A Precarious Journey into Magic

By Jenna Lindsey

Have you ever wished you could be part of a fairy tale? Would you expect romance? Would you be prepared for horror?

Emmerson Patterson designs graphics for computers, but his real love is books, especially fairy tales. He hopes to meet the woman of his dreams one day. Then he meets her: Elswyth of Linadae. She lives in an apartment above a second-hand bookstore. Or does she live within the pages of a book? No one can see her; why can Emmerson? Who is Elswyth hiding from and what is the magic in the charm she wears?

Fall in love with Elswyth and Emmerson as they decipher ancient spells, uncover magic, and battle sorcerers.

Discover what Faeries, computers, dusty books, and Chinese food have in common.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491711316

Jenna Lindsey

Jenna Lindsey is the author of several fantasy books, including the Editor’s Choice novel, Mickey and Nadika, An Adventure Across Time and Space. Agoraphobic and hearing-impaired, Jenna hears her characters clearly and travels with them through her novels. Jenna and her husband live in Calgary, Alberta.

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Copyright © 2013 Jenna Lindsey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1129-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1130-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1131-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918784

iUniverse rev. date: 10/15/2013

Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Epilogue

Poems from A Precarious Journey Into Magic

For my husband, Jerry

Acknowled

gments

Thank you to my longtime friend, Elaine,

for her support and sense of humor.

Special thanks to my krisen.

Prologue

T he bookstore was in an old house that had once been grand but was now a little shabby on the outside. Inside, however, the rooms of the house were full of secondhand books and antique books and books that were rare and books that were almost new.

It was also full of magic. Mostly because of the books, but also because of the faerie.

The faerie sat quietly in a corner of the bookstore. She wasn’t really a faerie; no wings rose from behind her shoulders, the tips of her ears were round, not pointed, and her gown—though long and soft—was not gossamer. In fact, none of the faeries she saw in pictures in books looked like her.

Once she thought she might be a princess under a spell, but princesses lived in castles or slept in towers. The faerie lived between the pages of an old book, in the color illustrations called plates. Therefore, she decided, she must be a faerie. Just one that had not yet been portrayed. How else could she survive her strange existence between worlds? Sometimes within the pages of her book, she slept, small and alone. Sometimes—at night—she wandered the aisles of the old bookstore, lissome and tall.

Sometimes the faerie would open a different book, ruffle its pages, and watch the dust dance in the moonlight. Then she danced too, her long, dark hair whirling around her body, and her pale blue gown billowing like a sail.

During the day, she liked to watch the people. There weren’t many who came to the bookstore and fewer still who ventured down the rickety stairs to the basement level. Those people intrigued the faerie. They came to investigate the oldest books—the books that leaned against one another, unread for years, dusty but inviting.

The faerie stood up and stretched. No one noticed. They couldn’t see her, and she had long ago stopped trying to catch their attention. The lights overhead blinked: closing time. The faerie watched two women leave. Then she saw him.

He was slim and tall. His hair was light brown like his eyes, and the features of his face were refined, almost feminine. In his left hand, he held a book, the corner of one page caught between the fingers of his right hand, gently, carefully, respectfully. The man looked up. He closed the book and held it against his chest. Hullo.

The faerie froze. He can’t see me, she thought. Still, she didn’t move.

I guess the bookstore’s closing. May I walk you out?

The faerie gasped. She took one step back, escape prevented by a wall of books.

Are you all right? The man tucked the book under his left arm and took a step forward.

The faerie nodded quickly, afraid to speak.

The lights blinked again.

The man looked up and then back at the faerie. We’d better go or they’ll lock us in.

Go, the faerie said quietly. She glanced at the stairs.

Yes. Well, I’ll meet you at the front desk?

The faerie shook her head.

Ah. Last-minute shopping? Well. I’ll tell them you’re here so they won’t turn off the lights. The man turned away and started up the stairs. He paused at the landing, faced her, and smiled. Hey. What’s your name?

