Page 8 of Shamrocks & Second Chances

The Moonlit Inn’s library is just like I remember it, even down to smelling of leather bindings, old paper, and something distinctly magical—like cinnamon and ozone mixed together. I step through the ornate double doors with Hecate perched on my shoulder, her tiny body warm against my neck.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she whispers, her whiskers tickling my ear. “Too quiet. Too many secrets.”

I run my fingers along the spines of ancient books as we move deeper into the library. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the towering bookshelves. The wooden floor creaks beneath my boots, announcing our presence to anyone—or anything—lurking among the stacks.

“We’re looking for ‘Irish Magical Folk Tales,’” I murmur to Hecate. “It has to be here somewhere.”

Hecate’s nose twitches. She stands up on her hind legs, balancing precariously on my shoulder. “Bella, there’s old magic here. Really old. This isn’t just some silly treasure hunt.”

I pause, glancing at my familiar. “What do you mean?”

“I mean whoever set this up knows things. Personal things.” Hecate’s collar charm shifts from blue to a murky purple. “They’re playing with powerful forces.”

Before I can respond, a book flies off a nearby shelf, narrowly missing my head. I duck instinctively, and the book crashes into the wall behind me.

“Who dares disturb my library?” A shimmering figure materializes between two bookshelves as a woman in Victorian dress with her gray hair piled atop her head appears. Lady Winifred, the ghost librarian of the Moonlit Inn.

“Lady Winifred,” I say, straightening. “I apologize for the intrusion. I’m looking for a specific book.”

The ghost sniffs, adjusting her phantasmic spectacles. “Bella Brewster. I haven’t seen you in these stacks for quite some time. What brings you back now?”

“I need to find ‘Irish Magical Folk Tales.’ It’s important.”

Lady Winifred’s transparent form floats closer, studying me with piercing eyes. “That particular volume has been waiting for you, my dear. For two years now.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean, waiting for me?”

“Follow me.” She glides between the shelves, her form illuminating the dark corners of the library.

I hurry after her, weaving through the maze of bookshelves. Hecate digs her tiny claws into my sweater, holding tightly.

“That ghost knows something,” Hecate hisses. “Ask her what she means.”

“Lady Winifred,” I call after her. “What did you mean about the book waiting for me?”

The ghost pauses, turning to face me. “Some books find their readers when the time is right, Miss Brewster. This one has been particularly insistent.”

She leads us to a secluded reading nook tucked away in the back corner of the library. A large bay window overlooks the snow-covered gardens of the inn, moonlight streaming through the glass. On a small table sits a single book, its emerald green cover embossed with gold Celtic knots. I was reading it during that argument with Seamus and forgot to return for it.

“Here we are.” Lady Winifred gestures to the book. “‘Irish Magical Folk Tales.’ First edition.”

I approach slowly, my heart pulsating wildly. The book seems to pulse with energy, calling to me. I reach out, fingers hovering over the cover.

“Go on,” Lady Winifred urges. “It’s been patient long enough.”

I pick up the book, its weight substantial in my hands. The leather binding is warm to the touch, as if someone had just set it down. I open it carefully as the pages crackle with age.

Something slips from between the pages—a folded piece of parchment sealed with green wax. A letter.

“What’s that?” Hecate leans forward, nearly tumbling off my shoulder in her curiosity.

I turn over the parchment in my hands. The wax seal bears the imprint of a four-leaf clover. I think it’s Seamus’s personal seal. “It’s from him,” I whisper, my throat suddenly dry.

Lady Winifred clears her throat. “I’ll leave you to your reading, Miss Brewster. Some things are meant for private eyes only.” She begins to fade, then adds, “Though I must say, that leprechaun of yours has terrible manners. Leaving a letter in a book instead of delivering it properly.”

With that, she vanishes, leaving me alone with Hecate and the mysterious letter.

“Open it,” Hecate urges, jumping down onto the table. “Let’s see what excuse he had for breaking your heart.”

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