Love in Hallowed Spaces (Perpetual Autumn #2)

Prologue

St. Stephenshire at dawn reminded him of cool autumn mornings in Korea with his mother.

The stillness at this hour felt baked into the town’s routine, as though there was a required sort of reverence before starting the day as the streetlights lining the cobblestone paths warmed its silent walkways.

Willow’s Web sat at one street corner, warmly lit, its wooden facade and clear glass windows openly welcoming any who came near. It looked exactly as the official town map had pictured it online. Moments later, he found himself inside.

“Good morning, sir. What can I get you?” she said, smiling with her dark eyes that had bursts of scattered freckles surrounding them.

“Good morning,” he responded with a nod, and then gazed at the large overhead menu written in chalk behind her.

“I’ll have the Three Witches’ brew. Medium and extra hot,” he said, clearing his throat.

It was emphasized as one of their local delicacies with a star marked on top of the menu item.

“Please add a shot of espresso,” he added.

Early mornings called for a strong cup of coffee.

She nodded and punched his order into the cash register. As she did this, he gazed around the bohemian-style café, and his eyes rested on the framed pictures and articles lining the walls. “Do you want anything else, sir?” she asked.

His attention shifted to her and a bunch of flyers displayed just beside the cash register. “I’m actually here for this,” he said, grabbing a copy of the flyer with the title Art Cards from Nowhere Exhibit. “Could you point me to the Town of Perpetual Autumn Center?”

The woman’s brows raised and her expression brightened. “Oh, we just call it Autumn Town now. You can find the directions there, but the exhibit is not until a few days.”

He nodded. That he already knew. “I’ll just have my order then, please.” He eyed her name tag, which was barely readable underneath her massive red curls. Willow, he read. Willow of Willow’s Web? She must be the owner.

Willow returned his card and asked, “One hot, medium, Three Witches Brew’ with an extra shot of espresso, to go?”

“To go.”

She took a paper cup. “For whom?”

“Harmon,” he said.

She scribbled his name on the cup as she busied herself behind the counter and assured him his order would be ready in a few minutes.

Harmon went straight to the pictures and framed articles hanging on the walls, hands in his pockets.

He saw a photograph of three smiling faces in front of a construction site with a date scribbled on the bottom; it was taken three years ago.

A person in the photo was the lady from the cash register named Willow; the other was a man in plaid, and between them was a petite woman with dark hair, a small face, and a pretty smile.

He moved on from the photo, sauntering at a slow pace.

St. Stephenshire was known around this part of Oregon to be blanketed in never-ending fall.

At first, Harmon thought it was a marketing stunt.

If there was ever a reason for it, it must be because the trees were of a rare kind, or because the mountains surrounding the town drafted cool wind all year long. There must be a scientific explanation.

But when he arrived in the middle of summer, he realized he was wrong. The Town was as the local travel guides depicted, a place steeped in the magic of eternal fall. It sounded far-fetched, but what else could explain the unexplainable except for the unknown?

He stopped at an old, yellowed snippet from a local magazine he hadn’t seen before—The Three Witches of St. Stephenshire, it said. Harmon had read the original nursery rhyme about this town’s origins, but he had never come across the actual lore that inspired it.

Fascinating, he thought as he read through it curiously. He had been engrossed in reading it when the shop bell rang, announcing that someone had entered.

“Sal!” Willow said. At the sound of that name, Harmon’s head turned, and he saw the same woman who was in the photograph with Willow.

She was beautiful in person, and shortly after, she was followed by the man in plaid.

The man pulled her into the café, his fingers laced between hers as they entered Willow’s Web.

They’re a couple, Harmon surmised as they greeted Willow affectionately.

He turned away before they could see him, kept his head down, and approached the counter, careful to avoid them.

Willow saw him and motioned to the end of the counter.

“Here you go, sir. Thank you for waiting,” she said, sliding the drink over to him.

He took it, saying nothing more, and hurried out of the café.

The cool wind hit his face immediately, and the sight of the rising sun just above the rooftops with the mist steadied him. That was close, he thought, crossing the street and distancing himself from the café.

Through the fog, he could see two headlights steadily approaching, and shortly after, a black Bentley stopped in front of him. His driver was just on time.

He slid into the backseat with his drink in hand. “Did you enjoy your walk, sir?” his driver asked as he settled into the backseat.

“Yes, thank you, Briggs,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

It was nutty, creamy, and had a hint of cinnamon and something he couldn’t place.

Was that pumpkin spice? He thought, as the heat warmed the top of his lip.

“It was more than I expected,” he mumbled as his thoughts went back to the beautiful woman with dark hair at the café, and then the article about the witches.

He pulled out the flyer for the art exhibit from his coat and read it while the car drove through the town as it slowly woke.