Page 97 of Ashen Souls

“We don't have to do this today, Aves. If you need more time, we can just turn around.”

I wrapped both hands around my mug to borrow its heat. “I'm okay.”

“You look like you’re holding on by a thread.”

“It's just lack of sleep.” I focused on the dark surface of my coffee, avoiding her eyes. “Let’s just go.”

We finished quickly and stepped back out into the damp morning air. The sky over Vesbridge was a flat, bruised gray, pressing the streets into a dull twilight.

Harper unlocked her car and started the engine. I climbed in beside her and tugged the door shut.

I still didn't know what we were going to find in that shop. But the mark on my wrist had already invaded my life on its own terms. Now, I was finally going to meet it on mine.

We made it to Blackmere in under forty minutes.

Unlike Vesbridge’s imposing Gothic architecture, this town was quaint. There were no towering buildings or flashy storefronts. Just winding lanes, pale stone facades, and quiet sidewalks. Normally, my literature-wired brain would have romanticized the hell out of it. It was exactly the kind of sleepy, picturesque place where you could disappear into a corner café with a book and ignore the rest of the world.

Harper pulled the car up to the curb, and we climbed out into the thick mist. Across the street, gold-leaf lettering arched across a wide, slightly dusty storefront window:

Blackmere Antiquities & Curiosities

The rest of the sign was buried in overly elaborate flourishes.

I checked my phone. 11:05 a.m.

“Five minutes late to the grand opening.” Harper pocketed her keys. “Hopefully that keeps us from being categorized as morning people.”

“Let's try not to traumatize the owner before lunch.” I shoved my phone into my coat.

“I'm always charming.” She led the way across the street.

The shop’s front windows were crowded but deliberate: brass instruments, faded maps, and delicate porcelain figures staring blankly through the glass.

Harper swung the door open. A tarnished bell above our heads let out a harsh clank that scraped against my already frayed nerves.

The air inside was much cooler. It smelled exactly like I expected: old paper and wood polish, but there was something else beneath it. A metallic chill, like stepping into an underground vault.

The layout wasn't the chaotic hoarder’s den most antique shops devolved into. Dark wooden shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed with books, boxed artifacts, and bizarre, unidentifiable objects. Across the floor, glass display cases were laid out in rigid rows, housing pocket watches, compasses, and heavy rings.

Everything had been curated. Every item was positioned with an exactness that bordered on obsessive.

From somewhere deep in the back of the shop, a floorboard groaned.

Harper leaned closer to me. “Okay. This place definitely knows things.”

I had to agree. There was a massive wooden counter toward the back, its surface polished to a high shine. Behind it, tall apothecary-style cabinets held hundreds of small drawers, each labeled in meticulous, looping script: Bindings. Seals. Maps. Miscellaneous.

Of course there was a Miscellaneous.

A man appeared from the back room.

He didn’t look like the rumpled, eccentric antique dealers from the movies. He matched the shop perfectly, uncompromisingly neat. Late forties, wearing a pristine shirt under a tailored charcoal waistcoat. Not a speck of dust, no ink stains. His eyes immediately took in both of us, as if categorizing us the same way he did his inventory.

“Good morning.” His voice was polite but measured. “Can I help you find something?”

I didn't bother with small talk. I fished my phone from my pocket, stepped right up to the counter, and turned the screen toward him.

“We saw this on your website.” I tapped the glass. “The ring.”