Goose bumps were popping up like pinpricks along my arms as I hurried down the hall to the living room and unceremoniously shoved the journal into the bookcase, hoping, I suppose, that this simple act would relegate these recent bits of advice to the realm of romantic fiction. Completely separate from me and my well-ordered life.

I stared at the journal’s black leather spine, conscious of the fact that the little book looked pretty comfortable leaning on P&P, as if the two were gossipy old friends. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away. This latest directive had left no room for interpretation. It was personal now—on a whole new level—and I was feeling pretty pissy.

I rubbed at the goose bumps, wishing this staggering feeling of vulnerability would disappear too.

How was it possible that I’d hooked up with Sean, a whirling dervish of mischief and charm, in a reception full of geeks? It boggled the mind. Unless Fairy Jane had truly conjured him—or meddled in whatever way that fairies do.

Quite the dizzying one-eighty for a girl who didn’t believe in magic two short days ago. I didn’t want to think about it. Not to mention the possibility that Fairy Jane might have stepped outside the bounds of the journal—I most certainly wasn’t ready to deal with that.

I still needed to call the number we’d weaseled out of the Shop Nazi’s computer: a Mr. Elijah Nelson. But nine on a Sunday morning felt a little too early to be discussing magical journals with strangers.

I needed something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Today could very well be the perfect day for the Samoa cupcake recipe I’d stumbled across on a delectable little cupcake blog. Inspired by the much-loved Girl Scout Cookie, it involved a brown sugar butter cupcake spread with chocolate ganache, topped with a toasted coconut macaroon cap, and finished with a drizzle of ganache. I’d put off making it, slightly intimidated by its complexity. But today a challenge was exactly what I needed.

Tying on my apron, I did a quick check for ingredients and began pulling out the necessary baking paraphernalia and mentally breaking down the recipe into a series of mini tasks. I was sliding a tray of golden brown coconut back out of the oven when the phone rang.

“Wanna get brunch?” Gabe offered.

Glancing behind me at my cupcakes in progress and then at the clock, which read quarter to ten, I said, “What time?” Not being in on the Big Secret, Gabe was the ideal companion right now.

“Noon?”

“That’ll work. Where’d you have in mind?”

“How about Moonshine?”

Perfect. Slightly upscale but down-to-earth.

“See ya there.”

I glanced again at the clock the moment I hung up and decided to risk the temper of Mr. Elijah Nelson.

As the phone rang at the other end, I squared my shoulders and psyched myself up for an awkward conversation. On the fifth ring, I felt my shoulders slump a little in disappointment. On the tenth, I gave up on him having an answering machine and actually pulled the phone away from my ear. With my thumb poised over the End button, I was jolted back to attention as a gravelly old voice rumbled over the line.

“Hello? Hello?”

I slapped the phone back against my ear and stuttered to catch up, to be heard over the third, rather cantankerous “Hello?”

“Hello—hi. I’m here.”

“Well, where the hell were you?”

Okay, so he was a little prickly in the morning.... “I was here, I just didn’t have the phone up against my ear.” Start out competent, that’s the ticket.

“Well, you were hoping to talk to someone, weren’t ya?”

“Yes. Sir. Yes, I was. Are you Mr. Nelson—Mr. Elijah Nelson?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Um ... my name is Nicola James, Mr. Nelson. I’m up in Austin, and I got your number from the owner of Violet’s Crown Antique Shop—”

“Violet who?”

I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion. “No, sir, Violet’s is an antique shop.” I heard myself getting louder and tried to relax. “The owner recently purchased a lady’s boudoir table from you.”

I was really hoping this was enough to jog his memory.

“I got rid of plenty a while back, all at the Trade Days, before I moved down here to New Braunfels, and into Misty Glen. But I can’t say as I remember who bought what. I never tried to pass anything off as a valuable antique. Don’t tell me that Violet charlatan did.”

“No, sir,” I hurried to assure him. “She didn’t.” Or if she did, I didn’t know about it. “I’m actually calling to ask about a journal she found in one of the drawers—it’s black, with a fancy brass key plate and a little doorknob.”

Silence.

“Is this ringing any bells for you?”

“Don’t you worry, young lady, I can keep up just fine. I watch Jeopardy! every afternoon—I could give those contestants a run for their money.”

