Chapter Eight
“Can you stop by the library?” I asked.
Owen flicked me a look as he drove. “Why? I thought we were in a big rush to get to the woods.”
“Tani is in a rush for me to get to the woods,” I said. “I want to stop at the library because in my aunt’s writings, she said there was an old legend about Hickory Hollow. I want to see if I can find anything about the town.”
“Would it be in the library?” he asked. “If you’re looking for old town history, the town offices might have more than a few dusty paperbacks.”
“Okay, then, town offices. Wherever. I need to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I do, okay?”
He flinched at my sharp tone. Guilt immediately pricked me. I dragged in a breath. “Sorry. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.”
He turned down Town Hall Street and parked in front of the town offices. After cutting the engine, he twisted in his seat to face me.
“Whatever this is, Piper, I’m here to help. We’ll figure it out together.” He reached for my hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady, and my heart did a ridiculous little jig. “Okay,” I said softly. “I’m… scared. I don’t know what to think about all this.”
“I know. Me either.” He lifted my hand and pressed a kiss to my fingertips.
The brush of his lips sent bright little zings straight to my chest. All I could think about was those same lips on mine, tasting chocolate and sugar and trouble.
Then he let go—far too soon—and climbed out. I followed him up the steps into Town Hall.
Louise Sandpepper was still stationed behind the front desk like a troll under a bridge.
She’d been the town’s unofficial gatekeeper since I was a kid.
Back then I’d thought her name was Sandpaper, which honestly fit better.
Now she was older, rounder, and still dressed in clothes that didn’t believe in age-appropriateness.
Today it was a black-and-white polka dot dress that showed more knee than anyone needed to see.
Her white hair was piled into a tight bun, her eyes as sharp as ever.
“Well, bless my soul, it’s Owen McAllister,” she cooed.
She bustled around the desk, skirts swishing, and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug. He shot me a sheepish look over Louise’s shoulder.
“Hey, Mrs. Sandpepper,” he managed, patting her back before prying himself loose. “You remember Piper Wakefield?”
Louise gave me a once-over that managed to both judge and dismiss me in one sweep. Then she harrumphed.
“Hello, Mrs. Sandpepper,” I said brightly, refusing to flinch. “You look well.”
Louise pivoted right back to Owen and smiled as if I had ceased to exist. “What brings you here, dear?”
“I was wondering if you could show us the town archives,” he said. He slipped his hand into mine, clearly making a point. “We’re looking for some history.”
I tried not to beam like a teenager at the small gesture of solidarity.
“For you, dear, anything,” Louise said, then leaned in to Owen and stage-whispered, “I’m not sure about her, though.”
“Hey—” I started.
“Piper is the new owner of Enchanted Blossoms,” Owen announced like he was dropping a trump card.
Louise’s eyebrows shot up. She spared me another quick look, then jerked her head. “Follow me.”
“Why’d you tell her that?” I murmured as we trailed behind.
“I thought it would help,” he whispered back with a helpless shrug.
Louise led us down a short hallway and into a small room. She flipped on the light. The “archives” turned out to be several tall, scarred filing cabinets lined up against the far wall. Late-afternoon sun streamed through wooden blinds, dust motes spiraling lazily in the light.
“Have at it,” she said, and left without another word.
I stared at the cabinets. “That’s it? How are we supposed to find anything in this?”
“I’ll start down there, you start down here, we meet in the middle,” Owen suggested. “Divide and conquer.”
He looked so proud of himself I couldn’t argue. “Fine.”
I opened the top drawer of the far-right cabinet. It was stuffed with hanging files and old manila folders in absolutely no discernable order.
“Do you know what we’re looking for?” Owen asked as he pulled open another drawer.
“Not really. All my aunt said was there was an old legend that mentioned Hickory Hollow. That long before it was a town, people said this land was… enchanted. A magical place. Somewhere the borders between worlds wore thin.” The words felt strange on my tongue now that I knew magical wasn’t exactly metaphorical around here.
Owen froze, eyes going wide. “Before it was a town?”
“Yeah.” I glanced over at him. “Why? You know something?”
He snapped out of it fast. “No. Just… sounds familiar. Let’s keep looking.”
I frowned, but turned back to the cabinet. File after file yielded nothing helpful. Zoning disputes, land deeds, property taxes. Perfectly boring things for a perfectly boring town that apparently sat on a supernatural freeway.
Every so often I sneaked a look at Owen. He’d migrated to a shelf of bound newspapers, carefully turning the brittle pages of ancient editions of the Hickory Hollow Mirror. I could smell the mustiness from across the room.
