Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

“Oh, I plan to,” I tossed back, smiling widely. On the outside chance that I found the key and managed to unlock some magical mojo, at least she wouldn’t be there looking over my shoulder.

And so, for the next forty-five minutes, I combed the shop, painstakingly searching through an eclectic collection of hiding spots for a magical key. From silk-lined jewelry cases to cigar boxes, crystal candy dishes to cedar-lined drawers. There was no shortage of keys, but none of them fit and, as ridiculous as it sounded, none of them looked quite right, magically speaking. Whatever that meant. I was just about to give up and resign myself to never experiencing the deluxe version of the journal when my tired gaze caught on a dainty brass key on a thin crimson ribbon, winking in a stream of sunlight. I had the weirdest sense that it had been hiding, lurking as it was amid a jumbled mix of dominos and mah-jong tiles in a carved wooden ashtray. I’d scanned this particular menagerie at least once before and come up empty.

Moving closer, my heart starting to pound and my throat constricting with incredulous wonder, I glanced at the key plate on the journal, gauging the size of the keyhole. And then, suddenly, I was standing in the glare of the sun, fitting the key to the lock, feeling a quivering, tingling excitement as I realized that this was the one. With a gentle twist the journal came to life in my hands.

It was all relatively low-key: no shimmering swirls of fairy dust spiraling crazily, no inanimate objects skittering about, just quiet freakiness. The slim little volume that had once fit in my purse expanded, growing heavy in my hands, becoming a veritable tome as pages crowded into its spine. I was quite proud not to have dropped it like a hot potato and was praying the Shop Nazi wouldn’t come looking for me, having been summoned by the pounding of my telltale heart. When it finished its magical metamorphosis, I cautiously lifted the cover to peek at the first page. The page was now blanketed with a familiar old-fashioned script.

To Miss Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen

MY DEAR NEICE:

Though you are at this period not many degrees removed from Infancy, Yet trusting that you will in time be older, and that through the care of your excellent Parents, You will one day or another be able to read written hand, I dedicate to You the following Miscellanious Morsels, convinced that if you seriously attend to them, You will derive from them very important Instructions, with regard to your Conduct in Life.—If such my hopes should hereafter be realized, never shall I regret the Days and Nights that have been spent in composing these Treatises for your Benefit. I am, my dear Neice

Your very Affectionate

Aunt

June 2d. 1793

Oh. My. God! It couldn’t be—it couldn’t possibly be! Beck had suspected, and I had been, ever so slowly, starting to believe that maybe the journal’s cheeky bits of advice had been conceived by the mind of Jane Austen, but this, this was proof! Omigod, omigod, omigod! Completely thrown by Beck’s utterly implausible theory, I had totally forgotten about the inscription, which, it was now clear, was only an excerpt of a more lengthy dedication to Miss Austen’s niece!

I tipped the book closed, releasing a puff of dust—it could have been fairy or otherwise, it was impossible to tell. Then eyes wide, movements jerky, I scanned the store around me in a panic. I couldn’t think what to do. This book had historical significance, seeing as it contained some lost writings of literary darling Jane Austen. But at the same time, I was kinda in the middle of something here—my life was in an uproar. To say nothing of my sincere desire to keep my journaling secrets strictly need-to-know. And how would the world handle the whole mystic, paranormal element, the one I was currently struggling with myself? Tough call.

Mired in confusion, I tipped the book open again. Hurriedly riffling past the first few pages, I flipped pages quickly, standing transfixed as one set of tidy handwriting gave way to the next. I was scanning only, trying not to focus on anything too closely, more than a little disconcerted with the journal’s latest bout of showmanship. I felt suddenly out of breath and helplessly overwhelmed, my thoughts and uncertainties churning themselves into a sickly stew. These were other people’s private thoughts—or else they had been two minutes ago when I was still keyless and blissfully clueless. I kept going, spurred by avid curiosity. Pages whizzed past until I’d reached the end—my handwriting, my turn with the journal.

Miss Nicola James, 1 will attend.

My words were there, but I’d replaced them myself—inconclusive. The next page confirmed what I’d already suspected....

Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance ... Not with a man, with a dress ...

The cheeky little cleavage excerpt à la Fairy Jane had disappeared just as stealthily as it had arrived. I flipped ahead to check the other entries—all fully intact—and then let the journal thump closed, quickly yanking the key out of the lock. The reverse transformation was no less awe-inspiring, and suddenly the stocky volume had once again turned slim, and I held the key in the palm of my hand.

Glancing casually in the direction of the counter, I made a snap decision: This key clearly belonged with the journal, so by rights, it was included in the original purchase price. I refused to run the risk of Shop Nazi–induced complications for an item that was justifiably mine. What if she insisted I demonstrate lock/key compatibility? I wasn’t willing to take that risk. So feeling very cloak and dagger, I slipped out of the shop without a word.

On the walk back to the car, it occurred to me that with the key removed, the excerpts had probably returned to the journal. Which made me wonder whether a new one had appeared in response to my latest rant.

Curious, I tipped open the cover and tried to subdue the pages as they riffled in the wind. Carefully turning past the controversial “pencil him in,” I saw that Fairy Jane had struck again. I reread the leftover words with mounting anxiety, feeling undeniably trapped.

Evidently Fairy Jane was not above a little quid pro quo, and as disturbing as that was, I didn’t want to think about it right now. I didn’t particularly care to think about the fact that my little plan—the Nic James Life Plan—was being systematically dismantled, and I was standing helplessly by, struggling to decide whether I even wanted to piece it back together. My world had gone topsy-turvy.

My favorite cupcake spot was nearby, tucked into a shiny silver Airstream trailer, and right now, I needed a fix—bad. Winking in the sunlight with a giant rotating cupcake on its roof, Hey Cupcake! was a city treasure. I stepped up to the window under the frosting-pink awning, closed my eyes, and inhaled the sweet scent of cake and frosting. Today I needed the Double Dose Whipper Snapper, with its injection of whipped cream, and of course, the requisite carton of milk.

Carrying my order to an umbrella-covered table just beyond the metallic glare of the trailer, I let myself be hypnotized by the sprinkle-topped jumbo replica on the roof, and for five solid minutes just let it be about the cupcake. At five minutes, two seconds, I simultaneously got a “Where are you?” text and remembered the meeting for which I was now horribly late.

Shit! I’d never missed a meeting—never even been late—and now all I could think was that I didn’t want to leave my happy cupcake place. I wanted to hide out inside the trailer and forget everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. I. Was. Not. Myself.

Time to regroup. First I needed to ground myself, because right now I was either floating or free-falling, it was difficult to tell. The answers I wanted—some of them at least—were in the journal, and it seemed like Cat Nelson’s entries might be the perfect place to find them. Depending on what I found, I might even want to roadtrip down to New Braunfels to quiz Mr. Nelson in person on what he knew about his sister’s experience with an honest-to-God Fairy Jane.

Pulling the journal out of my bag as covertly as possible, I tucked it under the table in front of me and glanced around to see if I had an audience. I didn’t—evidently no one went for cupcakes at one-thirty P.M. on a weekday. I turned the key and felt the weight of a hundred secrets on my lap—a couple of hefty pounds.

Riding high on a sugar rush, I flipped to the end, searching for Cat’s first entry. It appeared she was already a little sweet on Tyler Honeycutt.

Everywhere I turn, he’s holding a door or tipping his hat. Seeing his clean-shaven face smiling down at me underneath the brim of his Stetson, a shiver of excitement runs through me. He’s wearing me down, little by little—it makes me nervous to think about it.

The second entry covered the barbeque and dance held at the VFW hall and a corsage of yellow roses.

I don’t even pretend to know how you seem to “know” certain things—about me, about him—but I figure this is my life, and I need to make my own decisions. And I think Tyler is the man for me.

The next couple of entries came off as vaguely snide—much like my own entries—as if Cat was getting advice she wasn’t prepared to take. I could relate. It seemed as if Fairy Jane was fighting a losing battle. But something must have shifted the balance....