Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Westerly Cove had changed little in the century and a half since Mathilde Hawthorne, Vivienne’s great-great-grandmother and the lighthouse’s original designer, had arrived from France. The same brick and cobblestone streets wound through town, the same sea-facing buildings lined the harbor, though they now housed art galleries and coffee shops alongside the traditional maritime businesses. The locals still earned their living from fishing, tourism, and commuting to Providence.
From the bay windows of The Mystic Cup, the harbor stretched out, dotted with fishing boats and pleasure craft, framed by rocky outcroppings on either side. On the northern peninsula stood the beacon. Eighty-seven feet of granite carved from Vermont quarries and imported stone had guided mariners safely into Westerly Cove for over a century and a half.
Even from a distance, it called to her, constant in her life and dreams. The keeper’s cottage beside it—now a small museum—had been Mathilde’s first home in America. Family legend spoke of French-inspired carvings near the entrance, details most visitors overlooked, but that carried meaning only the Hawthornes understood.
The Mystic Cup occupied the ground floor of the foreboding Victorian building on Harbor Street, its dark wood exterior and heavy curtains making it stand out among the more cheerful maritime structures. Vivienne unlocked the front door from the inside and paused on the threshold, removing a small vial of iron-infused oil from her pocket. She traced the protection sigil on the doorframe—three interlocking circles bound by a single line—while whispering words in the old French dialect Mathilde had brought from across the sea.
Inside, shadows pooled in corners despite the morning light streaming through the windows. The familiar scent of herbs, tea, and old wood greeted her, but underneath lurked something else—the metallic tang of an otherworldly presence that never dissipated no matter how thoroughly she cleansed the space. Dried herbs hung in bundles from the dark ceiling beams: vervain and salt-blessed rosemary, iron-soaked sage and protective rowan.
As Vivienne moved through her opening routine, she noticed something that made her pause. There on the dark wooden floor near Mathilde’s ancient oak table was a wet footprint. The print was small, feminine, and had not been there when she’d locked up the previous evening. Water still beaded around its edges—seawater, her nose told her, not the fresh water she used for cleaning.
“Someone was here.” She studied the print. The spirits sometimes left traces when they had urgent messages to convey, though typically those manifested as temperature changes or moved objects. A physical footprint suggested either a very powerful spirit or someone with flesh and blood who had found a way inside.
She flipped the sign to “Open” and began her morning routine of setting water to boil, preheating the oven for scones, and arranging fresh flowers on the tables. The main tearoom held a dozen mismatched tables, each with its own character, surrounding the true heart of The Mystic Cup—a magnificent oak table that had belonged to Mathilde herself, brought over from France and rumored to be centuries older than even she had claimed. The wood was smooth and dark with age, its surface stained with tea rings and marked by countless elbows that had leaned on it in search of comfort or guidance.
Along one wall stood shelves of antique teacups and jars of loose-leaf tea, while another displayed crystals, tarot decks, and handmade candles. A velvet curtain at the back concealed her reading room, adorned with faded photographs of Hawthorne women going back to Mathilde, all with the same distinctive eyes that Vivienne had inherited.
Before her morning customers arrived, Vivienne followed a ritual that had grounded her for years. She retrieved Mathilde’s tarot deck from its silk-wrapped home beneath the cash register—seventy-eight cards worn smooth by generations of her family’s hands. The deck felt warm against her palms, almost alive with accumulated energy.
She settled at Mathilde’s oak table and shuffled the cards, letting her mind clear. “What do I need to know about today?”
Three cards revealed themselves: The Tower reversed, the Seven of Cups, and the Moon.
Her breath caught. The Tower reversed suggested hidden upheaval, secrets about to surface. The Seven of Cups warned of illusions and difficult choices ahead. But it was the Moon that made her hands tremble—deception, hidden enemies, and danger lurking beneath apparent calm.
She traced the Moon card with one finger, noting how the shadows seemed to shift in the illustrated landscape. Water featured prominently in the card’s imagery—a river winding between two towers, leading to mountains shrouded in mystery.
“Water. Something’s coming from the water.”
The bell above the door jingled as the first customer entered. Mrs. Coleman paused on the threshold for a moment, her expression uncertain, before stepping inside.
“Just a chamomile tea to go, dear.” Mrs. Coleman glanced at the tarot cards still spread on Mathilde’s table. “I have an early appointment.”
Vivienne prepared the tea. Mrs. Coleman’s hands trembled as she accepted the cup and left a few bills on the counter before hurrying out.