Chapter 32 #2
It was understanding my resistance to magic—challenging it, even—that kept me up at night. And in a fog during the day. And in a state of quiet chaos and painful existentialism every minute in between. The cliche of grumpy bookshop owner opened its arms even wider, and I walked right into them.
So, I did exactly what I would have been expected to do, given the persona and that, and I poured a few fingers of whiskey, then a few more, then settled in an armchair in front of my fireplace, where I planned to sit for the rest of the night until I figured out a plan.
It wasn’t fair to Willow for me to go chasing after her while still being so cynical about such a huge part of her identity, so I needed to sort that out before I did anything else.
And I needed to figure out what the hell was going on with that Kip Whatever, but I needed to focus on one thing at a time.
The fire roared in front of me, the only light and sound in my tiny flat.
I never felt like it was particularly safe to have an active wood-burning fireplace in a flat, but Uncle Arthur seemed to use it for his whole life and he didn’t burn the place down, so I figured I could indulge.
With my heels on the bridge edge, I let the flames warm my feet and the whiskey warm the rest of me, savoring the bitterness of it on my tongue.
Trying not to remember the sweetness of Willow by comparison.
I’d gotten so lost in her that night, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to find my way back out.
Lost in her scent, in the feel of her skin, in the sound of my name in her mouth.
Lost in the feeling of finally connecting with someone, wanting someone, feeling wanted in return.
The thoughts alone were so intoxicating I felt my stomach clench at the memory.
I was fucked.
So fucked, in fact, I found myself wanting to believe in magic. Wishing that disconnect didn’t stand between us like a bloody monolith.
How did Uncle Arthur do it? And how did he do it while he was brothers with Grandad?
As whimsical as Uncle Arthur was, Grandad was the opposite.
And my dad took after him. Stern, cold, formal.
Everything someone who believed in magic was not.
And I was told their dad was even worse.
So for Uncle Arthur to believe even despite that, so much so that he opened the shop, was an act of immense bravery.
More bravery than I had, that was for sure.
If only I’d asked him more questions when he was alive.
If only I had the courage to continue believing the way he had, instead of letting Grandad and Dad get under my skin.
Letting them convince me I was “too old” or “too clever” to believe in magic.
Then maybe I would have known what Uncle Arthur would have done.
Maybe I was the one who needed to commune with the dead.
Holy shit. I need to commune with the dead.
I shot back the rest of my whiskey in one burning gulp, then ran downstairs and into the shop to find Uncle Arthur’s ledger.
The ledger I’d completely forgotten about after I took over, stashed under the desk with his other personal effects that had been left behind, things I figured I’d pass along to another family member at some point.
The ledger that was more like a diary than any kind of business operation.
No matter how many nights I spent closing the shop alone, no matter how many times I left something down here and had to run back long after the city had gone to sleep, I’d never gotten used to how unsettling this place was in the dark. It wasn’t that I minded, necessarily. Just that I’d noticed.
It was then the building really acted its age.
The pipes whined, the lights flickered, the floorboards creaked as the place settled, dust drifted from books and shelves onto the floor even when I wasn’t walking past. Uncle Arthur always said there was so much life within these walls, and times like these I knew exactly what he meant.
And for him, his entire life was within these walls. Coven & Codex was everything to him, and if I let myself dwell on how it wasn’t everything to me, the guilt would eat me alive.
As a gay man during his time, he relied heavily on this community for acceptance and understanding, especially because he got neither from his family.
So he made a family of his own. Back then, the customers weren’t tourists or secondary school kids looking to get out of the house and cause trouble.
They were real, proper believers. People who didn’t judge or ask questions or exclude anyone because of their beliefs.
They were people who wanted a world that was better than the one they were living in, so they took matters into their own hands.
Uncle Arthur would have been ashamed of me had he seen how far I’d drifted from those values. How much I’d fallen into my father’s trap and left any shred of magic—sorcery or otherwise—behind.