Chapter Text
Rule #1: Don’t get emotional.
The aging limestone glittered in the late afternoon sun, and Clarke raised her hand to shield her eyes from the brilliant glare. Despite the late October date and the slight chill on the welcomed breeze, the heat of the Texas sunshine barreled down on her body like the fire from hell itself. She wiped her brow before pushing open the heavy wooden door.
A bell jingled throughout the shop as the smell of paper, leather, and ink slammed her senses. The Scarlet Rose was cluttered and old. Her boot-clad feet announced every step with a creak and a groan of aged wood and straining joists. Everything about the bookshop, from the massive and opaque windows to the intricately designed molding, alerted Clarke to just how long the building had been standing.
One hundred and forty-three years, actually, if the state records were correct.
Clarke trudged towards the vacant checkout counter and leaned her hands on the smooth varnish before peering over. A metal stool with a padded back sat well-worn yet empty. No signs of human life nor the reason she was there.
Clarke checked her watch. 3:23 pm. A few minutes early, but nothing too extreme.
She sighed and pushed herself off the counter. Her leather messenger bag flopped hard against her hip, and she cringed as its contents, including her brand-spanking-new camera, clattered against each other. She steadied her bag, gripping the shoulder strap, and called through the stacks of books.
“Hello?”
Silence and a dim flicker of an Edison bulb overhead answered.
Clarke weaved through the shop, brushing her fingers along the rows of books. It was impressive, this selection. An eclectic mix of old novels and modern ones, fiction, and nonfiction, stories for young and old.
She turned a tight corner, stopping at the display at the end of the row. Blurry figures in front of old houses, clouds drifting over the moon, abandoned buildings decayed and daunting in front of a dark and dreary night. Books full of “real” ghost stories, undoubtedly curated for the season.
Clarke sighed as she picked the smallest from the collection. She traced the familiar embossed title, letter by letter. October never failed to bring up the past, despite Clarke’s Herculean efforts to forget it.
She chuckled under her breath, that sort of ironic laugh that was less about something amusing and most definitely all about being completely annoyed with herself. She could wax poetical about her attempts to distance her present from the past, but that was all for show. The truth of the matter was that she had done very little to forge a unique path for herself.
But maybe it was the point. Perhaps it was all predetermined, and her life was exactly as planned. There was comfort in that thought, regardless of how disappointing it was. Clarke huffed as she set the book back where she found it, storing her unproductive existential crisis for another time.
She pushed off from the counter and wandered through the stacks, gliding her hand over a copy of Rebecca that, by the looks of it, was from one of its first printing runs. Clarke suppressed a delighted chuckle as she reached the end of the aisle.
A display table sat covered with a meticulously curated assortment of graphic novels written by women, and a cute yellow cover caught her eye. Clarke flipped to a random page near the middle. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she read about a sassy old witch complaining that Albert Einstein was small-minded.
“That one is adorable. One of my favorites on the table there.”
Clarke dropped the book to her side, spinning on her heel to meet the sudden voice behind her. A woman, late twenties, leaned against a dark wooden support beam, arms tucked across her chest, hugging a steaming cup of tea. Her wavy chestnut hair tumbled down to one side, the color a stark contrast to the over-sized cream sweater she wore. The sharp angles of her face could have read as frightening or dangerous, but her eyes, while intense, held a gentleness that smoothed those fierce edges.
She was the most arresting woman Clarke had ever seen.
Clarke glanced down at the book in her hands.
“Mooncakes,” the woman nodded as she pushed from her perch and approached Clarke, graceful as a lioness but timid as a fox. She stopped a few feet away, still hugging her tea like a security blanket. “If you like sweet and authentic romances set in a richly magical world filled with characters that will feel like family by the end, that one is for you.”
Clarke set the book back where she found it. She glanced up, meeting expectant eyes and a gaze that permeated through to the depths of her soul. Clarke swallowed down that unnerving feeling of someone seeing through her carefully constructed facade and smiled back. “You must be Ms. Alexandra Woods, the owner?”
“Lexa is fine,” the woman nodded, maintaining that penetrating stare.
“Well, Lexa-” Clarke tapped the book on the table. “Throw in some decent queer rep and a diverse cast of characters, and you’ve just described my ideal story.”
Lexa unfurled her tightly held arms and nudged the copy of Mooncakes a fraction of an inch, perfectly aligning the edges to make a seamless stack. “Looks like you’ve found your perfect match then. Lucky you.”
Lexa caught her gaze with a wide-eyed and meaningful regard, and a jolt of adrenaline coursed through Clarke’s veins. Her pounding heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, and Clarke disguised her startled gasp with a quick intake of breath. “Well,” she cleared her throat, pushing down that rush from the flirtatious comment. “I suppose I’ll have to get myself a copy before I leave.”
Lexa glanced to her right. “No,” she whispered under her breath.
“No?” Clarke furrowed her brow.
“No-” Lexa slammed her eyes shut and shook her head a fraction. “I mean, you’d like it. Yes. I, um-” she stopped mid-sentence, turned her back to Clarke, and retreated through the shelves of books.
Clarke stood in stunned silence as the trail of Lexa’s long waves disappeared around a corner. She looked towards her left, right at the spot where Lexa had stared to find nothing but the antique till sitting on the counter.
Clarke took a deep breath and stepped towards the checkout. The high-back chair glinted in the overhead lighting. It looked normal, ordinary. But there was something else, something off. Clarke extended her hand, reaching out for the empty air in front of the stool-
“This way, Ms. Griffin,” Lexa called out. “Just in the back.”
Clarke snapped her hand back, feeling like a kid caught sneaking a treat from the cookie jar. She blinked a couple of times and shook her head, chuckling at herself for even considering the idea of something strange. She glanced back at the stool, and there it sat. Completely normal, any sign of otherworldly vanished the second Lexa’s voice echoed through the shop. Clarke made her way to the back of the store with a final sigh and shake of her head.
This area was vastly different from the front, with far fewer books and far more cozy seating arrangements. Blankets draped across the back of half the chairs, and the well-worn red and gold Persian rug covering most of the floor only added to the room’s welcoming and comfortable atmosphere. There was even an electric kettle sat on a table in the corner next to what could only be described as a tea chest and half a dozen mugs of various sizes and colors.
“Would you like a cup? I have a bit of everything you can dream of.”
Clarke shook her head and turned towards the voice. “No, thank you. I’m not the biggest fan of tea.”
“That’s a shame. Tea can cure just about anything.” Lexa shrugged. She sat on the large leather couch, legs tucked up beneath her, teacup firmly grasped between her hands. Lexa gestured to the two chairs opposite her, and Clarke took the closer one, grabbing the notebook from her messenger bag before settling into the snug seat.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Clarke mused as she turned to the marked page in her journal and glanced up.
“You’re right,” Lexa smirked. “It’s not a cure for everything, but it is a remedy for a worried heart.” She brought her tea to her lips and took a slow sip. The air seemed to charge as they locked gazes, and Clarke adjusted in her seat in a desperate attempt to conceal her attraction.
But Lexa was unfazed. She peered over the rim of the cup and stated with surprising confidence and assertion, “My bookshop is haunted.”
Clarke let out a little chuckle. “Well, yes, Ms. Woods. I would hope you suspected as much considering you contacted me for my services. Paranormal investigators rarely get called out for anything less.”