Chapter 3 - Reflections in Quiet Light

Lucy woke with a head full of wonder and thought. Sam was curled beside her, a warm little shape pressed close at her side. He’d probably been there all night, staying close the way he always did. She cuddled him gently, feeling his soft purr rumble against her arm. Right then and there she made a decision: if she ever went anywhere, Sam would go too. She would never leave him behind. They were a pair, and she loved him more than she ever said out loud.

She hopped out of bed with a mental list of things to do before opening Pendragon’s Nook at ten. She wanted to inventory the back room, research the London lawyer, verify him, the firm, and this supposed estate, and above all, move carefully, but not timidly. But first: breakfast.

Lucy liked her routines. Simple, grounded, steady. Coffee, toast, Sam, a list. It helped her keep her day steady. Sam meowed expectantly; he, too, had priorities. The morning coffee was already brewed, its aroma filling the apartment. She smiled at the thought. Life would be dull without coffee, she thought.

Growing up, it had been a ritual with her foster parents, Daniel and Jesse Carter. Daniel, a self-proclaimed coffee aficionado, insisted on the finest beans, a burr grinder, and a press. He brewed a pot before his morning bike rides, which Lucy often joined. During those rides he would ramble about the things he tinkered with, software, hardware, or the old Jeep he was forever restoring. Daniel loved everything that moved and thrummed with curiosity about how the world worked. Lucy had picked up that same curiosity without even trying. Her love of technology came from him; her love of books from Jesse.

She poured herself a cup and glanced toward her computer nook, her little "lab." A laptop for everyday use, a pair of desktops running different flavors of Linux, and, naturally, a gaming PC. She liked having projects of her own. Some people bought shoes; she built servers. Next to the monitors, shelves brimmed with books her foster parents had given her over the years: technical manuals and philosophy from Daniel, novels and histories from Jesse. The thought made her smile before she noticed she was doing it.

While Sam crunched through his breakfast, Lucy made toast and spread it with homemade apple butter from The Perfect Preserve, the little shop down the street. She always said their jams were the best, and she wasn’t exaggerating. She loved the smell of that store, sweet fruit, cinnamon, warmth. It reminded her of the small-town comfort she treasured.

Vermont suited her. The peace, the pace, the people. She had no taste for big cities, the noise, the crowds, the endless rush. She liked nature too much, and there were too few places to ride safely among all that traffic.

Looking out the window, she noticed a dusting of snow. Typical Vermont. Quiet, stubborn, and cold enough to sting your nose. But Lucy liked how straightforward the weather could be. Pretty to look at, though it meant no bike ride this morning. She had a full schedule anyway. Tomorrow, perhaps.

After breakfast, she went to the private library to inventory the books. She had always been an early riser, up with the sun no matter the season, something she did without thinking. For the next couple of hours she examined each book, making notes as she went. Many had no visible titles, and some were written in languages she couldn’t read. She noted a few customers who might be able to help translate them. Her French was decent, her Latin rusty. Daniel could speak fluent French, his Canadian upbringing, and had taught her the basics on their trips north to visit family. She’d gotten her passport young for those visits.

Her foster mother Jesse was from Florida, which still amused Lucy. “How did a woman from that sauna end up here?” Daniel often teased. Jesse wasn’t fond of the cold, but she adored Vermont’s fall colors. Lucy agreed. Those deep auburn leaves reminded her of her own hair, and of her mother’s and aunt’s before her. The color felt old and familiar, a color that felt like home.

By eight-thirty, Lucy had finished the inventory and turned her attention to the London lawyer. She opened her laptop, typed in the name Russell J. Martin, Esq., and quickly found a modest website, but clearly a real firm. The address was in London’s Kensington district, and the phone number had the right country code. She even checked the street view; the building was there, sign and all.

Her heart thudded a little faster. She ran through the time difference in her head. Five hours ahead. It was already early afternoon in London. Perfect timing.

She hesitated for a moment, then dialed. “It’s just a phone call,” she reminded herself.

A calm British voice answered, “Russell Martin, Solicitors.”

“Hello,” Lucy said, her voice catching slightly. “My name is Lucy Pendragon. I’m calling from Vermont, in the United States. I received a letter from my late aunt, Lilly Pendragon, instructing me to contact Mr. Russell J. Martin regarding an estate in England.”

“Ah, Miss Pendragon,” the voice replied pleasantly. “Yes, Mr. Martin is aware of your name. He mentioned you might call. I’m his assistant, Ms. Harrow. Mr. Martin is in conference at the moment, but I can confirm your aunt did, in fact, retain our office. Her file includes your name,” Ms. Harrow added. “Your aunt listed you as her heir some years ago. If you wish, I can schedule a call for tomorrow morning your time.”

