Chapter 4 Tea, Trouble, and Talking Books
The blue book refused to close.
Fifita Hart had tried everything.
She had pushed its covers together. She had placed a heavy dictionary on top of it. She had even asked Bookmark to sit on it, which the little moon moth considered a personal insult.
Nothing worked.
The book lay open on the wooden floor of The Moonlit Margins, its silver letters glowing faintly beneath the morning light.
The reader has already been written into the ending.
Fifita stared at the sentence.
“I don't like it.”
“An entirely reasonable opinion,” Bookmark said from the curtain rod.
“I mean, who writes something like that?”
“Someone with excellent handwriting, apparently.”
“Bookmark.”
“What? I'm trying to keep the atmosphere light.”
Vans Masayon crouched beside the book, carefully avoiding its pages.
“Don't touch it again.”
Fifita looked at him. “You say that as if I'm the one who opened it.”
“You were the one who touched it.”
“You were the one who showed me the forbidden shelf.”
“I didn't know the book would respond.”
“And I didn't know my inheritance included a death sentence written in fancy silver ink.”
Vans looked up sharply.
“Don't call it that.”
The seriousness in his voice silenced her.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the old clock near the stairs.
Fifita glanced at the silver crescent mark on her palm. It no longer hurt, but the skin around it felt strangely warm.
“What does the mark mean?” she asked.
Vans stood.
“I don't know.”
“You're a spell-mender.”
“I'm not an encyclopedia.”
“You certainly have the personality of one.”
“An encyclopedia wouldn't have saved you from that falling book yesterday.”
“That book was trying to kill you.”
“And you laughed.”
“I was frightened.”
“You were laughing.”
“I can do both!”
Bookmark fluttered between them.
“If the two of you are finished arguing, the blue book is making a noise.”
They turned.
A faint rumbling came from the book.
Fifita took a step backward.
“Is that normal?”
“No,” Vans answered.
The rumbling grew louder.
Then the book sneezed.
A cloud of silver dust burst from its pages, covering the floor, the curtains, and Vans's dark coat.
Silence followed.
Fifita pressed a hand over her mouth.
Vans slowly looked down at himself.
“Not,” he said, brushing glittering dust from his sleeve, “one word.”
She lasted three seconds.
Then she burst out laughing.
By noon, the blue book had finally closed.
Vans had managed to trap it inside a glass cabinet reinforced with three protective spells, two copper locks, and a handwritten warning that read:
DO NOT OPEN. DO NOT FEED. DO NOT ASK IT QUESTIONS.
Fifita had added a fourth line beneath it.
DO NOT LET VANS PRETEND HE KNOWS EVERYTHING.
He had noticed.
Naturally, he had complained.
Now he was downstairs checking the cabinet's enchantments while Fifita stood behind the counter, attempting to make sense of her aunt's account books.
The Moonlit Margins was not doing well.
In fact, judging by the number of unpaid invoices, it was doing spectacularly badly.
Fifita stared at the figures.
“Apparently,” she murmured, “my aunt spent more money on enchanted dust than she earned selling books.”
“Enchanted dust is expensive,” Vans said.
She looked up.
He had appeared beside the counter without making a sound.
“Do you always sneak around like that?”
“Only when people are insulting enchanted dust.”
“I'm not insulting it. I'm questioning its financial necessity.”
“Some enchantments require dust.”
“Then perhaps the enchantments should get jobs.”
Vans leaned over the ledger.
“You could charge more for magical repairs.”
“I run a bookshop.”
“You run an enchanted bookshop.”
“Which is still a bookshop.”
“Your shelves rearrange themselves, your books have opinions, and your moth eats vocabulary. I think the distinction matters.”
Fifita opened her mouth.
A bell rang above the front door.
Both of them turned.
A woman entered carrying a wicker basket covered by a blue cloth. She had dark, curly hair tied in a loose bun, warm brown eyes, and the cheerful expression of someone who had never encountered a problem she couldn't improve with tea.
“Fifita Hart?” she asked.
Fifita straightened. “Yes?”
The woman smiled.
