Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, I COOK
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of dust motes and history, the golden light filtering through the shop’s tall windows shifting gradually from bright amber to deep honey as the hours slip away.
Sir does not believe in easing a person into anything.
Once he decides I need to understand what Thorne Curiosities actually is, he begins speaking as if thirty-five years of ignorance can be remedied in a single sitting.
His approach is methodical, almost militant in its thoroughness, and I find myself scrambling to keep up with the torrent of information he unleashes upon me.
We start with tinctures and my brain has a complete meltdown.
I am surprised by the simplicity of them all.
None of them bear flashy labels promising ‘Instant Power’ or ‘Miracle Cure’ in gilded lettering.
For all the shimmer and strange glow coming from inside the bottles, everything about them speaks of purpose.
No crystalline bottles that pulse with otherworldly light or powders that shimmer with impossible colors.
These are real remedies, crafted with purpose and precision.
Infusions for breaking stubborn fevers that won’t yield to conventional medicine.
Salves that can ease the deep ache of joints worn down by decades of hard labor.
Carefully balanced herbal blends designed to strengthen lungs during the harsh New England winters when pneumonia claimed lives with ruthless efficiency.
Protective charms stitched with silver thread into seed sacks to encourage crop resilience against blight and drought.
Sachets filled with lavender and chamomile, hung in barns to keep livestock calm during the violent thunderstorms that roll across the valley.
“This is not spectacle,” Sir informs me from his elevated perch on the loft railing. His golden eyes watch me with unwavering intensity as I scribble notes in a leather-bound notebook I found wedged between a book on lunar correspondences and something titled Foundations of Ward Architecture.
“It is service.”
“So, we’re not selling snake oil to desperate people,” I say, glancing at a row of amber bottles lined up with almost militant precision along the mahogany shelves.
His tail flicks once in sharp indignation, the tip twitching with barely contained offense. “The Thornes have never trafficked in falsehood or exploitation. Your ancestor, Ruby, began this shop to provide what was systematically denied elsewhere.”
He shifts on a pile of old texts, tucking his tail neatly beneath him.
“Ruby Springs is not merely a sanctuary,” he explains with the patience of someone who has told this story many times before. “It began as a comprehensive solution to problems that ran far deeper than supernatural persecution.”
He continues without pause, laying it all out piece by piece.
“We know what history has taught us, what the sanitized textbooks glossed over or omitted entirely. Doctors who would not treat certain patients, turning them away from emergency rooms and private practices based on the color of their skin or the contents of their wallets. Hospitals so far removed from rural communities that death was almost a certainty if you needed emergency care and couldn’t afford the long journey.
Schools that would not educate certain children, denying them access to knowledge that could lift them from poverty.
Land that could not legally be owned by those who worked it, their labor enriching others while they remained trapped in cycles of sharecropping and debt.
Ruby Thorne and the original founding families built more than protection wards around their hidden community.
They built intricate systems of quiet assistance that reached far beyond the borders of their magical haven.
Supernatural allies passed through Ruby Springs regularly, carrying remedies and knowledge outward to communities that needed them most. Information moved quietly between networks of trusted individuals.
Aid flowed where prejudice and systemic oppression blocked access to basic human needs.
This was never isolation for its own sake,” Sir says evenly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “It was the headquarters of a network.”
“So, there are others,” I murmur, leaning against a shelf heavy with leather-bound volumes that smell of aged parchment and dried herbs. “Other towns like this one.”
“Emerald Cove along the Oregon coast. Sapphire Cliffs in the Colorado mountains. Onyx Hollow in the Tennessee hills. A handful more scattered across the continent.” His golden eyes meet mine.
“We are not alone in this work. I know times have changed. Modern medicine and access as well, but our duty to the community still remains”
“All named after precious stones,” I note with a small smile, finding comfort in the pattern.
“A certain aesthetic consistency was agreed upon during the founding councils,” he replies with characteristic dryness. “It also served as a subtle identifier for those who knew what to look for. . .”
