A little magic and moonlight

The first thing Fifita Hart learned about inheritance was that it rarely arrived with good news.

The second thing she learned was that the dead had terrible timing.

Her aunt Beatrice had been dead for three weeks when a letter arrived informing Fifita that she had inherited a bookshop in Moonwick, a town she hadn't visited since she was nine years old.

The letter had been delivered by a pigeon wearing spectacles.

Not ordinary spectacles, either. Tiny gold spectacles perched on the bird's beak, held in place by what appeared to be a complicated arrangement of enchanted thread.

Fifita stared at the pigeon for a full minute before accepting the envelope.

The pigeon stared back.

Then it stole a corner of her breakfast toast and flew away.

"Wonderful," Fifita muttered, examining the letter. "Even the mail has developed an attitude."

The envelope was cream-colored, sealed with dark green wax, and addressed in handwriting she recognized immediately.

Her aunt's handwriting.

Fifita's stomach tightened.

She hadn't seen Beatrice in almost seven years. Their last conversation had ended in an argument about Fifita's decision to leave Moonwick, and neither of them had been brave enough to apologize afterward.

Now, apparently, her aunt had decided to communicate from beyond the grave through stationery.

That seemed like Beatrice.

Fifita broke the seal.

My dearest Fifita,

If you are reading this, I am either dead, missing, or have finally discovered how to make the kettle stop screaming.

In any case, congratulations. You are now the owner of The Moonlit Margins.

The shop is yours, along with everything inside it.

Please do not sell the blue book.

Please do not feed the books after midnight.

And if the shelves begin whispering your name, do not answer them.

With love,

Aunt Beatrice

Fifita read the letter twice.

Then a third time.

She lowered it slowly.

"Well," she said to the empty kitchen, "that sounds perfectly normal."

The pigeon returned to the windowsill.

It tapped the glass with its beak.

Fifita pointed at it. "You are not invited into this conversation."

The bird flew away again.

By noon, Fifita had packed a suitcase, arranged transportation, and convinced herself that a bookshop was simply a bookshop. The warnings were probably jokes. Her aunt had always possessed an unfortunate sense of humor and an alarming willingness to commit to it.

Besides, Fifita needed money.

The small apartment she'd been renting was about to become too expensive, her job at the stationery shop had recently disappeared beneath a mountain of unpaid wages, and the idea of inheriting property sounded considerably better than inheriting debt.

If the shop was worth something, she would sell it.

If it wasn't, she would find something else to do.

Simple.

By late afternoon, the carriage dropped her at the entrance to Moonwick.

The town looked almost exactly as she remembered it, which was to say it looked as though someone had built an ordinary village and then allowed a committee of eccentric magicians to make several questionable improvements.

The houses leaned at improbable angles. Lanterns floated above the cobblestone streets without chains or visible means of support. A baker argued with a cloud hovering over his chimney, and a small green creature wearing a yellow waistcoat hurried past with a basket of mushrooms.

Fifita watched it disappear around a corner.

She decided not to ask.

Some questions were best left unanswered until one had eaten something.

She pulled her suitcase along the narrow street until she reached a crooked sign hanging above a dark green door.

THE MOONLIT MARGINS

Beneath the name, smaller golden letters read:

Every story deserves a place to rest.

Fifita stared at the sign.

The shop looked considerably smaller than she remembered. Its windows were dusty, its ivy had grown wild, and a collection of books had apparently taken up residence on the windowsill.

One of them was upside down.

Another had its tongue sticking out.

Fifita blinked.

The tongue disappeared.

"Exhaustion," she decided. "This is exhaustion."

She climbed the three steps to the door and searched her pockets for the key.

There were seven keys in the envelope her aunt had left behind. Six were ordinary brass keys.

The seventh was a tiny silver key shaped like a crescent moon.

Fifita inserted the first key into the lock.

It didn't fit.

Neither did the second, third, fourth, fifth, or sixth.

She tried the silver one.

The lock clicked.

Somewhere inside the shop, a bell rang.

Then a voice shouted, "Oh, thank goodness!"

Fifita froze.

The voice had come from behind the door.

A second voice answered, "Don't sound so excited. It might be a tax collector."

"I'm not a tax collector," Fifita called.

There was a pause.

"That's exactly what a tax collector would say," the first voice replied.

Fifita closed her eyes.

She could still turn around.

She could return to the carriage, go back to the city, and pretend none of this had happened.

Unfortunately, she had already paid the driver.

With a sigh, she pushed open the door.

The shop smelled of old paper, cinnamon, and rain-soaked wood. Shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling, crammed with books of every size and color. A spiral staircase twisted toward the upper floor, where several candles floated beneath the rafters.

The reception desk stood directly ahead.

On it rested a brass bell, a chipped teacup, and a small creature resembling a fluffy white moth with enormous violet eyes.

The creature stared at Fifita.

Fifita stared back.

