Foresyth Conservatory

Chapter 1 Blackburne Bookstore & Gifts

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 quiet thump.

New patrons always unnerved me. There was nothing more cumbersome than reading for a tabula 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 the sun 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 edition Lesser Key of Solomon from 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 between myself 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, I needed to. 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 the Observer. 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.

Outside, blanched clouds cast gloom over the stained glass, their colors becoming opaque, closing the room into a tighter space.

I kept my gaze on the Meister as I moved, taking in the details of his form.

What he didn’t realize was that he had lost his advantage the moment he stepped into my bookstore.

My eyes darted to the cane in his hand. An old injury—I could tell by the smooth cadence of his walk.

As if he’d lived with a limp his entire life.

An injury from birth, or perhaps childhood?

The grass outside had wetted the wood of his cane, but a resin coating kept the water from soaking through.

It beaded instead at the tip, leaving a mark on the rug—pentagonal in shape.

An odd, custom design. He must be wealthy to afford such a custom build.

Then there were the markings on the cane—jagged, angular, and not from this century. Nordic runes, perhaps?

An admirer of old magick? Now that was interesting.

As the Meister sat down, a rumble of thunder resounded outside, filling the shop with a burst of light. I noticed a scar on his face, running from the top of his eyebrow down to his cheek, interrupted only by the edge of his bespectacled eye.

Meister . . . of music, or of art? My eyes scanned upward, noting the fabric and fitting of his attire.

When he placed his hand in his pocket, I caught a glimpse of the fine silk lining of his coat—a geometric design in red and blue.

A stark contrast to his otherwise dark, plain outerwear.

His fingers bore no calluses from playing instruments; on the contrary, they looked soft, refined. So, I bet on the latter.

“A wealthy Meister of art, with a proclivity for old magick, I take it?” His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. I suppressed a smile as I circled the table and gestured for him to sit. He was indeed one of the most interesting people I had come across in Greenwich.

“Very impressive. But not just a proclivity, I must admit—an obsession.” His grin widened with eyes alight. “Let’s see what else you can tell me from the cards.”

I prepared the deck in my usual custom. First, a sage smoke cleanse to dispel any residual energy from previous patrons.

Then, a twig of Palo Santo for a sacred cleanse against demonic or otherworldly forces.

I wafted the cards through the rising smoke, carefully ensuring every edge was covered.

From the drawer beneath me, I selected the stones for the final step in purification, narrating each movement as I worked.

“I’ll select a collection of crystals that represent your aura, so that we may imbue the cards with your energy, now that all others have been cleared.”

The Meister nodded slowly, his eyes following my every move.

I feathered my fingers across the minerals and stones.

This step was crucial. Gaining the patron’s trust was what kept them coming back.

I had to choose the exact right combination of stones, making him feel as though I’d peered into his very soul and plucked the crystals right from within him.

Patrons needed to feel seen by me. Hence, I became the seer.

“Obsidian—a protector stone—to ward against harmful forces.” I placed the black, glossy stone atop the deck and studied his reaction. Unmoved.