Chapter 4 - Music & Shadows

The morning was kind to her. Tuesday brought a mild thaw, the snow thinning into wet patches along the curb, and a soft warmth rode in with the light. Lucy poured coffee, fed Sam, and let him butt his head against her wrist until he decided he was satisfied with both breakfast and authority. He leapt to the sill, king of the block again, tail curled in a loose hook behind him.

She wheeled her bike from the narrow hall, a well-kept hybrid with scuffed pedals and some leftover grit in the tires. A black milk crate was bungee-strapped to the rear rack, ready for errands. She used it most days for hauling books, groceries, and the occasional jar of something homemade from around town. Today, she planned to stop at The Perfect Preserve for apple butter.

The air was clean and a little sweet, softened by the thaw. Tires whispered on the damp asphalt. The town felt awake in a way winter rarely allowed, roofs shedding last night’s frost and gutters ticking as meltwater got to work. She pedaled easily, legs steady, mind loosening with every turn of the crank. The ride cleared her head and settled her breathing. It still amazed her how something so simple made her feel like herself again.

On impulse, she coasted past her usual turn and veered onto Maple Street, where The Perfect Preserve sat with its familiar wreath in the window, a loop of dried orange and bay leaves. A brass bell announced her.

“Look who the thaw dragged in,” Eli Blanchard said, easing out from behind the counter with a tea towel slung over his shoulder.

Martha appeared with a tasting spoon. “Apple butter’s back. The good batch.”

Owen, taller than she remembered and sheepish in his apron, bagged the jars with careful hands. “Morning, Lucy.”

“Morning.” She took a sample, closed her eyes. “You weren’t lying.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Martha said, pleased. “He’ll get artistic.”

As Lucy paid, Eli leaned in, lowering his voice even though no one else was listening. “You had a visitor on Sunday,” he said. “Tall man, neat coat. Asking which shop on the square had the big old books. We pointed him your way.”

Lucy smiled a little. “He found it.”

“Friendly sort?” Eli asked.

“Friendly enough,” she said. “Curious.”

“Town can do with a bit of curious now and then,” Martha said, and that was that.

Lucy balanced the bag in her crate and pedaled the last few blocks to Pendragon’s Nook. The front windows were mottled with sunlight and melt. She propped open the street-level door, swept the damp from the entry mat, and put coffee on again for later. Sam stalked the aisles with a seriousness that implied he was inspecting troops.

The shop felt straightforward in the morning. Dust motes drifted slowly. The clock ticked a little louder than usual. Lucy unlocked the desk drawer and pulled out the printed email, reading it yet again.

The solicitor’s message was vague enough to be infuriating: a reference to a family matter, papers to be signed, and an old bequest waiting for her inspection. Details were conspicuously absent. There was no mention of the strange book the man in the shop had asked about. She rubbed the paper with her thumb without realizing she was doing it. The idea of a book lingered anyway. A Chronicle, Mr. Hale had called it. The lawyer’s letter said nothing of the sort.

Her phone buzzed at 9:01 a.m., the London number lighting the screen.

“Miss Pendragon?”

“Speaking.”

“Russell Martin. Thank you for taking the call.”

His voice was calm, practiced, the kind that had delivered complicated news many times before. He confirmed her aunt’s file, her name on the documents, the existence of a bequest he couldn’t discuss over the phone.

“I’m afraid much of this must be reviewed in person,” he said.

Lucy gripped the edge of the desk. “Is something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” he said. “Just… best handled face to face.”

He offered dates. She scribbled one down.

When the call ended, Lucy sat for a long moment, listening to her own heartbeat settle. The letter. The key. The safe. Now this. The decision settled in her chest.

It was time to go to London.

Just before noon, the bell rang.

He was exactly as Eli had described and exactly as she remembered: neat coat, dark gloves folded in his hand, an expression suited to formal rooms and careful conversations. He moved with quiet certainty, steps measured as if he’d taken stock of the shop before crossing the threshold. He took off his hat and came to the counter with the confidence of someone who expected things to move smoothly.

“Miss Pendragon. Good morning.”

