Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
She pulled her hands back from the bowl’s rim. The water collapsed, splashing across the table in patterns that writhed when she wasn’t looking at them directly. The temperature returned to normal so quickly her ears popped. One candle sputtered out, sending black smoke spiraling toward the ceiling.
Exhaustion flooded through her. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t get warm. Red welts had appeared on her fingertips where she’d touched the bowl—marks that burned. In fifteen years of practicing scrying, she had never encountered such hostile resistance.
A sharp knock at the shop’s front door pulled her from her recovery. The small clock on the shelf read eight-forty-two. Through the tapestry, she caught the distinctive silhouette of Detective Harrington’s tall form against the shop window.
She wiped her hands on a nearby cloth and extinguished the remaining candles with whispered thanks to whatever had released its grip. The pendant went back around her neck, its warmth helping to restore her equilibrium. Water stains on the table formed odd patterns. She draped a silk cloth over them.
Moving through the darkened shop, she switched on a single lamp before unlocking the door. Her hands still trembled slightly, but she managed to turn the lock. Brooks Harrington stood on the threshold, uncomfortable but determined. His dark hair appeared rumpled, and he carried a manila folder tucked under one arm.
“I apologize for the late visit. You mentioned closing at eight.”
“I did.” She stepped back to allow him inside. “Though I expected you earlier if you were coming at all.”
“The case files were more extensive than I anticipated.” He glanced around the dimly lit shop, his eyes lingering briefly on the curtained reading room. “I can come back tomorrow if this is a bad time.”
Her scrying session had drained her mentally, but his presence created an unexpected sense of balance. His solid skepticism might help ground her after the challenging encounter.
“No need. I was just finishing some personal work. Would you still like tea? The kettle is still warm.”
He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you. Whatever you recommend for someone who typically drinks coffee black.”
She smiled. “A challenge, then. Wait here.”
In the kitchen, she prepared a strong Assam tea, adding a pinch of cinnamon and star anise—both for their grounding properties as much as flavor. No milk or sugar as the detective struck her as someone who preferred straightforward tastes. As she worked, she whispered a small blessing over the brewing leaves, a habit so ingrained she barely noticed doing it. She arranged the teapot and cup on a tray alongside a small plate of shortbread cookies left from the day’s baking, adding a sprig of fresh mint for clarity of thought.
When she returned, Brooks had shed his jacket and was examining the collection of vintage photographs on the wall beside the window. Her hands had steadied, though she could still feel the lingering effects. Most of the photographs featured the lighthouse at different periods in its history, but several showed Hawthorne women standing outside The Mystic Cup in its various incarnations.
“My great-grandmother Josephine. This was her dressmaking shop before my grandmother converted it to an apothecary in the 1950s.”
He studied the image of a stern-faced woman with her distinctive eyes. “The family resemblance is strong.”
“The Hawthorne traits run true.” She poured his tea. “Though I like to think our expressions have softened over the years.”
This earned her a slight smile as he accepted the cup. “I would agree with that assessment.”
He took a sip, eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is unexpected. But good.”
“Assam with spices. Strong enough for a coffee drinker but with more complex notes.”
He nodded, then reached for the folder he had placed on the table. His demeanor shifted, professional focus replacing momentary ease.
“I reviewed both case files this afternoon. The parallels are difficult to dismiss, especially with the photograph discovered at the lighthouse. What can you tell me about Lily Morgan’s disappearance that might not be in the official record?”
She considered the question. “I was eleven when she disappeared. Old enough to understand something terrible had happened, but too young to be included in adult conversations about it. What I know comes from town gossip and what my grandmother shared years later.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts. “The girl was fascinated by local history, particularly the lighthouse and its connection to Prohibition-era smuggling. Her teachers encouraged her research for a school project. She spent several afternoons at the lighthouse, photographing and taking notes. On October 31, 1999, she told her parents she was going to a friend’s house. She never came home.”
Brooks was taking notes, his handwriting neat and precise. “The file mentions she might have had information about illegal activities. Was there any specific rumor about what she might have discovered?”
“Nothing concrete. But there were whispers that the Aldrich family’s involvement in smuggling might not have ended with Prohibition. Winston Aldrich’s father, Gerald, was a lighthouse keeper in the 1990s, which gave him control over who accessed certain areas. He and the girl’s father had a falling out shortly after she went missing.”