The Teashop Terror, page 1
The Teashop Terror
A WEAL & WOE BOOKSHOP WITCH MYSTERY
CATE MARTIN
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
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The Witches Three Cozy Mysteries
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About the Author
Also by Cate Martin
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Chapter
One
The thing about the Weal & Woe Bookshop was that, from the very first minute I stepped over the threshold, I instantly felt completely at home.
And given how intense that first minute was, that's really saying something.
It was the smell that did it, that made me feel warm, safe, and protected even as everything going on around me was the opposite of that. Well, with the growing flames and all, I was warm. But never mind that for now. Let me explain about the smell first.
You know how some people can take a sniff and then a sip from a glass of wine and tell you all kinds of things about it? Not just that it's a full-bodied red or a bone dry white, or that it has hints of cherry or a floral bouquet or whatever. I'm talking about people who can take a sip of wine and tell you what kind of soil the grapes grew in, maybe even guess where in the world it was bottled.
I can't do that. To me, it's all just fermented grape juice.
But with the smells of libraries? I can tell so much just from sniffing the air. I am a real connoisseur of printed materials. From modern digital books all the way back to sigils marked out on leaves the size of dinner plates, I have read it all, or at least tried to.
In every school I had ever attended—and there had been literally dozens of them—the library was always my safe haven. I would study there, take my lunch or dinner to eat there, sometimes even sleep there. Part of this was because it was always safer to be away from other people. But mostly it was the books. Just the smell of them was like a hug. And growing up, I had often felt the need for hugs.
You see, I've lived on six of the seven continents at some point or another, attending magical schools tucked away in every imaginable climate or environment from a school hidden behind an apartment bathroom mirror in the middle of Manhattan to the last university I'd attended deep in the hills of what was once called Transylvania. The schools were all different, the students were all different, the grounds were all different.
But the libraries always felt the same. Safe. Home. Where I belonged, in the way I never belonged in the school itself. Even if I hadn't kept moving around, that would've always been true. Libraries are my home. Books and scrolls are my family and friends.
Dry paper or musty paper, leather covers or moldy leather covers, cracking vellum or crisp rice paper. I swear I can distinguish it all.
So back to that slice of time, me walking into the bookshop for the first time. I'll explain about the fire and the general chaos of it all in a minute, I swear.
Okay, so, the minute I stepped inside the Weal & Woe Bookshop, leaving a bright June afternoon in Minneapolis behind, I could smell thousands of books. And I was sure I could identify each, even track them down individually by smell like a bloodhound on the trail. I only needed to introduce myself to each first.
And not accidentally set them on fire. That was rapidly becoming a key point.
To say I'm accident-prone would be a colossal understatement. Kids learning to use magic blow things up, a lot. Or turn their hair green or their lab partner into a rat. It all happens every day, and it's not a big deal.
My accidents, on the other hand? Tend to become big deals.
In this particular moment, I had managed to open the door to the bookshop without incident and plunged into the murky semidarkness beyond. After walking in the sun for the better part of an hour, I was more or less blind, at least temporarily. But the smells enveloped me, like I said, so thick I could taste the dust of a thousand books at the back of my throat, old wood pulp and just a hint of ink.
Newer books with fresh, modern paper and ink were closer to me, I could tell. But other, older things were lurking just beyond. From the point behind the new books back to beyond the limits of my perception. The space around me felt close, but the smells were telling me the books went on forever.
As I came inside, the bell over the door chimed brightly to announce me. It was a cheery sound, and if the smells hadn't been enough to make me feel welcome, that bell would've filled that gap. In truth, I suspected a bit of a charm had been placed on that bell.
Happy little magic. My favorite kind.
Then it chimed again, and I realized I was somehow blocking that door from closing. The suitcase I was pulling behind me was stuck on something. I tried pulling it again, then harder, blinking rapidly as if I could somehow make my eyes adjust to the lower light faster.
I admit, I had the stupids. But who could blame me? I had taken a train from my last school in Transylvania to Amsterdam, then taken an airplane from there to Minneapolis. The light rail line had ended a dozen or so blocks short of my destination, so I had walked the rest of the way. It had been a nice little walk, the air still with a little spring chill to it so I didn't get sweaty even dragging the suitcase with all my worldly possessions behind me.
The road I had been following even went over the Mississippi River, the bridge offering a lovely view of the banks that once had been home to the clusters of mills that had birthed the city.