Hearing the name felt strange. No one in town used that name. Not here.

“Good morning,” she said.

“I thought I might stop by and see whether you’d had any luck,” he said. The tautness in his voice made it clear which book he meant.

Lucy kept her tone easy. “I’ve looked. Catalog, back room, the older shipments. Nothing that answers to that name.”

A beat. He smiled, and his eyes stayed reserved, even when he smiled. His gaze moved across the shelves as if taking quiet measure of them. Something in him stayed guarded, not cold, just practiced, as if he tended to keep his thoughts close out of habit.

“Sometimes books hide under other names,” he said. “They do have that habit.”

“I know the habit,” Lucy said. “I’ll keep looking.”

He nodded. “It’s rather important to my employer. Family history.” He let the words sit, then added, “We’re on a schedule.”

“I’m not,” Lucy said without thinking. She softened it with a shrug. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“I’d be most grateful.”

He reached into his coat and set a plain white card on the counter. He didn’t push it toward her, just left it there.

“This number will reach me,” he said. “Sooner rather than later.”

He put his hat back on and left the same way he arrived, steps soundless, the bell giving a small, uncertain note as the door eased shut.

Lucy stayed still until the clock reclaimed the room. Not scared. That surprised her. Men who walked in with that much control usually wanted something sharper than a book. But he didn’t radiate danger. More like a focused purpose. Someone carrying orders he didn’t fully agree with but intended to follow anyway.

He wasn’t threatening, just expectant, like a man wondering why a parcel had not arrived on time. But the expectation, the quiet assumption that she should have found it by now, pinched at her.

She lost herself in tasks that did not require answers. A delivery truck double-parked and a cheerful driver wheeled in two crates, the rare-book order she had almost forgotten. She signed, cracked open the paper and twine, and found the familiar perfume of old paper and binding glue. A slim book of Cornish folktales nestled beside a faded chapbook of medieval charms, a travelogue with a cracked spine, and a ledger that was more elegant than she expected. She logged them, checked plates and signatures, and shelved the folktales under "C." Sam inspected the boxes with a deliberate paw.

At three, Hannah swept in with her usual energy. Coat unbuttoned, cheeks flushed, a grin that made the shop brighter.

“Tonight,” she said, waving two tickets. “Burlington. Cello and friends. Six o’clock curtain. I’m kidnapping you at five.”

Lucy laughed. “I have been informed I’m on someone else’s schedule.”

“You’re on mine,” Hannah said. “Mine involves music and not thinking for two hours.”

Lucy felt the old tug, the one that wanted to stay with the comfort of spines and margins. Then she thought of the man’s guarded eyes.

“All right,” she said. “Fine. Kidnap me.”

“Wear something that makes you forget winter,” Hannah said, and blew out with a chime of the bell.

The afternoon thinned. A few regulars drifted in to browse. Lucy straightened the counter, fed Sam again because Sam kept his own schedule, and at five, snapped off the lamps, locked the till, and let Hannah pull her into the evening.

They drove with the windows cracked just enough to taste the thaw. The sun went down in streaks, and the world held that even blue where headlights glowed softly in the dusk. Burlington received them with a bustle and a warm foyer. Inside, the hall was all warm wood and low voices. The quartet tuned. The stage lights rose.

Music did what it always did to Lucy. It slowed her down and helped her be present, one breath, one note. The opening chords settled into her chest, warm and low. She felt the knot she’d been carrying since the weekend ease a little. Not disappear, but loosen.

Onstage, the cellist closed his eyes when he leaned into a phrase, bow pulling sound from the cello that felt almost like a voice. The viola teased him with a bright answer, and he smiled with one corner of his mouth, tiny, unconscious, real. She thought, briefly, that he was handsome. The thought showed up briefly and moved on.

She exhaled, letting the music do what it wanted with her. The Chronicle, the solicitor, Lilly’s secrecy, Mr. Hale’s expectation, all of it moved through her in softer shapes. Music did not demand anything from her. It let her feel what she’d been carrying. Beside her, Hannah leaned forward, absorbed. Lucy envied the ease of that openness, but tonight the music gave her something close.