The faerie had to pull the memory of her name from very deep within her. Elswyth, she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Elswyth, the man repeated just as softly, as if it were a secret. Mine’s Emmerson. He smiled again and continued up the stairs.

Elswyth turned away, breathing fast, excited but scared. She stood on tiptoe and reached up for a leather-bound book on the very top shelf. It almost fell into her hands as she grasped its spine. Elswyth opened the book. Her fingers trembled as she tried to find a color plate picture. Where was it? An illustration wouldn’t do; it had to be color or she would …

Elswyth found a thicker page; its color picture beckoned. Relieved, she spun about like a ballerina and disappeared.

A few minutes later, the proprietor of the bookstore trudged down the stairs. He saw the book on the floor and carefully returned it to a shelf where it could lie horizontally, and the faerie would be able to open it easily. Turning away, the old man paused. It was he who had called her a faerie, but even now, after all these years, he wasn’t sure whether she was such a creature.

All he knew was that she was beautiful, and he was lucky to have caught a glimpse of her when he was a boy. All through the long, summer afternoons when he should have been outside playing, he sat instead in the basement of the bookstore, reading books aloud, hoping she could hear him, hoping to see her again.

Once he had opened that particularly old book, worn and discolored. It had been very heavy, and as he set it down, a page with a color plate flipped back, and a wisp of blue smoke escaped. An instant later, Elswyth stood before him. Startled, she had stared at him. He stared back. Before he could speak, she whirled and disappeared. Now he was an old man. He hadn’t seen the faerie since that long-ago day. But he remembered—as old men do—and that was enough.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, looked back, and then turned off the basement light. Good night.

One

E mmerson Patterson set his laptop computer on the table. He frowned at it. He didn’t like it. Emmerson didn’t like any technology, and yet it was essential to how he made his living. He designed the graphics for websites.

Oh, he had tried traditional art, but it didn’t pay the bills, and curiously, in spite of his antagonism toward it, technology came easily to him. He humanized it by giving it names and argued frequently with his laptop’s programming when it failed to do his bidding.

Still, Emmerson preferred books, especially old books. He loved the smell when he opened them; it was the scent of time long past, and the pages between his fingers were soft and delicate. He liked the feel of the spine, usually rough and worn—for he only collected hard covers, and the really old ones rarely had dust jackets. It was why he had been in that old and dusty secondhand bookstore. To find a particular book—out of print but important—because he had loved it as a boy and missed it now, at thirty-eight, because he was lonely.

He recalled the beautiful, mysterious woman he had seen at the bookstore. Elswyth. He said her name aloud as if it could conjure her presence.

Emmerson crossed the living room of his apartment and sat down on the plain brown sofa. The book he had just purchased beckoned to him. Emmerson set it on the coffee table, still distracted.

She wasn’t at all like any woman I’ve ever seen. Elswyth. He had noticed a small movement from the corner of his eye, and when he looked up, there she stood. Like a beautiful fairy. He had almost expected her to disappear. Her face was a pale oval, and dark eyebrows arched lightly above deep blue eyes. Straight nose, full lips. Her long dress had fit tightly against her figure, and her waist-length hair had hung in long, black curls. No. Not like any woman he had ever even imagined. And when she spoke, when she said her name, her voice was familiar. Just like her eyes. What color of blue were her eyes?

Emmerson shook his head. He leaned forward and patted the top of the book. Thanks, Mom. I’ll read it again. Later.

A sad smile lifted one corner of his mouth as Emmerson recalled the last time he had listened to his mother’s voice, seen her face, felt her good-night kiss on his forehead. He had been six, and a chest cold had kept him in bed for many days. His mother looked after him, his grandmother, too. Sometimes his father would look in on him, nod, and ruffle Emmerson’s hair.

That last night, his mother and father were going out to a concert. Emmerson’s grandmother would stay with him. After the car accident, his grandmother stayed with him for twenty years, until she passed in her sleep.

