Chapter 5
FIVE
vivienne
Eight o’clock.
Vivienne flipped the sign to “Closed” and began wiping down tables, counting the register, and preparing dough for tomorrow’s scones.
The kneading occupied her hands while her mind processed the missing tourist, the hidden cove, and the photograph with L.M.
written on the back. Each piece warned of approaching danger.
But what was the danger?
The pendant at her throat had stayed warm all day, spirits attempting to reach her. She’d learned to moderate the connection over the years, allowing impressions to filter through without overwhelming her, but tonight the pressure built toward something she could no longer contain.
Once the kitchen sparkled, she retreated to her reading room at the back of the shop.
This small sanctuary lay hidden behind an ancient tapestry depicting phases of the moon, its heavy fabric concealing the doorway.
The space contained her most powerful tools: crystals aligned on shelves according to purpose, grimoires passed down through women in her family, and the polished oak table where she conducted her most significant readings.
She cast a circle of sea salt around the perimeter, whispering protective words her grandmother had taught her. An iron nail went in at each cardinal point—north, south, east, west—ancient metal to guard against unwelcome spirits. Only then did she approach the table.
Three white candles formed a triangle—one for past, one for present, one for future.
The silver pendant came off next, laid in the center to amplify her connection.
From a locked cabinet beneath the bookshelves, she retrieved her grandmother’s scrying bowl, a shallow vessel of polished obsidian that reflected candlelight in hypnotic patterns across its surface.
Water from a crystal pitcher filled the bowl.
She added three drops of rosemary oil for memory and clarity, a pinch of mugwort, and a single drop of her own blood to strengthen the bond between seer and seen.
The ritual took time, each element added with purpose and respect.
The scent of beeswax candles, herbs, and the faint mineral tang of obsidian connected her to her grandmothers and mother. All who had sought truth in this space.
“Show me what I need to see.” She placed her fingertips on the rim of the bowl.
Eyes closed, breathing slow, her grandmother’s training guided her into the meditative state where clarity came. Images began to form behind her eyelids—not in the water, but in the quiet space where the spirit world touched the living one.
The lighthouse appeared first, its beam cutting through the fog.
Then came the hidden cove, but not as she had seen it today.
The perspective shifted, showing the water approach, a small boat gliding toward the concealed entrance.
Two figures waited on the shore. One moved with confidence, the other stumbled as if disoriented or drugged.
A flash of blue caught her attention—the same silken scarf they had found on the rocks, but intact and wrapped around a woman’s neck.
Then a gleam of something metallic—a knife?
A camera lens catching moonlight? The images blurred and shifted.
A young woman with dark hair ran along the cliff path, clutching something against her chest. Though her face remained indistinct, Vivienne knew it was Lily Morgan. She looked back over her shoulder in terror, then ducked into an opening that shouldn’t exist—a doorway in the rock face.
The lighthouse keeper’s cottage appeared next, but as it had looked decades earlier. A man in an old-fashioned uniform argued with a woman whose face remained hidden. On the desk between them lay an open ledger, columns of numbers visible but indecipherable.
The images fragmented, leaving her disoriented. A coppery taste filled her mouth, and her fingertips tingled where they touched the bowl’s rim. Something stronger than her usual connection interfered, something ancient and protective.
She tried again, focusing on the girl who’d disappeared twenty-five years ago, but this time something actively resisted.
The water rose in an unnatural column, twisting and forming shapes that clenched her stomach.
For a moment, she glimpsed a face in the liquid surface—contorted with rage or desperate warning.
The temperature dropped. Her breath misted in the air, and frost spread across the windowpanes.
The candle flames stretched impossibly tall, their light shifting to an eerie green.
Someone—or something—did not want these secrets revealed. The water column turned toward her, its liquid features resolving into something almost human but wrong. This was no ordinary spirit communication. An ancient presence inhabited this space, one that had guarded these mysteries for decades.