As usual, I had researched my new home before I got there. I knew more about the local history than most of the locals, I would wager.
But I hadn't slept on the plane at all, and I wasn't even sure what hour of the journey I was on. Maybe thirty? It felt like a hundred. Too long in the same clothes without a shower. Too long in the same shoes, even if they were my most comfy pair of Converse sneakers.
I was exhausted. And, like I said, I had the stupids.
But worse, I could feel my old bad luck starting to spark up. Literally.
And now I really have to explain. As much as I hate to admit this bit.
You see, I live in the world of witches. If you're what we witches call a prosaic—ugh, as if we magic types are by nature more poetical—this might be news to you. Basically, there is another world inside of your world, tucked away in little pockets, unseen and unknown to most people. That's where witches dwell. It's like a book where some of the pages are elaborate pop-ups, but only a few people can get those pages to open.
My parents were witches. I went to witch schools. But I've never been able to do magic. At least, not deliberately. The only time I have any power at all is when I'm tired and stressed and at the end of my rope. Which makes it really hard to learn to master it in a school environment. Not that being magic-less in a magic school isn't incredibly stressful. Believe me, it is. But even if it were possible for me to learn to control my randomly occurring magic, it only appears in moments where that kind of effort is just beyond me. By the time I calm down enough to focus, it's gone again.
At least until I get stressed out again.
Like at that moment, at the end of my long journey, with the stupids. It took me far too long to work out why my suitcase was caught. Even as the door kept trying to close and that cheery bell just kept chiming. But finally I realized that the suitcase had dragged against the worn carpet just inside the door, not rolling over it like it was supposed to. It had pulled up folds of faded woven fabric that promptly got caught in the wheels.
I tried to free the wheels by putting my foot down on the carpet, but that just seemed to get some sort of fraying situation started. It was a really old carpet. But I was clearly actively destroying it even as I still tried to get it free.
And yes, the door kept trying to shut on me and the suitcase both, swinging just enough each time to chime that bell again. I tried moving the carpet and the suitcase together out of the way of the door, but the carpet was caught on something else, or was tacked down somewhere. My eyes still hadn't adjusted enough to the bookstore interior for me to really tell.
But I could smell that bookstore. And even as I struggled, that smell comforted me.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. I had been so nervous. An uncle I barely knew, another uncle I had never even met, and I place I had never even heard of before my mother's brother Carlo had written to me and invited me to stay. I don't really like change, like even more t
Meanwhile, I was still struggling with the carpet in my suitcase wheels. It was well and truly frayed now, big holes torn in the weave and loose threads dangling everywhere. I was really tempted to just pull it apart, to viciously rip it and get my suitcase free. But what a terrible first impression that would make. What if my uncle really liked this carpet?
The door kept swinging and chiming, over and over again. That cheerful sound had morphed into something sort of passive-aggressively chiding me, I swear. And my hair kept swinging into my eyes as I worked at the carpet. Now, even though I was adjusting to the light, I was still blind half the time by billows of staticky hair that hadn't seen a brush since one very long flight, one medium-length light-rail ride and one short walk ago.
Somewhere between Transylvania and Amsterdam. Sometime on that train. That was the last time I had brushed my hair. But the stress was what was causing all the static.
The hug from the books was no longer enough to calm me. I could feel my nerves frazzling.
Then something banged like a firecracker and there was a charred, smoky smell all around me.
That was the point where the carpet caught on fire.
And all I could think was, not again. Not that old bad luck again. It was too soon after my last conflagration. Usually they spaced out more.
I stomped at the carpet, grateful that my suitcase was a hard-sided model and would probably be okay. Except my stomping only seemed to be aggravating the situation. Like the flames I was attempting to blot out were opting instead to lurk on the underside of the carpet and smolder with a thicker, moldier-smelling smoke.
"Step back, Tabitha," a man's voice said. I stumbled a few steps away from the door, just in time to avoid a stream of white foam that coated the carpet, the door, my suitcase, and a good chunk of the sidewalk outside.
The man blasted a few more bursts of foam at the more tenaciously burning bits of the carpet, then stepped back to look at me, adjusting the rectangular glasses that perched on the end of his nose as if to bring me into better focus.
I only had one memory of my uncle. A fragment of a memory, really, from before I started school. A general feeling of kindness, a sharp sense of contrast from my mother, his sister, who had also been there. Still, I recognized him at once. He hadn't changed a bit. Even the tattered forest green cardigan with the patches at the elbow and the missing button just at his thickening waistline were familiar.
