2. ISAAC

Chapter two

ISAAC

D espite the state of business, my shop was where I felt most at home. It was mine . A haven that I'd built up from the four damp-riddled walls and bare floorboards it had once been. Seeing the script above the door, Miller's Meadow, with its thick garland of yellow and white artificial wisteria dangling over the frame never failed to make me smile. It was proof that I'd followed my dreams, that I'd ignored the whisperings of the peanut gallery and actually accomplished what I'd set out to do, and it was something to be proud of.

But the feeling was brief, only lasting until I remembered it was all superficial. That the mess I'd dug myself into was hidden beneath that fancy sign and the whimsical window decor. My face fell. This place was the best thing in my life and the bane of my entire existence. It made me want to get up every morning, but also wish I hadn't. There was a constant battle in my head between satisfaction and defeat, knowing I'd worked my arse off to have everything I'd ever wanted, but was forced to watch it slowly be snatched out from under me.

I'd started this business because creating art through flowers was several degrees of rewarding. It felt good knowing my work gave people even just a couple of days of joy, and made them smile through the good, the bad, and the ugly of whatever life threw their way. A bunch of flowers added a ray of sunshine to any occasion; they were eye-catching, they had meaning , they were special, and having the ability to show that to the world felt like a gift that I couldn't take for granted.

But over the last several months, it had gotten harder and harder to hang on to those ideals, and bringing happiness to others when I struggled to find any for myself had gradually taken its toll. I'd thought pursuing floristry was a way for me to not only do something purposeful but also have a career that didn't feel like a chore. It was my dream, so it made sense to make it my everything . It still was, but I couldn't deny that the endless loop of disaster and toil had sucked out a lot of the fun.

There were only so many setbacks one person could smile through before dejection became the default.

A sharp meow at my feet stilled my thoughts, and I peered down to see Moxie, the neighbour's cat, weaving herself around my ankles and purring like her life depended on it. She was a regular: a chubby black moggy with the sweetest temperament, who treated this place as her second home. I didn't know how she managed it, but sometimes she snuck her way through the shop and I'd find her in the flat, curled up on my bed when I came home. I must've disturbed her plans. Either that or she'd sacrificed stealth in favour of the dish of milk I often put out for her.

Well, at least I'll always have one customer.

I snorted, crouching to scratch her chin before unlocking the door. The bell above my head jingled as I walked inside, and the familiar scent of sweet earthiness was first to hit me, followed closely by the chill. It had to be cold to keep the flowers thriving, and after a customary shiver and a second to reacclimatise, it was easy enough to ignore. Wearing a woollen jumper helped, too.

The room itself was small, but I'd made do. The owner of the building had given me free rein with the decor, and a discount on rent since it had been in such a state of disrepair. He was a decent guy, never had any complaints, and he just seemed grateful to have someone occupying the place after it had been empty for so long. In the beginning, I'd taken out a small loan to get me started, using most of it to spruce things up and turn a derelict corner shop into a florist's I was chuffed to own.

More could probably have been done, but with such a modest budget, it wasn't too shabby. The walls were white and the carpets grey to keep the space as open and airy as possible. There was one tall window with a display nook beside the door, and the current showpiece was a peacock made from artificial flowers and gems. Drapes of fabric were bunched around its feet, and lights hung above its head to illuminate the pretty array of colours. It had gotten a lot of compliments.

Mostly because it had been up there for so long.

The large, three-tiered oval stand in the middle of the room was the main event. It was where the flowers sat in buckets on full display—greenery around the bottom, taller blooms in the middle, and everything else on top. It was high enough to be impressive, but still allowed me to reach every flower without stretching onto my tiptoes. I couldn't say the same for the shelves along the walls—they needed a stepping stool if anyone wanted the candles, picture frames, or cute little ornaments that lined them.

Not that they ever did.

At the back of the room was the counter, with the till sitting to one side, and a wooden frame of celebration cards angled at the other, collecting dust. It was where I tended to do most of my arrangements as it let me work and watch the people strolling past without so much as a curious glance in—clearly, I was a glutton for punishment.

