Chapter Thirty
The bell above the shop door rang too loudly as Augustine pushed it open, breathless, a little winded from taking the steps too fast.
“Hello?” she called out, already moving, already scanning the room.
Hope had arrived in her heart and soul long before she opened the door.
Theo might be waiting. It was everywhere in fact, bright and fragile and almost giddy, fluttering in her chest like something with wings.
It made everything sharper, the familiar scent of paper and dust, the soft creak of the floorboards, the way the morning light spilled through the front windows in long, golden strips.
“Theo?”
There was no reply and a chill ran over her.
The store was just as she’d left it, with her bookcase still askew in the middle of the room and the door it had been hiding now plain for all to see.
The spell jars and books were still in piles on the floor.
It was haphazard, but empty. There was no flicker of movement, no shift in the air that meant Theo was near.
No presence waiting just out of sight. Just an awful and unpleasant stillness.
Her hope didn’t shatter. No, instead it utterly sank within her, like something heavy and dark.
“Oh,” she said under her breath while disappointment flooded her body.
Of course. Of course he wouldn’t just be here, waiting for her like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t just disappeared the day before. Was he still in that lonely place he described? Was the price of magic growing with every journey she made into the past?
Augustine let out a frustrated breath, hanging her coat by the door and then walking towards the till. Her gaze drifted across the shop.
Dust had settled over everything, dulling the colours of the displays she usually arranged with meticulous care, while the myriad of pumpkins still sat in the window, slowly decomposing into a very public metaphor for Augustine’s life choices.
Halloween they might be, subtle they were not.
Then there was the till. Augustine got stuck in, already knowing what she’d find, but checking anyway, imagining that the last few days might somehow have rearranged themselves into something more manageable, something more financially viable.
They hadn’t. Her till was nearly empty, with just a few crumpled banknotes, a handful of coins, and a few credit card receipts inside. Augustine’s stomach sank. She hadn’t exactly been focused on business, and her finances were paying the price.
Her attention shifted again, landing on the corner where a small stack of deliveries sat untouched, boxes still sealed, labels still crisp.
They should have been unpacked days ago, sorted and shelved, and labelled with price tags.
Beside them sat boxes and boxes of online orders, all unsent.
Some were half-wrapped, some barely even started.
All of them were waiting patiently for a version of her that had existed before everything had tilted off balance.
Before Theo had walked through her door and upended her world.
Guilt crept in, slow and unwelcome. She’d been closed so much the past few days, and as she looked at all the work she had yet to complete, she felt a sharp pang of worry.
This was her shop. Her livelihood, her routine, her carefully constructed little world, and she’d just .
. . let it slip. Let it gather dust while she chased something she couldn’t quite hold onto, could never hold onto, if she was being honest with herself.
She exhaled, long and steady, trying to calm herself. I can fix this, she thought. I know I can.
Clean the shelves, open the deliveries, restock everything properly. Send the orders out with apologies tucked neatly inside — maybe something extra to soften the delay. A small offering bowl, a charm, something thoughtful enough that customers might forgive her.
They probably would, Augustine reflected. She could recover from this. Money could be made again. The shop could be put back together, piece by piece, until it felt like hers again. All of that was fixable.
Her gaze dropped to her tarot cards, which still lay where she’d last left them. They felt almost dangerous now. She should wrap them up and put them away; remove the temptation to use them to journey into the past and join Theo again.
Abruptly, Augustine’s eyes shifted, going back to the door in the wall where the bookcase once sat.
Now the wallpaper had been peeled away, now that the glamour and illusion had been stripped back, it was obvious.
The door was made of solid wood panels, with a worn brass handle at the front, a keyhole beneath.
Augustine still couldn’t believe it. A door.
Right there. Innocuous and so everyday as to make this situation even more ridiculous than it already was.
What would she find up there? What was so wrong, so awful, that it had to be hidden away from her?
Her hand lifted, hesitating for only a second before pressing flat against the wood.
It was cool beneath her palm, solid and unyielding.
So utterly and completely real. Her other hand joined the first, fingers splayed slightly as if she could feel her way through it.
She reached for the handle and pushed down on it firmly, hoping it would give and the door swing open, but it was firmly locked, just as it had been the day before.
Of course it was still locked.
Augustine exhaled, resting her forehead lightly against the wood.
There was no key, or obvious way in, and so she stayed there, palms flat against the grain, thinking things through.
She could call a locksmith, she supposed, but what would she say?
Hi, can you help? I lost the key to a door I didn’t know existed until yesterday.
A door which may or may not still be sealed shut with magic. WD40 might help? Or maybe an exorcism?
“Augustine?” A voice spoke from behind her, familiar and soft, and for a second, she didn’t move. Didn’t dare move, because hope — fragile, foolish hope — flared again within her, sudden and bright and terrifying.
Slowly, Augustine turned, and there he was.
Theo.