It always kept Emmerson up late, wondering if this was his last night alive. Would he, too, pass away? Away where? Where would he go?

When he had first come across the old secondhand bookstore, Emmerson decided that when he did pass away, this was where he would like to come. It had been a house once, long ago. Now it was a home for books. The assorted rooms were a labyrinth of shelves, from unpolished wood floors to molded ceilings. Emmerson had stepped into the bookstore, leaving the noise of the city behind as the little bell above the door announced his arrival. He had stood still, feeling welcome and comfortable.

Jerking himself back to the present, Emmerson went to the kitchen and started making his dinner. He would accept the date his friend had offered to arrange. He was tired, lonely, and tired of being lonely. All he did was work and watch movies, sometimes both at the same time.

Hours later, the book—once treasured—still unopened, lay on the bedside table. Emmerson lay in his bed, awake.

Elswyth, he said. He remembered something odd about her. No purse. No … shoes.

Emmerson turned onto his right side. She must live there. I’ll just stop in again tomorrow.

A space between the window blinds let moonlight mark the floor. Feeling better now that he had decided, Emmerson rolled over. He flung one arm across his eyes, trying to remember the exact shade of Elswyth’s blue eyes.

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Elswyth lifted her arms above her head and pushed her hands flat against the colors of a morning sky. She shoved hard against a rough surface; the book’s front cover lifted up and fell open. Elswyth waited for a minute and then whirled about, becoming a thin strand of pale blue smoke and then herself again. The basement of the bookstore was empty. The lights were on, and she could hear voices upstairs. Elswyth recognized the owner’s voice: warm, patient. A second voice spoke.

The voice had a deep timbre, inquiring, and then a laugh followed by footsteps. Footsteps on the stairs.

Elswyth hesitated, wanting to return to the book but curious. The second voice sounded familiar. How could that be? Was it him? Emmerson? She’d dreamed of him all night, restless and discontent. She had to know if he had returned and why.

Leaving the book open, Elswyth tiptoed down an aisle as the footsteps grew nearer, louder. She peeked around a corner. It was him.

Elswyth watched as Emmerson went to her open book and picked it up. He checked the front cover and then the spine. Finally, Emmerson turned the first few pages and, coming to the title page, spoke out loud, "All Faeries Fine."

He looked around the basement, and Elswyth moved away a step. Emmerson closed the book but kept it against his chest. He wandered down one aisle and up another, touching the occasional volume with the forefinger of his right hand.

Watching him, Elswyth felt an excitement she had never known. Skillfully, silently, she shadowed him, paused when he paused, stepped forward or backward as he did, peering over the tops of books. Then he saw her. They stared at each other.

Emmerson spoke first. Hello.

Hello.

You came back. Emmerson started up the aisle he was in, eyes on Elswyth.

Momentarily confused, she stood still. Came back? Elswyth waited as Emmerson walked down the aisle in which she stood.

I’m glad you came back, he said and smiled down at her.

Tha … that’s my book, Elswyth stammered.

He held it out to her. I thought it might be. It’s very beautiful.

Yes.

What’s it about?

I’ve not read it. I— Elswyth broke free of his gaze. She reached for the book.

Ah. You’re buying it for a friend?

Elswyth stood very still, holding one end of the book as Emmerson held the other. She was unaccustomed to lying, and she had never had a friend unless you counted the owner of the bookstore. Certainly he cared for her. I suppose that makes him my friend, she thought.

Taking a deep breath, Elswyth smiled and tugged on the book. Emmerson held tight. Wait. He stared down into her eyes; they were cobalt blue. Would you like to go for a coffee?

Elswyth shook her head. She didn’t know what coffee was, only that she couldn’t go with Emmerson. I can’t. I’m sorry, she added quickly when she saw his disappointment. It’s only that—

Please don’t tell me you have a boyfriend.