“I'm Mina Bell. I own the tea shop across the street. I would have visited yesterday, but I heard you had an unusual first night.”
Fifita glanced at Vans.
He suddenly became fascinated by a stack of receipts.
“Define unusual,” she said.
Mina placed the basket on the counter.
“Someone told me a door appeared in your wall.”
Fifita blinked.
“Someone talks too much.”
“That's Moonwick. We have very little crime, so people make entertainment out of mysterious doors.”
“That explains a great deal.”
Mina lifted the cloth from her basket.
Inside were three small jars of jam, a loaf of warm bread, a packet of biscuits shaped like stars, and a teapot painted with tiny silver moons.
“I brought you a welcome basket.”
Fifita stared at it.
For the first time since arriving in Moonwick, she felt something loosen inside her chest.
It was such a small kindness.
A basket of food. A warm smile. Someone remembering that she was new and probably overwhelmed.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Mina's expression softened.
“You're welcome. Your aunt used to bring books to my shop whenever I had a difficult day. She always claimed that stories were cheaper than therapy.”
Fifita smiled.
“That sounds like her.”
“She was a wonderful woman.” Mina paused. “And a very strange one.”
“Also sounds like her.”
They laughed.
Vans cleared his throat.
“Are there any biscuits left?”
Mina looked at him.
“Good morning to you, too, Vans.”
“Good morning.”
“You could have said that before asking about the biscuits.”
“I could have.”
“And?”
He reached for the basket.
Mina slapped his hand away with a tea towel.
Fifita nearly choked on her own laughter.
“Oh, I like you,” she told Mina.
“Good. Someone should.”
Vans looked offended.
“I am standing right here.”
“Yes,” Mina replied, “and yet somehow you're still being difficult.”
Within twenty minutes, Mina had taken over the counter.
She arranged the food, poured tea into mismatched cups, and listened while Fifita explained the shop's financial troubles.
She also asked several questions about the blue book.
Fifita avoided mentioning the silver mark on her palm.
Somehow, it felt too personal to share with someone she had just met.
“The bookshop has been quiet for years,” Mina said, stirring honey into her tea. “Your aunt kept it open mostly for people who needed a particular kind of book.”
“What kind?”
Mina considered the question.
“The kind they weren't ready to ask for.”
Fifita looked toward the shelves.
A green-covered novel shifted slightly, as though listening.
“That's a very poetic way to avoid answering.”
“It's a very poetic town.”
Vans sat opposite them, holding a biscuit shaped like a star.
“Your aunt believed books could recognize what people needed before they understood it themselves.”
Fifita turned toward him.
“You sound as if you knew her well.”
“I knew her.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn't.”
Before she could ask another question, a loud argument erupted from the back of the shop.
“THAT IS NOT MY ENDING!”
Everyone froze.
Another voice shouted, “YOU'VE BEEN LYING ABOUT THE PRINCE FOR THREE HUNDRED PAGES!”
Fifita slowly put down her teacup.
“Please tell me that's a customer.”
Vans sighed.
“No.”
“An employee?”
“No.”
“A ghost?”
“Not exactly.”
A heavy book flew out from behind the shelves and landed on the counter.
Its cover was bright red, decorated with a golden crown.
Another book followed, striking it squarely in the spine.
“YOU PROMISED ME A HAPPY ENDING!”
“YOU WERE A VILLAIN!”
“I HAD A DIFFICULT CHILDHOOD!”
Mina covered her mouth.
Fifita stared at the two books.
One opened its pages and pointed a paper corner at the other.
“YOU STOLE MY KINGDOM!”
“YOU STOLE MY HORSE!”
“YOUR HORSE WAS BORING!”
Vans stood and rubbed his forehead.
“Not again.”
Fifita slowly turned toward him.
“Your books argue?”
“Only when they're emotionally invested in the plot.”
“Of course they do.”
The red book slammed shut.
“I DEMAND A NEW AUTHOR!”
The other book flung itself onto the floor.
“I DEMAND A NEW HORSE!”
Fifita looked at Mina.
Mina looked at Fifita.