The moth opened its mouth.

"You're late."

Fifita dropped her suitcase.

The creature sighed.

"Honestly. Humans. You inherit one ancient magical establishment, and suddenly punctuality is optional."

Fifita slowly reached for the door handle.

"No," she whispered.

The moth fluttered onto the desk's edge.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"I am going to wake up."

"Not before you sign the inventory."

Fifita opened the door.

The door slammed shut by itself.

She tried the handle again.

It refused to move.

"Welcome home, Miss Hart," said the moth.

Fifita turned toward it with the expression of someone who had just discovered that her life had taken a deeply unreasonable turn.

"What," she asked carefully, "are you?"

The moth puffed up with dignity.

"I am Bookmark, guardian of the lower shelves, eater of forgotten words, protector of the first edition, and—"

It paused.

"Occasional interior decorator."

Fifita glanced at the scattered books, the crooked shelves, and a suspiciously large pile of what appeared to be shredded wallpaper.

"You're terrible at your job."

Bookmark gasped.

From somewhere overhead, a book fell off a shelf and struck the floor.

It opened.

A long, papery tongue slid out of its pages.

Then the book sneezed.

A cloud of silver dust exploded across the reception desk.

Fifita stood perfectly still.

Bookmark looked at the book, then at Fifita.

"Ah," it said. "That's new."

"New?"

"Usually it sneezes at people it dislikes."

Fifita looked down at her flour-dusted shoes, though she had no memory of touching flour.

"Wonderful. I've been here for thirty seconds and already a book hates me."

"Don't take it personally," Bookmark said. "It hates everyone."

A knock sounded at the door.

Three sharp raps.

Bookmark's wings trembled.

"Oh, good," it whispered. "He's here."

"Who?"

The door swung open before Fifita could ask again.

A young man stood on the threshold, carrying a wooden toolbox in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His dark hair was disheveled by the wind, his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and his expression suggested that he had already encountered three inconveniences on his way there and expected a fourth.

He looked at Fifita.

Then at the moth.

Then at the book lying open on the floor.

"You're not Beatrice," he said.

"An excellent observation."

"Fifita Hart?"

"Unfortunately."

He smiled.

It was a very annoying smile. The kind that made a person suspect the owner had never once been embarrassed by anything in his life.

"Vans Masayon," he said. "Spell-mender. Occasional carpenter. Frequent victim of this shop's poor maintenance."

Fifita crossed her arms. "And what exactly do you want?"

He lifted the paper bag.

"Bread."

She stared at him.

He stared back.

"You're a bookshop," he added helpfully. "I thought you might have some."

Fifita glanced at the shelves.

"Do I look like a baker?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why would you ask me for bread?"

"Because Beatrice used to keep a loaf in the desk drawer."

Bookmark fluttered indignantly. "That was emergency bread!"

"Exactly," Vans said. "This is an emergency."

He stepped inside, placed his toolbox on the floor, and immediately ducked as a book flew past his head.

The book struck the wall, rebounded, and landed neatly in his open paper bag.

Vans looked inside.

"Excellent. A cookbook."

Fifita stared at him.

He gave her the same irritating smile.

"See? The shop likes me."

The book inside the bag bit his thumb.

"Ouch!"

Fifita laughed.

She hadn't meant to. The sound escaped before she could stop it, surprising her almost as much as it surprised Vans.

For a moment, something softened in his expression.

Then he held up his injured hand.

"I believe I deserve compensation."

"You walked into a book."

"It attacked me."

"You put it in a bag."

"I was rescuing it."

"From what?"

He considered the question.

"Loneliness."

Fifita laughed again.

This time, she couldn't help it.

Vans looked pleased with himself, which was unfortunate because it made him even more irritating.

Bookmark fluttered between them.

"Well," it announced, "this is promising."

"What's promising?" Fifita asked.

"The new owner has arrived. The spell-mender has returned. And the shop has finally stopped pretending it doesn't need both of you."

Vans's smile vanished.

He turned toward the moth.

"What do you mean, both of us?"

Bookmark's tiny face became unusually serious.

For the first time since entering the shop, the creature looked frightened.

Before it could answer, a low sound rolled through the building.

The shelves trembled.

The candles went out.

Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a lock clicked open.

Fifita felt the silver key in her pocket grow warm.

Vans reached for his toolbox.

"Tell me," he said quietly, "that you didn't open the blue book."

"I haven't opened any book."

"Good."

A second click echoed beneath them.

Then a third.

From behind the oldest shelf, a thin line of silver light appeared, tracing the outline of a door that

had not been there a moment earlier.

Bookmark backed away.

"Oh, dear."

Fifita swallowed.

"What is that?"

Vans stared at the glowing outline.

For once, he had no joke ready.

"Something," he said, "that your aunt spent twenty years trying to keep closed."

The silver light brightened.

And from the other side of the hidden door, someone began turning the pages of a book.