The humor softens the overwhelming weight of revelation, but not by much.
I look around the loft with entirely new eyes, seeing past the quaint charm to the true purpose underneath.
The books are not decorative relics gathering dust for atmosphere.
They are working manuals, detailed records, and comprehensive ledgers documenting decades of service rendered and protection maintained.
Each volume represents lives saved, families protected, communities strengthened.
Something unfamiliar and profound settles into my chest, though I cannot quite name the feeling yet. It’s warm and weighty, like swallowing liquid gold.
For the first time in my entire life, I don’t feel like a disappointing footnote to someone else’s grand story. I feel like the living continuation of something meaningful and vast.
Sir begins sliding books towards me with deliberate efficiency, each selection clearly chosen for specific educational value. “Light reading to begin your proper education.”
The stack grows to a genuinely alarming height, threatening to topple from the small table.
“This is your definition of light?” I stare at titles ranging from Advanced Botanical Alchemy to Boundary Ward Recalibration: Theory and Practice.
“You will acclimate to the workload,” he says with supreme confidence. “The Thorne bloodline has always been quick to absorb necessary knowledge.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I say, brushing accumulated dust from my palms. I shift to cross my legs more comfortably on the worn rug.
If this is what the Thornes have accomplished for generations, then I will master it too.
Even if I have to pour every piece of information into my resistant brain, one painstaking page at a time.
The cheerful bell over the shop door chimes below, pulling my focus away from the intimidating mountain of required reading. Both Sir and I lean forward simultaneously, peering down over the ornate loft railing.
Maceo stands just inside the shop. Wearing his work shirt from the auto shop, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms that are genuinely unfair in their appeal.
“Full Moon Auto Parts” is stitched neatly across his broad chest in silver thread.
His thick black hair is pulled back into a tight knot at the base of his skull, though a few rebellious curls have escaped to curl against the strong column of his neck.
He looks up at us, and sweet Lord, it’s simply unfair how devastatingly good this man looks even after what was clearly a long day of physical labor.
When he smiles, something inside my chest tips sideways and refuses to right itself.
“Miss Keisha,” he calls up with easy warmth. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”
“Well, I’m above you,” I say before my brain can engage and stop my mouth from saying something ridiculous.
He laughs, the sound low and genuinely amused. “I can definitely see that, beautiful.”
I rise carefully, dusting off my leggings as I make my way down the spiral staircase one deliberate step at a time. Sir follows without comment, moving with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to supervising important proceedings.
“I see you’ve wasted absolutely no time diving into the deep end,” Maceo says, glancing up toward the loft and taking in the overwhelming stacks of books with an amused but approving glance
“Might as well start somewhere productive,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel and definitely ignoring the fact that he called me beautiful. “I don’t exactly know how I’m going to accomplish all of this, but I’m damn well going to try.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary, his head tilting slightly in a way that reminds me of Sir’s earlier assessment. He’s clearly taking stock of my mental state, probably wondering if I’m going to bolt from town screaming in panic like some overwhelmed city girl.
“That’s exactly what we’re here for,” he says with simple sincerity. “To help however you’ll let us.”
Sir brushes against Maceo’s jean-clad leg with obvious approval, a gesture that speaks volumes.
Maceo looks down at the elegant cat with genuine respect. “Well, hello there, Sir. I don’t suppose he’s talking to you yet?”
“He is,” I confirm, unable to suppress a small smile. Of course, I’m sure the entire town knows about Sir. “He’s the Thorne familiar, apparently.”
Maceo gives a low whistle of impressed recognition. “Well damn. I guess that makes it completely official then.”
Sir’s familiar voice slides smoothly into my thoughts, carrying centuries of accumulated wisdom. “The Wolf comes from good, strong pack bloodlines. His family has never dishonored this town or its values. I have always held him in high regard.”
I can’t help but smirk at the formal endorsement. “Apparently you passed inspection with flying colors.”