Chapter 1 - Pendragon's Nook

The bell above the door chimed softly, and Lucy Pendragon smiled without looking up. It was a familiar sound, not the frantic jingle of commerce, but the gentle ring of someone stepping into a quiet place.

She sat behind the counter, hair pulled loosely back, a worn copy of Le Morte d’Arthur open beside a steaming cup of coffee. The afternoon light filtered through tall, wavy glass, casting warm light across the rows of books. Outside, a crisp Vermont wind rattled the last of the autumn leaves down Main Street, but inside Pendragon's Nook, time moved at its own pace.

Lucy Pendragon was the kind of young woman one noticed without quite knowing why. There was nothing showy about her, no painted face, no glint of jewelry, yet people often paused around her without knowing why.

Her auburn hair caught the light in a soft, reddish shimmer and refused to stay tied back. Her skin was pale but touched with faint freckles across her cheeks and nose, as though the sun had once reached for her and never quite let go. Her eyes, a clear green flecked with gold, had a clear, steady way of taking things in.

There was a quiet steadiness in her movements, not arrogance, but something natural she didn’t think much about. She carried herself as if she noticed things a step before everyone else.

Her clothes were simple but elegant: soft blouses in neutral shades, long skirts that brushed her calves, boots polished but well-worn. She dressed not to impress, but because dignity and comfort, to her, were forms of respect, for herself and for others.

Those who met her often found themselves wanting to linger, even in silence. She had a quiet kind of beauty that made people feel at ease around her.

Lucy had inherited the shop six months earlier from an aunt she’d never met, Lilly Rowan, sister to her late mother, Sarah. Her mother’s maiden name had been Pendragon, but Aunt Lilly had changed hers years ago, taking Rowan for reasons Lucy never understood. Some said she preferred privacy; others guessed she simply liked how it sounded, maybe to keep certain things private.

The name Pendragon’s Nook had existed long before Lilly ever owned it, a whimsical nod to old legends chosen by the shop’s first keeper. To the townsfolk, the shared name was pure coincidence; they never knew that “Rowan” had once been “Pendragon.” When Lilly bought it years ago, she left the sign untouched. Locals thought she liked the poetry of it.

Few knew her well. She traveled often, kept to herself, and was rarely seen. So when Lucy inherited it, most assumed it was just another coincidence, the name on the window and the name on her driver’s license. The call she’d received from a Burlington lawyer had felt like a dream: A bookstore, yours if you want it. She hadn’t hesitated.

Only afterward, when the paperwork arrived, did Lucy learn the truth: Lilly Rowan was the same woman her mother once called Lilly Pendragon. A different name, she realized, might have been a way of keeping her own story tucked out of sight. Lucy wondered: why buy a bookshop in this little Vermont town? She liked to imagine it had something to do with keeping an eye on her.

The place was everything she hadn’t known she was missing: old wood floors, shelves that leaned slightly as if the room had settled with age, and the comforting perfume of parchment and dust. Some volumes were centuries old, others from obscure small presses, all of them loved.

Pendragon's Nook wasn’t trendy. No coffee bar, no soft jazz, no glowing screens. Those who came here were of a certain kind: the seekers. The ones who still believed that words had gravity, that stories could change a person in small but lasting ways.

Lucy adored them.

Some lingered for hours, others spoke in whispers, and a few never said a word. She came to know their habits like someone who’d learned their little routines: the historian who always asked for naval maps, the retired professor who smelled of pipe tobacco and rain, the quiet woman who touched every book on the mythology shelf but never bought one.

Each of them was a story, and Lucy, who’d grown up craving connection, found meaning in the quiet company they brought with them.

Her foster parents had been kind, good people, a quiet engineer and his book-loving wife, and she owed them more than she could ever say. But here, among these walls, she felt something she’d never felt before. Belonging.