Then both women began laughing so hard that Mina had to hold the counter for support.
Vans, meanwhile, attempted to separate the books.
“Everyone calm down.”
“YOU CALM DOWN!” shouted the red book.
“I'm trying to help.”
“THEN WRITE ME A BETTER ENDING!”
“I don't write books!”
“THEN STOP TOUCHING ME!”
Fifita wiped tears from her eyes.
“I think I'm beginning to understand why my aunt left this place to me.”
Vans glanced at her.
“Because you're patient?”
“No. Because she knew I would never be bored.”
The argument lasted another fifteen minutes.
Eventually, Fifita discovered that the two books had been placed on the same shelf by mistake.
One was a romantic adventure about a misunderstood prince. The other was a historical account of a kingdom's downfall.
Neither appreciated the comparison.
When Fifita separated them, the books quieted immediately.
The red one even thanked her.
Then it asked whether she could arrange a better ending for its prince.
“I'll see what I can do,” she promised.
The book seemed satisfied.
Mina watched her with an expression that was equal parts affection and disbelief.
“You handled that remarkably well.”
“I spent my childhood arguing with my cousins. A book is much easier to negotiate with.”
“Does it usually threaten people?”
“Only when it wants attention.”
Vans gave a small laugh.
Fifita glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face says many things. Most of them are none of your business.”
She threw a star-shaped biscuit at him.
He caught it.
Mina shook her head.
“You two are going to be exhausting.”
“We are not a pair,” Fifita and Vans said simultaneously.
They stared at each other.
Mina smiled into her teacup.
“Of course not.”
By late afternoon, the shop had returned to something resembling normal.
Mina departed with promises to bring more tea the following day. Vans checked the cabinet one last time before announcing that he needed to visit his workshop.
Fifita walked him to the door.
“Will the blue book be safe?”
“As long as nobody opens the cabinet.”
“And if it opens itself?”
“Then you leave the room.”
“What if it starts talking?”
“Leave faster.”
She folded her arms.
“You're incredibly reassuring.”
“I try.”
He reached for the door handle, then hesitated.
“Fifita?”
She looked up.
“If the mark on your hand changes, tell me immediately.”
Her smile faded.
“Why would it change?”
Vans glanced toward the staircase.
“Because the First Edition has recognized you. I don't know what that means yet, but I know your aunt was frightened of the day it would happen.”
“Was she frightened of me?”
“No.”
His answer came so quickly that Fifita believed him.
“She was frightened of what might happen to you.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Vans stepped outside.
“Lock the door before sunset.”
“Why?”
“Because Moonwick has rules.”
“Does anyone in this town ever explain the rules before something terrible happens?”
He smiled over his shoulder.
“Not if they can help it.”
Then he disappeared down the street.
Fifita closed the door and turned the lock.
The shop felt strangely quiet without him.
She immediately decided that she disliked noticing that.
That evening, Fifita sat behind the counter with Aunt Beatrice's ledger open before her.
The silver mark on her palm had remained unchanged all afternoon.
Still, she couldn't stop looking at it.
She reached for her tea.
The cup was empty.
With a sigh, she stood and walked toward the kitchen.
When she returned, a small book lay open on the counter.
She stopped.
She was certain she hadn't left it there.
Its cover was pale green, and its pages smelled faintly of lavender.
Words appeared slowly across the paper.
Dear Fifita,
Her heart skipped.
If you are reading this, you have probably met Vans, annoyed at least one book, and discovered something your aunt hoped you would never find.
Fifita grabbed the edge of the counter.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Aunt Beatrice's.
There is something I need you to understand about the First Edition.
The ink shimmered.
It does not merely show possible futures.
A pause.
Then another line appeared.
It remembers the futures people were willing to sacrifice to obtain them.
Fifita felt cold.
One final sentence formed at the bottom of the page.
And someone in Moonwick has already sacrificed theirs.
The book snapped shut.
From the forbidden shelf upstairs came a soft, deliberate knock.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Fifita stood motionless.
Then, from behind the locked glass cabinet, the blue book whispered her name.
“Fifita.”
