Page 35 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 13

Delia

The library doors part with a whisper as we step into the climate-controlled hush of Pennington Falls Public Library. Morning light streams through the tall windows, setting dust motes dancing in the air like tiny stars. I straighten my shoulders, trying to project casual curiosity rather than the gnawing dread that's been eating at me since last night's discoveries. Jasper looms at my side, his face a careful blank, while Whiskers remains tucked away in my purse, the occasional twitch betraying his presence to anyone looking closely enough.

Greta sits at the circulation desk, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. Her fingers tap across a keyboard with machine-gun efficiency, pausing only when she notices us approaching.

"Good morning," she says, her smile professional but warm. "How can I help you folks today?"

I lean against the counter, channeling my inner small-town gossip. "Hey Greta, I was hoping Cassie might be around? She was helping me with some research for a blog post for the farm’s reopening, featuring the Raveens, and I had a few follow-up questions."

Greta's smile dims slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Cassie's still in Boston with her sick aunt. Been there since the other day. Not sure when she'll be back. I'd be happy to help if I can, though my historical knowledge isn't nearly as extensive as hers."

"That's so kind of you," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. "Actually, we're just going to browse a bit. Maybe check out some books about local history? For the blog."

"Of course." She gestures toward the stacks. "Let me know if you need anything."

We drift away from the desk, maintaining casual postures until we're safely hidden among the towering shelves. The scent of old paper and lemon furniture polish fills my nose as I lean close to Jasper.

"Still in Boston with her sick aunt," I whisper.

Whiskers' head pops out of my purse, his voice barely audible. "Funny thing about that. According to those ancestry websites we checked last night, Cassie Blackwood is the last of her bloodline. No living relatives. No aunts, sick or otherwise."

A chill runs down my spine despite the library's comfortable temperature. "So, she's lying. Question is, where is she really?"

Jasper scans the room, his eyes narrowed. "More importantly, what is she doing?"

We wander deeper into the stacks, pretending to browse while actually searching for anything unusual. The history section yields nothing suspicious, nor does the reference area. After twenty minutes of fruitless searching, frustration bubbles up inside me.

"This is getting us nowhere," I mutter.

Jasper runs a hand through his white hair, messing it up in that way that used to drive me wild.

Still does, if I'm being honest.

"We could split up, cover more ground."

"No," Whiskers and I say simultaneously.

"Bad idea," I add. "We stick together. Besides, I have an idea."

I pull the dart from the pocket of my wide-legged jeans, weighing it in my palm. The metal feels cool against my skin, but there's something else there too—a faint vibration, as if it's eager to complete its purpose.

"Worth a shot," I murmur, bringing the dart close to my lips. "Go home," I whisper, then blow gently across its surface.

The dart quivers in my palm, then launches into the air. It zips between shelves like a determined bumblebee, leading us on a winding path through the library. We follow at a discreet distance, trying not to draw attention as it leads us deeper and deeper into the stacks, past the rarely-used microfilm section and into a dim corner where academic journals from the 1970s gather dust.

The dart embeds itself with a soft thunk into a bookshelf in the back right corner, where the fluorescent lighting barely reaches and the shelves are packed with volumes that look like they haven't been touched in decades.

Jasper's lips quirk into something not quite a smile. "Looks like your magical GPS needs recalibrating." He taps the dart with his fingertip. "Just like your resurrection spell." The barb lands softer than it would have earlier this week, the edge in his voice dulled to something almost teasing.

"Wait," Whiskers says, clambering out of my purse onto the nearest shelf. He scampers along the edge, his nose twitching rapidly. "Look at the dust pattern."

I peer closer, and sure enough, there's something odd about how the dust lies on the dark wood. The shelves around us show an even layer of neglect, but in this section the dust is disturbed in strange, regular patterns, as if the shelf moves frequently.

"Good catch," I tell Whiskers, who preens under the praise.

Jasper's fingers trace the bookcase edge, his touch deliberate and searching. When he reaches the far corner, his hand stills. A slight furrow appears between his brows as he leans closer. "Found something," he murmurs, pressing against what looks like solid wood. "A seam. You'd never see it if you weren't hunting for it."