Chapter 1 Lore #2
My father shared old oral histories that claimed our island was magical, that travelers could come here from other realms, and that our time period was unique to us.
If those stories were true, then Bellington could be replaced by other cities and places and all new inhabitants and none of us would be any the wiser.
Dimensions sitting on top of each other was a lot to take in, but my father loved unearthing more folklore about our home, and I’d always sit at our table, entirely rapt.
Other legends claimed this island could manifest any setting—from a Regency-era world complete with a king and queen, to a primitive world where mythical creatures roamed the shores and skies.
I’d certainly spent a lot of time looking for the impossible, especially since there were several stories from a few generations back where villagers were said to have manipulated the elements, but nothing was ever too notable.
Thus far, our little town was as normal as anything.
I had the opportunity to study in a larger city up north like Fable but loved the library too much to leave, even if I craved adventure.
My book club was filled with people who were as into the latest releases as I was.
Blake and I were both antihero-obsessed and didn’t care who knew it.
And Agatha and I could talk for hours about our favorite romance tropes.
The three of us spent an unhealthy amount of time theorizing about sequels and plot points, and sometimes we’d just spend all day reading in our separate corners, together but completely absorbed in our own worlds.
I worried that moving to a larger city would somehow feel less personal, though I knew Fable had found the opposite to be true.
Maybe I was just scared to take that first step into the unknown.
Across the way a crescent-shaped cove offered a stunning view of Mount Lyra, a forbidding summit superstitious locals rarely traveled to for fear of angering the old elemental gods.
A temple had been carved into the mountain, and while some out-of-town adventurers hiked there, I had no desire to venture into the space.
Not because of the old gods, but because of the rumors of dead bodies. The hike into the mountain was treacherous.
I glimpsed its snow-covered peak rising through the trees and clutched my cloak tighter, swearing it felt colder somehow, like the very land itself was seething over something.
Internally, I shook myself. The mountain wasn’t raging. I was probably crashing from too much sugar consumption tonight.
I silently vowed to not mix that many chocolate-covered raspberry jellies with wine again.
Everything in moderation, nothing to excess.
The sage advice from Father flitted through my head. For the most part I followed it, except where books were concerned.
I was a gluttonous little fiend when it came to devouring novels. Father supported that addiction, though, mostly because as a folklorist he suffered from it too.
In fact, our parents named us Lore and Fable because of their shared affection for those kinds of tall tales—loving fiction was my destiny.
If someone cracked me open, they’d find ink in my veins and stories in my soul.
Reading was transportive; the moment someone picked up a book they stepped into the characters’ journey, following them through battles and heartache and cheering when good eventually defeated evil and they found their hard-won happily-ever-afters.
Watching favorite characters overcome obstacles and never give up inspired real hope that transcended fiction.
If they soldiered on, even in the darkest of times, then so could we.
Through books readers lived a million lives and felt a million emotions. I adored them all, but romantic adventures were my favorites.
The tension, the impossibly high stakes, the yearning. The moment the characters stopped fighting their fate and gave in to their hearts.
I sighed dreamily at every declaration of love and kicked my feet like a giddy schoolchild.
I was a hopeless romantic, emphasis on hopeless.
I followed my brother’s careful steps and concentrated on not tripping over any roots as we descended the trail and the village proper slowly came into view.
Every time I rounded the corner and took in that first glimpse of the tiny wharf town below, I couldn’t help but smile.
Small rows of stone buildings with charming thatched roofs were stuffed together, forming a village square filled with family businesses.
There was a baker, a butcher, a cobbler, a dressmaker, and even a forge at the far end of the main road. When I was younger, I used to daydream about marrying the blacksmith’s son like the heroine in my favorite romance novel.
“What do you want to check out first: the tarot reader or candied apples?” Fable asked as we approached the edge of town and the caravans’ wagons came into view.
A hive of activity had sprung up in the hours I’d been at work; it looked like the entire village was out partaking in all the fantasy and fun the newcomers had brought.
My gaze skipped from one covered wagon to the next.
Acrobats in a rainbow of colors twirled around from ribbons they’d strung up between buildings, fire-eaters breathed flames from on top of whiskey barrels, where villagers stood riveted by the show and the scents of caramel corn and apples filled the air with the sweetest aroma.
I wanted to experience everything, storing all the magic and fun away to revisit in my memories during the long, cold winter that was fast approaching.
My attention skimmed down the long train of covered wagons that had rolled in, pausing on one that stood out from the rest.
It was older, shoddier, and from what I could see of the many glass jars lining the shelves inside it, looked to be selling items for spells.
The story lover in me went on high alert, and before I’d made the conscious decision, I was heading directly for it.
“Lore?” Fable called after me. “Where are you going?”
“Be right back!” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the card reader!”
My brother mumbled something about things never changing and headed for the line. A strange thread of excitement tugged me deeper into the festivities.
I couldn’t help but wonder if something wonderful was about to happen.