A boyfriend? Elswyth, still holding onto the book with both hands, took a step forward. She stared up at Emmerson, searching his eyes, trying to fathom his meaning, hoping her heart would slow its rapid beating, for surely he could hear it.

Emmerson moved closer. Now only the book separated them.

Maybe I could take you out to dinner? Emmerson said.

Dinner. Elswyth didn’t know what else to say. She felt a strange longing and without thinking took one more step closer to Emmerson.

Suddenly he released the book, and as Elswyth caught it, he leaned forward and kissed her quickly. Abruptly he stood back. I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to do that. Emmerson held out his right hand, as if to touch her, and then dropped it to his side. Please say you’ll have dinner with me tonight.

I’ll have dinner with you tonight.

That’s great. Uh. He looked around. I could meet you here. Where do you live?

Hugging the book, Elswyth answered truthfully. Here.

Here. Emmerson remembered an advertisement in the bookstore’s window some time ago; there had been an apartment for rent above the bookstore.

I’ll pick you up at six?

Elswyth didn’t understand the phrase, but she nodded.

Emmerson smiled. Okay. Great. I’ll see you at six. He turned away, turned back. Six o’clock. Tonight. It’s a date.

Yes. Elswyth trailed after him until he reached the stairs. She watched him ascend. He paused on the landing and waved. Elswyth lifted her right hand, and Emmerson bounded up the rest of the stairs.

Six o’clock, Elswyth repeated and touched the fingertips of her right hand to her lips. The kiss had felt necessary, as if waiting a moment longer would be too late. And she had wanted to return the kiss.

Now she could only wait and hope Emmerson would return as he had said.

The bell on the bookstore’s front door rang brightly. Footsteps entered the bookstore, and voices murmured.

Elswyth moved away from the bottom step and crossed the basement to a corner. A soft chair sat beside an iron floor lamp. Elswyth sat down, the book on her lap. She didn’t want to risk opening it. Didn’t want to take any chance that she might miss him.

Six o’clock, Elswyth thought and listened as the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs chimed eleven. It would be a long wait.

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Emmerson Patterson didn’t go to his office. He went for a walk. I’m acting like a crazy man, he decided. What was I thinking? You don’t kiss a woman you’ve just met. You don’t make a date with someone you know nothing about.

Emmerson stopped, unaware he was in the middle of a crosswalk. Isn’t that what a blind date is? he asked a woman as she hurried past him.

Light’s changing, she said, nodding to the pedestrian signal.

A car horn honked. Emmerson started, waved at the driver, and jogged to the safety of the sidewalk’s curb. Blind date. Damn. I’ve got to call Rory and cancel.

He stood at the corner for a minute. Elswyth. Warm lips, cobalt eyes, long, dark hair, same dress as yesterday. And … no shoes. Of course, since she lived upstairs, she probably didn’t have to go outside to get into the store.

Emmerson started walking again. What do I do now? he wondered.

An hour later, he sat down on a park bench, ignoring the cold, his laptop still in its bag, his cell phone in his hand. He had decided. Whatever this feeling was that Elswyth inspired, he had to pursue it. Emmerson pressed the speed dial.

The phone rang once. A woman answered. What is it?

It’s me. Emmerson.

I know it’s you. I’ve got caller ID, and no, you’re not going to back out of tonight.

I have to.

Emmerson’s best friend, Rory, scoffed. No you don’t. You want to. Big difference.

You’re right. Years of experience made Emmerson effusive. You’re always right. And on that note, I’ll talk to you later.

Wait a minute. Rory was interested now. Em had given in too easily. Yes, she was right, but this was more than last-minute indecision. You’ve met someone else.

Emmerson hesitated. Well, not exactly.

Either you have or you haven’t.

All right. I have. And I’m having dinner with her tonight.

Who is she? Where’d you meet her? I mean, Em, you just confirmed with me last night. Sheryl’s really looking forward to meeting you. What the hell am I supposed to tell her?