Lucy exhaled, tension slipping away. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

They exchanged details, and Ms. Harrow promised to send an email with verification and the appointment time. “The estate files are active,” Ms. Harrow said. “Mr. Martin will provide an initial briefing during your call tomorrow. When you’re able to travel to London, he’ll go over the full details of the inheritance in person.”

When the call ended, Lucy sat back, letting out a long breath. It was real now. The letter, the lawyer, the estate. Sam hopped onto her lap, purring as if to approve. She stroked his sleek fur. “Well, Sam,” she murmured, “I guess we really might have a reason to pack our bags.”

By the time she looked up, the clock was edging past nine-thirty. She needed to open the shop soon, but a knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

Daniel and Jesse stood outside, bundled in coats and scarves, each holding a cup of coffee and a bag that smelled gloriously of baked goods. Lucy grinned and rushed to let them in.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Jesse said, holding up the bag. “Blueberry muffins and a white chocolate mocha, your favorite.”

“You two are the best,” Lucy said, hugging them both.

They settled into a reading nook at the side of the shop, a cozy corner with two armchairs, a plush bench, and a small table under warm lamplight. Sam leapt onto Jesse’s lap, purring in immediate approval.

Daniel sipped his coffee, eyes glinting. “Still riding that bike of yours? You know it’s humankind’s finest invention.”

Lucy laughed. “Yes, Dad, I’m still riding. And yes, I know, it’s the best thing since sliced bread.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile never left her face.

Daniel launched into one of his familiar tirades about the bicycle’s mechanical perfection. Lucy listened fondly; she’d heard it all before and never tired of it.

Jesse watched her with that soft, measuring look that always made Lucy feel both seen and a little embarrassed. They had taken her in when she’d been hurting more than not, and somehow, years later, this was simply breakfast. Warm coffee, shared jokes, a cat stealing laps. Family.

They talked and laughed, sharing the warmth of old routines. Lucy thought of telling them about the letter and the call but stopped herself. She wanted to have everything verified before she said a word. Once she had concrete proof about the estate and spoke with Mr. Martin personally, she’d tell them. For now, she wanted only to enjoy this moment, the muffins, the company, and the quiet peace of her little shop.

The rest of the afternoon passed in the calm rhythm she adored. A handful of regulars drifted in and out: Mrs. Hensley searching for another Regency romance, a college student chasing obscure philosophy, and old Mr. Price, who claimed he’d read everything worth reading yet still left with an armful.

Lucy loved the soft murmur of conversation, the familiar shuffle of books finding new hands. Between customers, she straightened shelves, dusted displays, and let the creak of old floorboards and Sam’s occasional meow fill the quiet.

Just before closing, the doorbell jingled again.

“Please tell me you’re not locking up yet!”

Lucy looked up and smiled. “Hannah! Just in time.”

Hannah Brantley had been her friend since elementary school, one of the few constants in Lucy’s life. They were opposites in every visible way: Hannah loud where Lucy was quiet, impulsive where Lucy was deliberate. Yet somehow, they balanced each other perfectly.

“I was on my way home and thought I’d check if you wanted to come to the concert in Burlington tomorrow night,” Hannah said, cheeks pink from the cold. “It’s that folk band you liked last summer, the one with the cello player you were secretly in love with.”

Lucy laughed. “I was not in love with him. I just said he had talent.”

“Talent and great hair,” Hannah teased. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ve got two extra tickets.”

Lucy hesitated only a moment. “I’ll think about it. I have a few things going on this week.” Which was true, though “things” mostly meant too many thoughts at once.

“Of course you do,” Hannah said, smiling knowingly. “You always do. Just text me later, okay? I’m not going to drag you if your brain isn’t ready.”

“I will,” Lucy promised.

They hugged before Hannah stepped back into the cold, the bell jingling softly behind her.

Lucy watched the door close and smiled. It was good to have people who understood her, friends who didn’t question her quiet or her solitude.

She spent the last half hour closing the register, straightening displays, and turning off the front lights one by one. Sam meowed at her feet, ready for dinner.

In the soft pool of light behind the counter, she prepared his bowl, made herself a cup of tea, and leaned against the worn oak counter. The shop felt like home, warm and safe and smelling faintly of books.

Her gaze drifted to the closed laptop on the desk. The confirmation email from London was still open in her inbox, the firm’s crest faintly visible in the preview window.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “We’ll see what comes next, Sam.”

He answered with a soft trill, as if in agreement.

Lucy smiled, switched off the last lamp, and locked the door behind her. It had been a good day, strange in parts, but good all the same. Outside, snowflakes drifted under the streetlight, the sign’s warm glow soft on the glass.