Glancing over my words, I wondered how well Fairy Jane dealt with sass. Feeling a little gutsy, I snapped the book closed, ready for the next round. Honestly, I would have much preferred to banish it back to the bookshelf, but today, it seemed, absolutely everything was outside my control.
And then, on the way out the door, as I grabbed a couple more M&M’s, my gaze happened to catch on the little square calendar propped jauntily beside the door. It clearly displayed today’s date, but the quote had changed from the one that had been there this morning. Now it read, “ ‘When he was present she had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever.’
I guess I had my answer. The crazy was no longer confined to the journal—it was on the loose, in Austin. I couldn’t imagine a more dangerous combination.
I tried calling Beck on my way downtown, but it rolled to voice mail. As soon as her class was over, she’d be getting quite the earful. I truly hoped she had a logical explanation for this, although, knowing her, it probably wouldn’t be the least bit reassuring—or logical.
Violet’s seemed a little less quirky on a Monday at noon, and after parking on the street, I hurried inside, the journal tucked away in my purse. Deciding to risk another run-in with the Shop Nazi before launching an all-out search for the key myself, I headed for the counter. She saw me coming and crinkled her lips into a thin line.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she inquired, clearly hoping my answer was negative.
“I hope so,” I answered, exuding friendly, encouraging vibes. “I’m actually looking for a key to fit this lock.” I held up the journal and watched as it triggered her memory: me groveling unattractively, Beck being Beck. I couldn’t tell her I’d talked to Mr. Nelson—she’d wonder how I’d gotten his name and number, since she hadn’t been willing to give it up. This was going to go great. “I really feel like there should be a key.” Well done.
“I don’t recall a key, but you’re free to look.” That was evidently all I was going to get out of her.
“Are you the owner here?” I was holding out for the possibility that there was a sweet little lady locked in a closet somewhere in the back. If I could bust her out, maybe
“I am, yes.”
Wishful thinking foiled again.
“O-kay then,” I said brightly. “Well I guess I’ll just start looking. Any suggestions on where to start ... ?” I asked, turning slightly, ready to rummage.
“There is a small collection of keys on the marble-topped console by the door.” It clearly pained her to offer up even this stingy bit of information. “And a few scattered about in various vignettes around the shop. Enjoy.”
“Oh, I plan to,” I tossed back, smiling widely. On the outside chance that I found the key and managed to unlock some magical mojo, at least she wouldn’t be there looking over my shoulder.
And so, for the next forty-five minutes, I combed the shop, painstakingly searching through an eclectic collection of hiding spots for a magical key. From silk-lined jewelry cases to cigar boxes, crystal candy dishes to cedar-lined drawers. There was no shortage of keys, but none of them fit and, as ridiculous as it sounded, none of them looked quite right, magically speaking. Whatever that meant. I was just about to give up and resign myself to never experiencing the deluxe version of the journal when my tired gaze caught on a dainty brass key on a thin crimson ribbon, winking in a stream of sunlight. I had the weirdest sense that it had been hiding, lurking as it was amid a jumbled mix of dominos and mah-jong tiles in a carved wooden ashtray. I’d scanned this particular menagerie at least once before and come up empty.
Moving closer, my heart starting to pound and my throat constricting with incredulous wonder, I glanced at the key plate on the journal, gauging the size of the keyhole. And then, suddenly, I was standing in the glare of the sun, fitting the key to the lock, feeling a quivering, tingling excitement as I realized that this was the one. With a gentle twist the journal came to life in my hands.
It was all relatively low-key: no shimmering swirls of fairy dust spiraling crazily, no inanimate objects skittering about, just quiet freakiness. The slim little volume that had once fit in my purse expanded, growing heavy in my hands, becoming a veritable tome as pages crowded into its spine. I was quite proud not to have dropped it like a hot potato and was praying the Shop Nazi wouldn’t come looking for me, having been summoned by the pounding of my telltale heart. When it finished its magical metamorphosis, I cautiously lifted the cover to peek at the first page. The page was now blanketed with a familiar old-fashioned script.
Oh. My. God! It
I tipped the book closed, releasing a puff of dust—it could have been fairy or otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Then eyes wide, movements jerky, I scanned the store around me in a panic. I couldn’t think what to do. This book had historical significance, seeing as it contained some lost writings of literary darling Jane Austen. But at the same time, I was kinda in the middle of something here—my life was in an uproar. To say nothing of my sincere desire to keep my journaling secrets strictly need-to-know. And how would the world handle the whole mystic, paranormal element, the one I was currently struggling with myself? Tough call.
Mired in confusion, I tipped the book open again. Hurriedly riffling past the first few pages, I flipped pages quickly, standing transfixed as one set of tidy handwriting gave way to the next. I was scanning only, trying not to focus on anything too closely, more than a little disconcerted with the journal’s latest bout of showmanship. I felt suddenly out of breath and helplessly overwhelmed, my thoughts and uncertainties churning themselves into a sickly stew. These were other people’s private thoughts—or else they had been two minutes ago when I was still keyless and blissfully clueless. I kept going, spurred by avid curiosity. Pages whizzed past until I’d reached the end—my handwriting, my turn with the journal.