You’ll think of something. You always do. Emmerson made a kissing noise. Thanks, Rory. I’m hanging up now. Good-bye.

Oh, no you don’t! You big—

Emmerson shut his phone and turned it off. Rory would seethe, and then she’d start phoning him, curious and annoyed. He’d tell her all about his date tomorrow.

Standing up, Emmerson looked around. Date. He had a date.

Flowers, he thought. I’ll take her flowers. He hummed a tune as he headed west to find a florist and a restaurant. Now that he had broken free of his commitment, he was hungry. Emmerson glanced at his watch: 12:45 p.m.

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Elswyth stepped into the sunshine that splayed across the main floor of the bookstore. She glanced at the counter near the front door. An old man sat behind the cash register, dozing, his chin down, glasses near the end of his nose. Elswyth knew he was the boy, grown up now, grown old. Age had not touched her, and never before had she been troubled by the passing of time. Today, however, with the promise of Emmerson’s return, a restlessness had made her climb the stairs.

The old man snored and shifted his weight a little. Elswyth hurried down an aisle and around a corner. The bookstore was empty except for two women. They were standing in front of the window, stacks of books on either side of them. Elswyth moved forward quietly, hoping to hear their murmured conversation.

You’ll have to wear something extra special, said the taller woman. Her hair was pale yellow and pulled tightly back from her sharp features. This is the first guy who’s ever wanted you to meet his parents.

The shorter woman shrugged. Her round face was framed with a torrent of reddish curls, and when she spoke, her voice was high and full of humor. I know, I know. But no matter what I wear, I’ll still sound like this—she giggled and pushed one hand at her hair—and look like this.

She looked at a shelf behind Elswyth. I think it’s over there.

As the women started toward her, Elswyth stepped aside, but the women didn’t see her.

Let me see. The shorter woman ran a finger along the sides of several books. I should have put it on hold. Oh! Here it is!

Triumphant, she turned to her friend. "Gardens of the World."

You hate gardening, her friend objected.

But not gardens. Besides, it’s for his mother. His father, I’ll just give a box of cigars.

You’re having dinner, not a baby.

You just help me pick out a dress. And wish me luck.

The taller woman gave her friend a quick hug. Luck.

They headed to the counter and set the book down with a thud, waking the old man. He smiled and started to speak, but Elswyth was no longer listening. She moved away, undisturbed by being unnoticed but unsettled by something the first woman had said. A special dress. An extra-special dress. For having dinner.

But I’m not meeting his parents, Elswyth reminded herself. Therefore, I don’t need an extra-special dress. Still, it would be nice. She paused. How could she change her dress?

Elswyth thought about it as she walked down another aisle. Sunlight made her blink as it shone on the surface of a mirror. Curious, Elswyth walked toward it and noticed a staircase. Four stairs, a landing, and then more stairs leading to … the second floor. She’d never been there before. Elswyth put a hand on the newel post, one bare foot on the first step, and stopped.

Her reflection shimmered in the mirror. Elswyth turned to it and peered at her illusive image. She touched the glass. How old am I? She touched her right cheek, fingered a long strand of her hair, and then ran the flat of her hand across the velvet of her dress. Unlike the women’s dresses, the full skirt of Elswyth’s dress almost touched her ankles. The gold chain about her neck sparkled, and the charm that hung from it reminded Elswyth that she was not safe upstairs in the daylight.

The bell above the bookstore’s front door rang twice as the two women exited, and a boy and his mother entered. Elswyth spun away from the mirror and hurried up the stairs, not stopping until she reached the top. Which way? She should have run for the down staircase. Now she was lost.

Lost! I’ll never see Emmerson again. The thought made Elswyth feel panicked. She heard the mother and child coming after her. A memory of being chased almost overwhelmed her, and she ducked into a dark alcove. A narrow door blocked further escape. Elswyth held her breath.

The child looked through Elswyth. "Mommy? There’s a door