Sometimes, when the day grew still and the golden hour stretched across the aisles, she sometimes imagined the books settling around her, a faint whisper beneath the creak of the floorboards. It comforted her, like the heartbeat of an old house that knew her name. She would close her eyes, inhale the scent of time and ink, and imagine her mother, or her mysterious Aunt Lilly, standing somewhere behind her. Watching. Smiling.

Lucy Pendragon loved her quiet life, but lately, something had begun to stir at the edges of it. Dreams of a field bathed in twilight. A voice calling her name, faint but insistent.

Evenings were Lucy’s favorite time in the shop. She kept the doors open until seven, for the handful of loyal patrons who preferred the hush of nightfall to daylight chatter. It was when Pendragon's Nook felt most alive, the lamplight soft and golden, the shelves casting long shadows across the narrow aisles.

Her last customer of the evening was Mr. Avery, a widower in his seventies who loved history more than conversation. He’d been coming for months, always seeking something about medieval Europe or forgotten civilizations. Tonight, he clutched a copy of The Kingdoms of Old Albion, a thick, weathered volume Lucy had set aside for him after finding it in a crate marked simply “Lilly’s Finds.”

“Ah, Miss Pendragon,” he said, his voice a gentle rasp. “You have a knack for locating treasures.”

Lucy smiled. “Books have a way of ending up with the right person, Mr. Avery.”

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling behind wire-framed glasses. “You remind me of your aunt. She used to say the same.”

If Mr. Avery had known Aunt Lilly, why hadn’t anyone ever said so? The thought nudged at her, but she let it pass for now. There would be time to wonder about it later.

After he left, Lucy turned the lock behind him and flipped the sign to Closed. It was part of her ritual: a few quiet minutes to let the outside world fall away. She wandered between the aisles, fingertips brushing the spines, straightening a few out-of-place books. The air smelled of dust and ink and faint traces of candle wax. She drew in a slow breath and smiled.

She knew nearly every title by heart, yet she still read them aloud sometimes, whispering to herself: “The Dreamer’s Almanac… The Lost Voyages of Sir Raleigh… The Myths of the Iron Age…” Each title a heartbeat. Each word a friend.

Sam, her black cat, padded silently between the shelves, tail flicking like a metronome. He had found her, not the other way around, a stray that used to linger behind the shop until she invited him in with a saucer of milk. Now, he followed her each evening as she made her rounds, occasionally brushing against her leg as if to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Lucy had plans, quiet ones. She wanted to read every book in the shop someday, though she knew she’d have to sell most before she ever could. There were bills, after all, and Sam’s food, and the little necessities that came with running an old bookstore in a small town. Still, she found peace in the rhythm of it all, opening at ten, closing at seven, walking the rows, then climbing the narrow stairs to the apartment above.

The apartment had belonged to her aunt, cozy, with slanted ceilings, lace curtains, and walls lined with books. Her aunt had traveled the world collecting rare volumes for private buyers, and though Lucy inherited her modest fortune, it was the shop that felt like the true gift.

Tonight, though, she was content to stay here. To tidy the shelves, to lock the door, to hear the soft thump of Sam jumping onto the counter as if to say enough work for one day.

Lucy smiled, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her cheek as she reached for the light switch.

And just then, a knock on the front door.

She froze, hand still on the light switch. The clock read 7:02.

A man stood outside. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat hung heavy with rain-dark wool, and he held his hat in both hands as though standing at attention rather than waiting. Even through the glass, Lucy noticed something about his posture, a person used to standing alert. His eyes, steady and watchful, carried the weight of too many long days.

Lucy hesitated, then crossed the room and unlocked the door with a slightly hesitant hand, not fearful, just wary. A faint chill from the November night curled around him as she opened it.

“We’re closed,” she said gently.

“Good evening,” he replied, inclining his head with a polite precision. “My name is Mr. Hale. I hope I’m not too late… I was told this shop once belonged to a woman named Lilly Rowan.”

Lucy nodded. “She was my aunt. She passed earlier this year. Did you know her?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He paused. “May I come in? This will only take a moment.”