She pulled her hands back from the bowl’s rim.
The water collapsed, splashing across the table in patterns that writhed when she wasn’t looking at them directly.
The temperature returned to normal so quickly her ears popped.
One candle sputtered out, sending black smoke spiraling toward the ceiling.
Exhaustion flooded through her. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get warm. Red welts had appeared on her fingertips where she’d touched the bowl—marks that burned. In fifteen years of practicing scrying, she had never encountered such hostile resistance.
A sharp knock at the shop’s front door pulled her from her recovery. The small clock on the shelf read eight-forty-two. Through the tapestry, she caught the distinctive silhouette of Detective Harrington’s tall form against the shop window.
She wiped her hands on a nearby cloth and extinguished the remaining candles with whispered thanks to whatever had released its grip.
The pendant went back around her neck, its warmth helping to restore her equilibrium.
Water stains on the table formed odd patterns. She draped a silk cloth over them.
Moving through the darkened shop, she switched on a single lamp before unlocking the door.
Her hands still trembled slightly, but she managed to turn the lock.
Brooks Harrington stood on the threshold, uncomfortable but determined.
His dark hair appeared rumpled, and he carried a manila folder tucked under one arm.
“I apologize for the late visit. You mentioned closing at eight.”
“I did.” She stepped back to allow him inside. “Though I expected you earlier if you were coming at all.”
“The case files were more extensive than I anticipated.” He glanced around the dimly lit shop, his eyes lingering briefly on the curtained reading room. “I can come back tomorrow if this is a bad time.”
Her scrying session had drained her mentally, but his presence created an unexpected sense of balance. His solid skepticism might help ground her after the challenging encounter.
“No need. I was just finishing some personal work. Would you still like tea? The kettle is still warm.”
He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you. Whatever you recommend for someone who typically drinks coffee black.”
She smiled. “A challenge, then. Wait here.”
In the kitchen, she prepared a strong Assam tea, adding a pinch of cinnamon and star anise—both for their grounding properties as much as flavor.
No milk or sugar as the detective struck her as someone who preferred straightforward tastes.
As she worked, she whispered a small blessing over the brewing leaves, a habit so ingrained she barely noticed doing it.
She arranged the teapot and cup on a tray alongside a small plate of shortbread cookies left from the day’s baking, adding a sprig of fresh mint for clarity of thought.
When she returned, Brooks had shed his jacket and was examining the collection of vintage photographs on the wall beside the window.
Her hands had steadied, though she could still feel the lingering effects.
Most of the photographs featured the lighthouse at different periods in its history, but several showed Hawthorne women standing outside The Mystic Cup in its various incarnations.
“My great-grandmother Josephine. This was her dressmaking shop before my grandmother converted it to an apothecary in the 1950s.”
He studied the image of a stern-faced woman with her distinctive eyes. “The family resemblance is strong.”
“The Hawthorne traits run true.” She poured his tea. “Though I like to think our expressions have softened over the years.”
This earned her a slight smile as he accepted the cup. “I would agree with that assessment.”
He took a sip, eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is unexpected. But good.”
“Assam with spices. Strong enough for a coffee drinker but with more complex notes.”
He nodded, then reached for the folder he had placed on the table. His demeanor shifted, professional focus replacing momentary ease.
“I reviewed both case files this afternoon. The parallels are difficult to dismiss, especially with the photograph discovered at the lighthouse. What can you tell me about Lily Morgan’s disappearance that might not be in the official record?”
She considered the question. “I was eleven when she disappeared. Old enough to understand something terrible had happened, but too young to be included in adult conversations about it. What I know comes from town gossip and what my grandmother shared years later.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “The girl was fascinated by local history, particularly the lighthouse and its connection to Prohibition-era smuggling. Her teachers encouraged her research for a school project. She spent several afternoons at the lighthouse, photographing and taking notes. On October 31, 1999, she told her parents she was going to a friend’s house. She never came home.”