Chapter 3
The slamming of Cassian's door was a period at the end of a sentence Elara hadn't intended to speak. Heat rose in her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. Who did he think he was? She was the one dealing with a loss, with a monumental task, and he was judging her from over his precious seedlings.
Fitzgerald meowed plaintively from the wall, looking between her and the now-empty spot where Cassian had been. "You're not helping,"she informed the cat. He blinked slowly, unimpressed, and began meticulously washing a paw.
Elara retreated into the shop, the comforting scent of books and rosewater doing little to soothe her ruffled feathers. She needed a win. She needed order. Bea's words echoed in her mind: The 'assets' are mostly memories and stories. Hard to put a price on that.
"Well, assets need to be catalogued," she said to the empty room, her voice firm with renewed determination.
She started with the most obvious task: the desk. She pulled open the drawers, finding the predictable detritus of a small business: paper clips, rubber bands, a ledger book filled with Maggie's elegant numbers. It was all orderly, manageable. This was a language she understood.
The bottom-right drawer was stuck. Elara jiggled it, then pulled harder. With a protesting screech of wood, it slid open. Inside weren't office supplies. It was a collection of Maggie: a paisley scarf she always wore, a half-finished packet of her favorite ginger biscuits, and a framed photograph.
Elara picked up the photo. It was of the two of them, taken on the beach below the cliffs maybe fifteen years ago. Elara, gawky and teenage, was smiling shyly at the camera, while Maggie had an arm around her, beaming, the wind whipping her silver hair. They looked happy. A real, physical ache bloomed in Elara's chest. She had been too busy with exams, then university, then her career, to visit enough. The guilt was a cold stone in her stomach.
She placed the photo carefully on the desk, a silent promise to do better by Maggie's memory, even if that meant selling the place. It was the practical thing to do.
Her gaze drifted to the narrow, almost hidden door behind the main bookshelf that she knew led to the attic. The true scale of the task awaited. Taking a deep breath, she found the key, unlocked it, and flipped the light switch.
A single bare bulb illuminated a steep, narrow staircase. The air that drifted down was several degrees colder and carried the unmistakable scent of old wood, dust, and time.
The attic was a treasure chest of a life lived. Furniture draped in white sheets stood like silent ghosts. stacks of cardboard boxes were labeled in Maggie's hand: Xmas Decorations, Elara's Art Projects (Age 5-12), Photo Albums. Elara's heart gave another little twist. She couldn't deal with that right now.
She focused on the books. Dozens of boxes, all labeled Books - Misc. or Books - To Sort. This was the true inventory. She pulled open a flap on the nearest box. First editions? Rare finds? Or just more paperbacks with cracked spines?
Mostly the latter. But as she moved deeper into the attic, her shin connected sharply with something solid hidden under a draped sheet. "Ow!"she hissed, rubbing her leg. She pulled the sheet away.
It wasn't a box. It was a small, elegant sea chest, made of dark wood banded with tarnished brass. It was beautiful, and unlike anything else in the cluttered space. It looked old. Important. There was no label.
Intrigued, Elara tried to lift the lid. It was locked. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood, searching for a keyhole, and found an intricate brass plate engraved with a single, stylized letter: "M".
For Maggie?
A thrill of discovery, the first she'd felt since arriving, shot through her. This felt significant. She needed to find the key. She began a methodical search of the area, moving boxes, checking on shelves, her architect's mind switched to a delightful puzzle.
After twenty minutes, covered in dust and feeling a fresh pang of frustration, she sat back on her heels. Nothing. Perhaps the key was lost.
She examined the lock again. It was old, simple. A thought occurred to her. She hurried back downstairs to the desk and retrieved the ring of keys Bea had given her. Most were modern Yale keys. But one was different—long, brass, and antique-looking. She hadn't known what it was for.
Heart hammering with a silly sense of anticipation, she ran back up to the attic. She inserted the key. It fit perfectly.
With a soft, satisfying click, the lock turned.
Elara took a breath and slowly lifted the lid.
The interior was lined with faded blue velvet. Inside weren't books. It was a collection of precious, personal things. A bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. A small, painted miniature of a handsome man in a World War II uniform—her great-grandfather. A delicate pearl necklace.
And nestled in the center, as if it were the most important item, was a beautiful, leather-bound writing box. It was the kind that opened flat to form a writing surface, with compartments for ink and pens. And on the front, inlaid in lighter wood, was the same stylized "M" from the sea chest.
This was it. This felt like the heart of the chest. Her grandmother's most cherished possession.
Carefully, almost reverently, Elara lifted it out. It was heavier than it looked. She carried it downstairs to the main shop, setting it on the desk under the warm light. She untied the delicate brass clasp and opened it.
The writing surface was worn smooth. The small compartments held a dried-up inkwell and a few nibs for a fountain pen. And in the main compartment, nestled in a slot meant for paper, was a single, sealed envelope.
Her name was written on the front in Maggie's handwriting.
A sudden noise at the front window made her jump. She snapped the writing box shut and looked up.
Cassian was standing outside in the misting rain, not scowling, but staring through the glass with an expression of such intense, raw hunger that it stole the breath from her lungs. His gaze was fixed not on her, but on the box in her hands.
Their eyes met through the glass. For a single, electric moment, his guard was completely down. She saw not a reclusive grump, but a man captivated by something he deeply desired.
Then, as if realizing he'd been seen, his expression shuttered closed. His jaw tightened. He gave her a curt, unreadable nod, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked quickly away, disappearing into the gloom.
Elara stood perfectly still, her hand resting on the cool, smooth wood of the box. The air hummed with unasked questions. Outside, the world was grey and quiet. But inside The Inkwell, a mystery had just begun.