Page 6 of Claws for Celebration
Moira worked methodically, photographing each page and cross-referencing names with her growing database. The repetitive work was soothing, requiring just enough concentration to quiet her mind while leaving space for the peaceful atmosphere of the bookstore to work its magic.
That atmosphere was helped considerably by Lucien's presence. He moved in and out of her peripheral vision, helping customers, answering questions about local history, and occasionally bringing her fresh coffee or a plate of cookies from the café down the street. His attention felt protective rather than intrusive, as if he understood her need to focus while ensuring she remained comfortable.
"These are incredible," she commented during one of his check-ins, gesturing to the cookies. "Twyla's recipe?"
"Her grandmother's, apparently. Some family traditions run deep in Hollow Oak." Lucien's smile carried warmth that made her stomach flutter. "Twyla claims the secret ingredient is mountain herbs, but I suspect it's mostly just skill and practice."
"Most family recipes have a touch of mystery," Moira agreed, biting into a cookie that tasted like cinnamon and honey with undertones she couldn't identify. "My grandmother made bread that never went stale, but she took the recipe to her grave."
"Some knowledge is meant to be earned rather than inherited," Lucien said softly.
Something in his tone made her look up sharply, but his expression revealed nothing beyond mild interest in their conversation. Still, she found herself studying his face, noting the sharp cheekbones that caught the afternoon light and the way his dark hair fell in waves that begged to be touched.
Professional, she reminded herself firmly.You're here to do a job, not to develop a crush on the local bookstore owner.
But as the afternoon wore on and their easy conversation continued, Moira found her professional resolve weakening. Lucien was clearly intelligent, well-read, and possessed of a dry sense of humor that emerged during their discussions of local history. More importantly, he treated her work with genuine respect, asking thoughtful questions about her research methods and offering insights about the families and events documented in the genealogies.
It was nearly five o'clock when she found it.
The entry was buried in a section documenting marriages from the 1820s, written in the same careful script as the rest of the volume. But when Moira read the names, her hands began to shake so violently that she nearly dropped her camera.
"Elara Seraphina Shadowheart, wed to Thomas Marsh, June 21st, 1823. Born October 13th, 1805. Issue: Margaret, born 1824;Samuel, born 1826. Note: bloodline preserved, gifts dormant, extended lifespan."
Her grandmother's name. Her grandmother's full name, including the middle name Seraphina that she'd always claimed was an old family tradition. The birth date that Moira had celebrated every October 13th for twenty-six years of her life.
"No," she whispered, staring at the page. "That's not possible."
The implications crashed over her like a tidal wave. If this was accurate, her grandmother had been born in 1805. That would make her over two hundred years old when she died five years ago. Samuel Marsh, born in 1826, would be her great-great-grandfather, explaining how the Marsh name had passed down through the generations.
"Moira?" Lucien's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What's wrong?"
She looked up to find him standing beside her chair, concern etched across his features. "This entry," she managed, pointing to the line with a trembling finger. "That's my grandmother. Elara Seraphina Shadowheart. Same full name, same birth date I celebrated with her every year."
Lucien went very still, and for a moment, she could have sworn his eyes flashed with some emotion too complex to interpret. "Are you certain?"
"October 13th, 1805. Elara Seraphina. She always told me Seraphina was a family name passed down through generations, but she said her maiden name was Smith." Moira's voice cracked as the reality sank in. "If this is real, if this is her, then she was over two hundred years old. And she never told me. She lied about everything."
“Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. A name passed down,” he suggested, though he sounded skeptical himself.
“But these names all seem…” she didn’t have the words to explain how she knew them. How she knew thatthiswas her grandmother.
"People sometimes change their names when they leave small communities," Lucien said carefully. "Especially if they're trying to distance themselves from difficult memories."
"But why would she lie about it? And what does 'gifts dormant' mean?"
Before Lucien could answer, the brass bell above the front door chimed, and a woman's voice called out cheerfully, "Lucien? Are you hiding back there with your books again?"
"Back here, Twyla," Lucien replied, though his attention remained focused on Moira's distressed expression.
A woman appeared between the shelves, carrying a bakery box and wearing an apron dusted with flour. She had wheat-colored hair pinned up in a practical bun and warm brown eyes that sparkled with curiosity. "I brought some fresh scones for your researcher friend, but it looks like I'm interrupting something important."
"Twyla Honeytree, Moira Marsh," Lucien said by way of introduction. "Moira just discovered some unexpected family history in the genealogies."
"Did she now?" Twyla's eyes sharpened with interest. "Marsh, you said? That's one of our founding families. Goes way back in these mountains."
"So I'm learning," Moira said, accepting the cup of tea Twyla pressed into her hands. The blend smelled of chamomile and something floral she couldn't identify. "Though I'm beginning to think my grandmother kept more secrets than I realized."
"Families have their reasons for keeping quiet about the past," Twyla said gently, echoing Mrs. Caldwell's words from the previous evening. "But blood calls to blood, especially in placeslike Hollow Oak. Maybe it's time for those old stories to find their way back to the light."