I moved to the next cabinet and, to change it up, started with the bottom drawer. When I tugged it open, I expected more chaos.
Instead, there was only one thing inside.
A leather-bound book lay alone in the drawer, as if everything else had given it space out of respect—or fear. The cover was cracked and worn, held shut with narrow leather ties. Faded gold scrollwork had once been elaborate but now was ghosted by age.
“What have we here…” I murmured.
I eased the book out of the drawer, cradling it in both hands, and scooted back to sit on the floor. Carefully, I loosened the ties and lifted the front cover. The spine crackled in protest. And when it opened, it warmed against my palm.
An illusion, right? It had to be.
“What’s that?” Owen dropped to the floor beside me, leaning in to see.
“A book,” I said.
“I figured that much. What kind of book?”
“I think it’s a grimoire. But I can’t read this.”
The inked lines were dark in places, faded in others. The handwriting was elegant and looping, more quill-and-ink than ballpoint. The letters themselves looked familiar and not at the same time—like English put through a blender.
“What language is this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t read it either. Turn the page.”
I did, wincing as the paper rasped under my fingers. More of the same. Dense paragraphs, no illustrations, no helpful glossary saying Welcome to Your Magical Tree 101.
“What is this, Old English?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”
“Who could help us with this?” I asked. “Your dad?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I shot him a look. “That is not helpful, McAllister.”
He smiled and, because he apparently didn’t know the power he wielded, lifted my hand and kissed my palm.
My breath caught. Traitorous hand.
“My point,” he said, “is I’m not sure my dad can read this. But Mrs. Rollins might.”
I blinked. “AP English Mrs. Rollins?”
He nodded. “Remember how she made us memorize the first hundred lines of The Canterbury Tales?”
I laughed. “Yeah. For extra credit. ‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote… ’ That’s all I remember.”
“April with its sweet showers,” he translated without looking up.
I groaned. “Now you’re showing off.”
He looked smug. “If she knows Old English, she might at least recognize what this is. Maybe she can translate the first page.”
My mood lifted. “You’re a genius, McAllister. Great idea.”
I hugged the book against my chest and scrambled to my feet. “When can we go?”
“I doubt she’s at school. It’s summer.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know it’s summer. This is Hickory Hollow. We know where everyone lives by default.”
He lifted a brow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I squinted. “What?”
“The potion?” he prompted.
“Oh. Right.” I’d forgotten the whole reason we were going to the tree in the first place. “Do you think Mrs. Sandpepper will mind if we borrow the book?”
“I’ll sweet-talk her,” he said. “Give it to me.”
I hesitated, hugging it tighter. I’d found it. Ancient mystery books shouldn’t leave their discoverer, right?
“Really, Piper? You don’t trust me?” he asked.
“Should I trust a man who kisses like that?” I blurted, then instantly wished I could rewind my mouth.
His grin turned slow and wicked. “You should always trust a man who kisses like that. By the way—like what?”
“Like… oh, never mind. Here.” I thrust the book at him before I dug the hole any deeper.
Like he wanted to lay me out on the archive floor and kiss me until I forgot my own name, I did not say.
He chuckled as he took the book. “We’ll circle back to that later. Don’t think I’ll forget.”
“Let’s go,” I muttered, marching for the door.
He caught up easily and angled ahead of me, heading straight for Louise, who was now absorbed in some celebrity gossip site on her computer.
“Hey, Mrs. Sandpepper, we’re going to borrow this, okay?” he said.
She peered over her black frames. “What is it?”
“A book.” He flipped it around to show her.
I made a strangled noise, imagining centuries-old pages disintegrating under his fingers.
“See? Nothing special,” he said.
Louise barely glanced at it. “Bring it back when you’re done.”
Outside, he handed it back to me with a flourish.
“That was easier than I thought,” I said. “She must like you.”
“It’s because I’m so charming,” he said.
I snorted, but I was still smiling when we climbed back into the truck.
Owen pulled away from Town Hall and drove through the sleepy streets, then turned down a narrow blacktop road that led north out of town.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked.
“Trust me.”
“Why does that always make me nervous?”
He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he pulled off onto the shoulder and cut the engine.
“This is it?” I looked out the windshield. Trees. Just trees.
“Come on.”
I slid the book under the front seat for safekeeping, then got out and followed him.
“How do you know where this place is? I thought only Aunt Alice knew where the tree was,” I said.
“Most everyone knows where the hickory trees are, Piper.”
“They do?”