“Well then,” I say, pushing up the sleeves of my sweater with deliberate movements, squaring my shoulders, “I guess we better get started.”
Sir’s tail twitches once, a movement that somehow conveys approval. “Indeed. Though I should warn you, undoing three and a half decades of magical suppression will not be a gentle process.”
I look at him, this small, proper, devastatingly intelligent creature who apparently holds the keys to everything I thought I would never have.
“I have the distinct feeling that’s as close to encouragement as I’m going to get from you.”
His whiskers twitch. “You are learning.”
Chapter
Six
WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, I COOK
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of dust motes and history, the golden light filtering through the shop’s tall windows shifting gradually from bright amber to deep honey as the hours slip away.
Sir does not believe in easing a person into anything. Once he decides I need to understand what Thorne Curiosities actually is, he begins speaking as if thirty-five years of ignorance can be remedied in a single sitting. His approach is methodical, almost militant in its thoroughness, and I find myself scrambling to keep up with the torrent of information he unleashes upon me.
We start with tinctures and my brain has a complete meltdown.
I am surprised by the simplicity of them all. None of them bear flashy labels promising ‘Instant Power’ or ‘Miracle Cure’ in gilded lettering. For all the shimmer and strange glow coming from inside the bottles, everything about them speaks of purpose. No crystalline bottles that pulse with otherworldly light or powders that shimmer with impossible colors. These are real remedies, crafted with purpose and precision. Infusions for breaking stubborn fevers that won’t yield to conventionalmedicine. Salves that can ease the deep ache of joints worn down by decades of hard labor. Carefully balanced herbal blends designed to strengthen lungs during the harsh New England winters when pneumonia claimed lives with ruthless efficiency. Protective charms stitched with silver thread into seed sacks to encourage crop resilience against blight and drought. Sachets filled with lavender and chamomile, hung in barns to keep livestock calm during the violent thunderstorms that roll across the valley.
“This is not spectacle,” Sir informs me from his elevated perch on the loft railing. His golden eyes watch me with unwavering intensity as I scribble notes in a leather-bound notebook I found wedged between a book on lunar correspondences and something titledFoundations of Ward Architecture.
“It is service.”
“So, we’re not selling snake oil to desperate people,” I say, glancing at a row of amber bottles lined up with almost militant precision along the mahogany shelves.
His tail flicks once in sharp indignation, the tip twitching with barely contained offense.“The Thornes have never trafficked in falsehood or exploitation. Your ancestor, Ruby, began this shop to provide what was systematically denied elsewhere.”
He shifts on a pile of old texts, tucking his tail neatly beneath him.
“Ruby Springs is not merely a sanctuary,”he explains with the patience of someone who has told this story many times before.“It began as a comprehensive solution to problems that ran far deeper than supernatural persecution.”
He continues without pause, laying it all out piece by piece.
“We know what history has taught us, what the sanitized textbooks glossed over or omitted entirely. Doctors who wouldnot treat certain patients, turning them away from emergency rooms and private practices based on the color of their skin or the contents of their wallets. Hospitals so far removed from rural communities that death was almost a certainty if you needed emergency care and couldn’t afford the long journey. Schools that would not educate certain children, denying them access to knowledge that could lift them from poverty. Land that could not legally be owned by those who worked it, their labor enriching others while they remained trapped in cycles of sharecropping and debt.
Ruby Thorne and the original founding families built more than protection wards around their hidden community. They built intricate systems of quiet assistance that reached far beyond the borders of their magical haven. Supernatural allies passed through Ruby Springs regularly, carrying remedies and knowledge outward to communities that needed them most. Information moved quietly between networks of trusted individuals. Aid flowed where prejudice and systemic oppression blocked access to basic human needs.
This was never isolation for its own sake,”Sir says evenly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.“It was the headquarters of a network.”
“So, there are others,” I murmur, leaning against a shelf heavy with leather-bound volumes that smell of aged parchment and dried herbs. “Other towns like this one.”
“Emerald Cove along the Oregon coast. Sapphire Cliffs in the Colorado mountains. Onyx Hollow in the Tennessee hills. A handful more scattered across the continent.”His golden eyes meet mine.“We are not alone in this work. I know times have changed. Modern medicine and access as well, but our duty to the community still remains”
“All named after precious stones,” I note with a small smile, finding comfort in the pattern.
“A certain aesthetic consistency was agreed upon during the founding councils,”he replies with characteristic dryness.“It also served as a subtle identifier for those who knew what to look for. . .”
The humor softens the overwhelming weight of revelation, but not by much. I look around the loft with entirely new eyes, seeing past the quaint charm to the true purpose underneath. The books are not decorative relics gathering dust for atmosphere. They are working manuals, detailed records, and comprehensive ledgers documenting decades of service rendered and protection maintained. Each volume represents lives saved, families protected, communities strengthened.
Something unfamiliar and profound settles into my chest, though I cannot quite name the feeling yet. It’s warm and weighty, like swallowing liquid gold.
For the first time in my entire life, I don’t feel like a disappointing footnote to someone else’s grand story. I feel like the living continuation of something meaningful and vast.
Sir begins sliding books towards me with deliberate efficiency, each selection clearly chosen for specific educational value.“Light reading to begin your proper education.”