"Uncle Carlo," I said. I held out a hand to shake, but somehow, even though I was sure I had stepped back in time, I had foam all over my palm. I wiped it on the leg of my jeans and offered it again, but he stepped past it to pull me into a hug.
Then he took a step back to smile at me. "I don't suppose anyone ever tells you that you look just like your mother," he said.
"No, not really," I said, pushing back the tangle of curls that had fallen into my face. My brown hair, green eyes, and round cheeks were nothing at all like my mother's sleek black hair, icy blue eyes, and thin face. I mean, her cheekbones are to die for. Anyone looks at her, they think supermodel. Anyone looks at me, they think chipmunk or squirrel.
"And yet you make just as splashy of an entrance," he told me, clasping what looked like an antique perfume atomizer made from cut blue glass in his hands. He had made the foam come out of that, I realized. More happy little magic.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "This is a lovely shop you have here, and I almost burned it down."
I said those words before I even took my first proper look around. But now I did, drinking in the sight of the bookshelves all around me. They ran from floor to ceiling, and that ceiling was at least twelve feet up. They were in rows set so close together it would be impossible for two people to pass between them without turning sideways and brushing against each other. And every shelf was jammed with books.
And like my nose had told me, the books around me were new editions, the shiny spines unbroken, the crisp pages as yet untouched. But a dozen or shelves in, I could see older books. Tattered paperbacks and well-preserved old hardbacks both.
But there weren't just books. The back walls were covered in racks something like the racks used to store bottles of wine, but these held scrolls. So many scrolls.
And a lot of the bookshelves had other items on them. Objects made of crystal or bronze or wood. I longed to see it all, to set off into the labyrinth of shelves and lose myself entirely.
But there would be time enough for that later. Now that the fire was out, my exhaustion was back.
"It's our life's work, Frank and I," Carlo said to me as he stepped up and behind the desk that faced the door. It was elevated on a platform like the counter in an old-fashioned pharmacy. The dark wood that ran from the surface of the desk down to the top of the platform was old, a few mysterious scratches gouged near its corners, the finish worn away in spots by countless hands over the years. He put the perfume atomizer away in some cubby out of my sight, then shuffled a few other things away. "I was surprised that you wanted to travel so far in the prosaic world. Did everything go all right?"
Better than they would have if I had tried just stepping through a portal on my own, but I didn't say that. At some point he and his husband would know that the sparks I had emitted that had nearly burned down their lives' work weren't an infrequent phenomenon, but this didn't need to be the time. I was too tired to explain it properly, and I really didn't want to explain it wrong.
"It was an interesting experience," I hedged.
"It is definitely interesting, their world," Carlo said as he came back down from behind the desk. "And it's always there, just outside this door. You know, most of our customers are prosaics. You'll be interacting with them every day while you're working here." There was just a hint of a question in his voice. Whether I could handle that.
"I'm looking forward to it," I assured him.
Which was true. Even if it scared me a little. But I had to get used to it, didn't I? With no magical skills, it might just be the only world left for me.
My uncle was looking at me closely, like he could hear my thoughts and wanted to respond to them. But he could also see I was tired. In the end, he just gave me a smile, smoothing back my hair, then running his hands down my arms, over the sleeves of my button-up shirt.
Then he motioned for me to come away from the door. I took a few steps further into the bookshop, so I was out of his way, but my attention was really on my shirt. He had barely touched me, and yet somehow every one of the millions of wrinkles I had picked up during my travels—no-iron, that shirt had promised me—had been smoothed away. And my hair was no longer hanging in a cloud in front of my eyes.
"Frank is waiting in the apartment upstairs. I just need to lock this door and then we can go up. He can't wait to meet you," he explained, knocking me out of my reverie.
"Oh, I'm sorry about the carpet, Uncle Carlo," I said as he picked it up to carry it outside.
Whatever it had been caught on before was gone now. Somehow, I didn't think it had been freed by the fire. I was starting to see that, whatever branch of magic he had studied in school, he definitely had an all-around handy magic touch.
Carlo shook the carpet, snapping it in the air three times with a loud crack each time. Then he came back in and spread it back on the floor.
The foam was gone. I suppose maybe that might have been shaken off outside.
Except there was no sign of fire damage. And no sign of loose threads or holes in the weave. It wasn't like new by any means, but it was certainly newer.