For a moment, she simply existed. No inheritance. No deadlines. No strangers waiting for books she did not have. Just sound and breath and the small reminder that she was changing in ways she hadn’t named yet.

Hannah squeezed her hand once in the dark and let go. Lucy held the warmth of it for a moment, surprised by how much she needed the reminder.

Back on Main Street, the alley behind Pendragon’s Nook was quiet and silver under the lamplight. A man walked the alley quietly. He paused at the back door, watching the upstairs window as if he could feel the presence of the person who lived there, then took out tools tucked neatly in a leather pouch. He worked with the care of someone practiced at not disturbing things.

The lock yielded. He slipped inside and breathed the shop in. Old paper, lemon oil, the ghost of coffee. The cat was elsewhere. He moved quietly through the aisles, two fingers tracing the air near a shelf without touching it. Drawers. Cabinets. Under the counter. He checked the usual hiding spots, and a few unlikely ones. He tilted frames on the office wall and set them back exactly as he found them.

A narrow door behind the counter led down to the basement. He opened it halfway, glanced down the dark stairwell, and closed it again.

He climbed the stairs. He lifted the lid of a cedar chest and closed it again. He opened a book and read one line, then another. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Back downstairs he moved across the shop floor, shelves and spines quiet under his eye. He touched almost nothing and returned everything he moved. Almost.

When he slid one book into its place, the long ribbon slipped free, trailing past the bottom edge of the cover. He didn’t see it.

He crouched once more, scanning the boards. His gaze paused on a narrow seam, then moved on. He took one last quiet look around and left the way he came, easing the alley door shut until the latch settled into place.

The street was dark when Hannah dropped Lucy off. They hugged at the curb, breath mixing in a faint cloud, and then Lucy climbed the stairs to her apartment. Sam scolded her at the door and bumped her knees until she laughed.

She changed into wool socks and went down to the shop out of habit, checking the heat and the furnace. She stepped behind the counter and reached for the lamp switch.

Her hand stopped.

There was nothing dramatic to see. No broken glass. No drawers pulled. Just one thing wrong in a room she knew well.

On the second shelf to the left of the counter, a slim leather-bound ledger sat one finger’s width forward, its ribbon marker hanging off the edge. Lucy never left ribbons hanging. She tucked them. She always tucked them. Long ago she learned dangling ribbons were invitations for Sam. The ledger itself was nothing special, but it lived neat. It did not look like this.

She stood there a long time, listening to the clock.

She reached out and slid the ledger back into place. The ribbon she tucked away with a small, firm push.

Only then did she touch the lamp switch.

Light pooled over the counter. Dust was disturbed in a faint arc where her brass paperweight usually sat, though the weight itself was exactly where it should be. The misprint travelogue she had sorted at noon was square to the shelf, which meant someone had straightened it after she left it crooked.

Nothing was missing. But nothing felt right.

“Alright,” she said quietly, not to Sam and not to the room, but to whatever had moved through her life and left a mark she could feel but not see.

She did not call the police. Not yet. Calling them meant explanations she didn’t have. Reports, locks replaced, questions that would only get in the way.

Someone had moved through her rooms without being noticed. Someone wanted a book badly enough to come here. Someone believed she should already have it.

Lucy set her palms on the counter and let the decision come quietly, steady and certain. If a Chronicle existed, she would find it. She would read it first. She would learn why a stranger expected her to hold what she had not yet seen, and why an old solicitor in London waited on behalf of an aunt who had left instructions meant only for her.

Sam jumped to the counter and sat on the ledger as if to endorse her. She scratched his chin.

“They underestimated me,” she said.

“England.” The word made the room feel different. “Fine.”

Upstairs, she made tea she didn’t drink and opened her laptop to a blank list she titled with one ordinary word: Plans. She wrote three lines and closed it again. Sleep would bring a better order. Morning would bring the calls.

For now she turned off the lamp, checked the back door, and stood in the dark for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the room again. When she climbed the stairs, the ledger sat flush on its shelf and the ribbon stayed tucked where it belonged. The clock kept time. The night held. Her decision stayed firm.