Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
NARLA
One week since the festival, and Narla’s shop had become ground zero for romantic chaos.
Spellbound Lights sat on Moonstone Lane, its Victorian bay windows catching the late afternoon sun, its warm amber facade glowing in the October light.
The hand-lettered sign above the door had drawn customers for years—quiet magic, subtle enchantments, the kind of candles that made people feel safe without understanding why.
Now it drew crowds.
Narla stood behind her counter, phone pressed to her ear, watching through the front windows as another cluster of people gathered on the sidewalk. Some peered through the glass with desperate hope. Others kept their distance, faces tight with fear. All of them had heard about her candles.
“—completely unacceptable.” The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Margaret Holt, Hux’s mother and Haven Shores’s most formidable society matron. “My daughter-in-law lit one of your candles at a dinner party last night. In front of guests. Do you have any idea what happened?”
Narla had an excellent idea. The gossip network had been burning up her phone since dawn.
“I understand your concern, Mrs. Holt—”
“She saw her tennis instructor. Her tennis instructor, Ms. Wright. In front of my son. In front of the entire Coastal Preservation Committee.”
On her perch behind the counter, Ember ruffled his feathers with what might have been amusement. The owl had been watching Narla field calls all morning, his amber gaze following her every movement.
“The candles reveal fated mates, Mrs. Holt. Not current partners. It’s possible your daughter-in-law’s bond with your son is a choice rather than fate, which doesn’t make it less—”
“Choice.” Margaret’s voice could have frozen the ocean. “You’re telling me that my son’s wife chose him while fate intended her for a man who teaches backhand volleys for a living?”
“I’m telling you the candles show what they show. I can’t control the revelations any more than I can control the surge that’s affecting them.”
The line went dead. Narla set down the phone and let out a breath that did nothing to ease the tension coiled in her spine.
This was the seventh angry call today. The third threat of a lawsuit. The second demand that she be brought before the Elder Council to answer for “recklessly exposing private romantic information to public scrutiny.”
And it wasn’t even noon.
Ember hooted softly—a sound of commiseration, if owls could commiserate.
“I know.” Narla rubbed her temples. “I should have closed the shop.”
But closing the shop meant sitting alone in her cottage, feeling Wyatt’s presence pulse at the edge of her awareness, remembering the way his hands had felt on her skin and the devastating truth of his face in her flames.
At least here, she had distractions.
The bell above the door chimed. Narla looked up, her customer-service smile firmly in place—and watched it falter as Mira Aldridge walked in.
The elderly widow moved slowly, a cane supporting her frail frame, but her eyes were bright with emotion that made Narla’s chest ache. Mira had lost her husband twenty years ago. Had spent two decades alone, still wearing her wedding ring, still visiting his grave every Sunday morning.
“Mrs. Aldridge.” Narla came around the counter, instinctively offering her arm for support. “What can I help you with?”
“You already have, dear.” Mira’s voice trembled, but her grip on Narla’s arm was surprisingly strong. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“I lit one of your candles last night. One I bought at the festival—honey vanilla, his favorite scent.” Mira’s eyes glistened. “And I saw him. Thomas. Right there in the flame, clear as the day we met.”
Narla’s throat tightened. “Mrs. Aldridge…”
“Fifty-two years I spent with that man. Fifty-two years of marriage, and I never knew—” Her voice broke. “I never knew we were fated. I thought what we had was… luck. Circumstance. But it was real. It was meant to be.”
Tears spilled down her weathered cheeks. Narla guided her to the worn velvet armchair by the window—her reading chair, her quiet space—and knelt beside her.
“He was fading.” Mira clutched Narla’s hand. “The image in the flame—it flickered at the edges, dimming while I watched. But I saw him. After twenty years, I saw him again. Do you understand what that means?”
Narla understood. Better than she could say.
Niccolas’s face hadn’t appeared in her flames. She’d tested it once, in the dark hours after she’d first seen Wyatt. Had lit a candle with her dead husband’s memory held deliberately in her mind, searching for his features.
Nothing. Just Wyatt, burning golden and undeniable.
Because Niccolas had been her choice. Her friend. Her partner. But not her fate.
“I’m glad it brought you peace, Mrs. Aldridge.” The words came out steady despite the ache in Narla’s chest. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted my candles to do.”
Mira stayed for another twenty minutes, talking about Thomas, sharing memories that had clearly been locked away for decades. Narla listened, offered tea, let the elderly widow pour out her grief and her gratitude in equal measure.
When Mira finally left, Narla stood at the window and watched her slow progress down Moonstone Lane. Her heart felt too full and too empty at the same time.
Ember clicked his beak. A sound of warning.
“I know.” Narla pressed her palm against the cool glass. “I’m thinking about him.”
Not Niccolas. Not anymore.
Wyatt’s presence had been a constant hum at the edge of her awareness all week.
She knew when he was at the station, when he was patrolling, when he drove past the road that led to her cottage.
The awareness was getting stronger. More specific.
She could almost feel his attention now—that particular quality of focus that meant he was thinking about her.
Which was most of the time.
The bell chimed again. Narla turned, her customer smile ready—
And froze.