Lucy studied him for a heartbeat, then stepped aside. There was something about him, a quiet assurance that felt trustworthy, though she couldn’t say why.

The man stepped in, glancing toward the shelves as though searching for something alive among them. “Your aunt and I were acquainted through mutual interests. I’ve been searching for a book she was said to have, a very old one. Bound in dark leather, no markings on the spine.”

Up close, Lucy realized he wasn’t as old as she first thought. Lines of exhaustion aged him more than years did, carved by weather, travel, and a life lived on duty. His voice was low, even, controlled. Not threatening, but not careless, either.

Lucy frowned. “Do you know the title?”

The man hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “It’s called The Chronicle of Uther Pendragon.”

The name brought a small jolt of familiarity she didn’t understand.

“I’ve read of Uther,” she said softly. “Arthur’s father. He wasn’t exactly known for kindness.”

“No,” the man said. “He was a conqueror. But this book… it’s the only record of his reign, written by one who knew him. There is no other copy known to exist. And every path I’ve followed, every lead, every rumor, ends here, Miss Pendragon.”

Lucy’s gaze drifted toward the back room, the one still locked, the one with the small velvet pouch holding her aunt’s key. Something cold stirred in her chest.

“I’m sorry. I will need some time to find it. Could you come back in a couple of days?” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “If your book is here, I’ll find it. But I can’t make promises.”

The man studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “I understand. I’ll return in a couple of days and give you time to search.”

He placed his hat back upon his head and gave her a small, solemn bow. “Good evening, Miss Pendragon.”

The bell chimed once more as he left, and in the silence that followed, Lucy’s heart pounded softly against her ribs.

He had introduced himself, but somehow he’d known her name before she ever offered it. That thought stayed with her long after the bell went still.

Sam leapt onto the counter, eyes fixed on the darkened back room.

She wondered if, somewhere behind that locked door, something old seemed to shift, as if noticing her.

Lucy locked the door and turned off the lights, the streetlamps outside casting thin bars of light through the windows. She leaned against the counter, the man’s words circling her thoughts.

A chronicle of Uther Pendragon.

She had never heard of any such book. The histories of that age were scattered: fragments of myth and scattered stories shaped by time. Uther’s name lingered only in legend, and none of those tales spoke kindly of him. A chronicle would be something far older, something impossible.

Who would have written it? Someone close to him? Someone who survived him? Or was it a fabrication, a relic of imagination rather than truth?

Her rational mind dismissed it. Books like that didn’t just appear in small New England bookstores. And yet… her aunt had been known to travel widely, acquiring obscure, ancient works for private collectors. If anyone could have found such a thing, it might have been her.

Lucy sighed, fatigue catching up to her. “Tomorrow,” she murmured, stroking Sam’s fur. “I’ll look tomorrow.”

She had only discovered the key yesterday, not in the desk or in any drawer she’d already sorted, but beneath a loose floorboard she’d never noticed. The corner of it had lifted just enough for her to catch her toe on it while sweeping, and when she knelt to press it back into place, she saw the faint seam. Beneath the plank lay a velvet pouch no bigger than her palm, the brass key resting inside as though it had been put there long ago. Lilly had hidden it deliberately; Lucy felt that immediately. Not lost, hidden. Left for her to find when she finally noticed. She’d planned to try it last night, but the day ran long, and she’d told herself there was no rush. What was one more night?

After all, the room wasn’t going anywhere.

Sam meowed softly, as if in mild disagreement.

Lucy smiled, scooping him into her arms. “You just want dinner,” she whispered.

She carried him upstairs to her small apartment, the air warm and faintly scented with lavender and old paper. She fed him, made herself a modest meal, and watched the shadows crawl along the ceiling while her thoughts returned again and again to the stranger’s words. The Chronicle of Uther Pendragon. She’d look in the morning. It was Sunday, and the shop didn’t open until noon. That would give her plenty of time to see what was hidden behind that locked door.