Did he really know about my brother? No one had ever mentioned or seen him before.
When I’d remained silent for too long, he repeated his question. “How long?”
“Who are you?” was all I could manage to say.
“In the way you’re able to re-create baked goods from your customer’s deceased loved ones, I’m able to connect with ghosts directly.” He took off his hat and laid it on my counter. “The ghosts in the neighborhood told me to come to your shop this morning.”
I searched his face for answers. Was he speaking the truth?
“You’re pale…Are you all right?” He reached across the counter for my hand but pulled back just as quickly.
I managed a nod. “So why did these…ghosts tell you to come here?”
“You’ve hidden away for years in your little shop, but you have unfinished business.” His face hardened. “And your brother can’t protect you anymore.”
“Protect me? From what?”
“You must set him free and confront the evil that left him like this.”
The fragile lock keeping the past safely tucked away in a pretty box weakened. I saw that horrid ramshackle house again. Recalled that foul-smelling bog. Smelled the scent of burning flesh…
I snapped, “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Featherton. You may leave now.”
He frowned. “Mark my words. Your brother will grow weaker as time passes.” He plucked a card from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “Come see me tonight before midnight. You’ll need the crimson key for your journey, and the full moon is the only time we can procure it.”
Before he closed the door, he added, “Your brother told me you need to play with the dog more often.”
What dog?
I peered in the direction he looked—the very same spot he’d sidestepped earlier.