My lips curled into a grin, but I kept silent, sensing he wasn’t finished.

“Harrumph. So that’s where that book was hiding. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned. And as for you, young lady, what is it they say? Caveat emptor—I think that’s right.”

My smile suddenly melted away, and I stood straighter, my lower back rigid against the kitchen counter.

“Caveat emptor? Let the buyer beware? Why do you say that?”

“All that magic mumbo jumbo. Cat would have done just fine without it.”

“Who’s Cat?” I felt breathless and urgent.

“My sister.” The words sounded bitter, sad, and resigned. “Supposed to marry my best friend. Everything, all of it, arranged—until she stumbled across that journal.”

He stopped there, and with no other choice, I waited. I wanted answers, and I was willing to forgo good manners and bust out the nosy curiosity, but first I needed to get my voice back. Because right now I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get a single word out. All I could think was that I wasn’t the first. This journal had belonged to someone else, worked its magic on someone else. I was, rather unbelievably, on the right track here—I just needed a little more information. Closing my eyes, I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to inhale a little patience, a little calm to temper the piston firing of my heart.

“What happened then?” I finally asked quietly, reverently.

“Cat called off the wedding and hared off to parts unknown with big ideas.”

“What sort of big ideas?” The words caught in my throat, but I forced them out. I needed to hear this story.

“The war was on, and Cat wanted to be where things were happening. In the thick of it, I suppose. Always was a busybody.”

“And the journal?” I cringed inwardly, suspecting I knew the answer.

“When she broke it off with Tyler, she told me it was her journal’s idea. I thought that was bullshit and told her so, so she showed me the page with the words, one little bossy instruction: ‘Don’t marry him.’ ’Course I accused her of writing it herself. So then she slid the key into the lock—”

“Hold on. There isn’t a key—or a lock. The key plate is just decorative.” Could this possibly be a mistake? Was there another magical journal floating around somewhere between here and Fredericksburg? Beck would be thrilled.

“It’s all part of the ruse,” he assured me, an edge to his voice. “And once she turned the key, it was impossible not to believe her. Her words reappeared—and everyone else’s right along with them—”

I heard a rushing pop in my ears, and my eyes telescoped, seeing only the journal, propped innocently beside P&P in the bookshelf. Everyone else’s?

“And I read them. Didn’t change my mind, but hers was made up. So she left, taking the book with her.”

Now we were getting somewhere....

“So how did you ... ?” At this point I didn’t even know which part of this whole thing to try to wrap my head around first.

“She died. In England. And that magic book of hers got shipped over in a brown box with the rest of her personal effects. Right about now you’re probably wishing that book had been forgotten across the pond somewhere, aren’t ya?”

“It’s too early to tell,” I told him honestly, determined not to get distracted. “So what happened to the key?”

“Oh, it came back too, but I never slipped it into the lock again—chicken, I guess. I take it from all the questions that it wasn’t with the journal.”

“No,” I confirmed, slumping in my seat, a little defeated. “It wasn’t.”

My free fall back to ignorance came too fast, and all at once I was dizzy, my head spinning. Okay, deep breath, start again. “Any ideas?”

“I’d start with that Violet character. Best lead you got.”

“You’re right. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Nelson, and I’m sorry to have brought up sad memories of your sister.”

“Never mind that. It’s past.”

On impulse I asked one final question. “Just out of curiosity—was she happy with her decision?”

“Far as I know. Sent plenty of postcards from all over. Didn’t seem to miss Tyler one little bit. Him, on the other hand, never stepped foot outside Gillespie County. But that doesn’t prove a thing—Cat done gone and messed with fate.”

“Yeah,” I answered, my voice sounding faraway. I could relate to Tyler’s situation. I’d recently come to the conclusion that my dad had planned Walt Disney World vacations around hurricane season and trips to Europe around the impossibility of scoring last-minute passports. Cat Nelson may have messed with fate, but at least she’d gone somewhere.

“Okay then. Good luck to you.” He hung up with a click in my ear, and it barely registered, my thoughts were in such a tussle over this new information. Evidently I needed to go back, yet again, to Violet’s and fend off the Purveyor long enough to find the key. A key that was likely to ratchet up the insanity yet another dubious notch.