Behind the bench was an archway that led to a smaller room, closed off from the public. It was my break room, mostly, or where I worked after hours. Nothing special, just a small cubicle in the corner with a toilet and a sink, and two wooden workbenches lining the walls. It was where I kept spare buckets and any supplies—ribbons, floral foam, stands—that I didn't want cluttering up the shop floor. Wasn't as if there'd be much room for them, anyway .

Another meow , somehow more impatient than the last, demanded my full attention yet again. Could a man no longer appreciate his surroundings and lament his misfortunes in peace?

Hell's teeth.

"Alright, you greedy little thing," I said, stepping over her to dump the spell ingredients on one of the workbenches before fetching a carton of kitty milk from the mini fridge in the corner. There was a small dish already washed out after her last visit, so I poured just enough to fill the bottom and set it on the floor, giving her a cursory pet as she got stuck in.

Leaving her to it and deciding I'd already wasted enough of my morning, I tugged on my apron, more than ready to forget about the whole interaction at The Magic Shop, and actually make my living. Last night, I'd received a last-minute order for pick-up today before closing, and though I had eight hours to perfect it, I had nothing else on my books, so was eager to start.

It was for a seventieth birthday party. Three centrepieces with sweet avalanche roses, gyp, and laurel—a simple arrangement that was so popular I had it listed as a specialty on my website. No matter how many times it was asked for, I always loved doing it. I could lose myself in the motions as easily as brushing my teeth, my fingers moving of their own accord without much direction. It was peaceful, a waltz, and whether sliding stems into the crunchy floral foam, peeling off excess leaves, or snipping the ends of stalks, it felt incredibly therapeutic .

By the time I finished up, a few hours after lunch, it was as if only minutes had passed. There had been no interruptions from needy cats, no setbacks, no stray self-deprecating thoughts, just me getting lost in the art, basking in the reminder of exactly why floristry was my sole passion.

Stepping back to admire my work wasn't as much of a necessary evil as it sometimes felt. Not to toot my own horn, but the arrangement looked beautiful, elegant, and fresh. The pink blush on the roses nestled nicely among clusters of tiny star-like florets and stalks of rounded blue-green leaves. It was the same as always, a combination I'd put together a hundred times, but somehow, the placement of each flower looked especially perfect today.

I, for one, would be pleased as punch if I got them for my birthday. I only hoped the customer thought so, too.

There wasn't much else for me to do, except wait for their arrival and potter around doing some housekeeping. Two people popped in within an hour of each other for bouquets—one for their father's graveside and the other for a friend's baby shower—but besides that, it was just another slow day. It wasn't until ten minutes to closing, while I stood by the door spraying the flowers with water, that a middle-aged woman walked in, dressed in a purple suit and with a bright grin plastered over her face.

"Hello there," she said, her mouth and brows twisting into a bit of a wince. "Sorry I'm so late. Traffic was a nightmare."

"Don't worry! We're still open." I set down my sprayer and dried my hands on the hem of my apron. "Order for Melissa Johnson?"

"That's me!" The energy she gave off was infectious. It was obvious to anyone that she was excited—for the flowers or the party, I couldn't say, but it felt easy to mirror her smile. "Well, they're for Mum, but yes."

"Perfect! Follow me." I led her over to the counter—where the three arrangements had sat all afternoon—and did a weird little hand-flourish in their direction. I scrubbed the back of my neck and cringed almost immediately afterward. "Here you go. If you want to just check them over, make sure everything's dandy, then I'll give you a hand to your car."

She smiled in thanks, and stepped closer to study the arrangements, but after barely a tick, her keen expression began to fade. "What are those?"

I looked where she pointed, trying my best to pretend my heart hadn't just collapsed straight to my arse from the abrupt shift in mood. "The… roses?" She nodded. "Oh, they're sweet avalanches. Beautiful, aren't they? They smell even better—"

"They're dead."

"No, they're…" I blinked, my brow furrowing. "They were delivered fresh yesterday."

"Look at the state of them," she snapped, making me flinch as she plucked a petal from one of the blooms and held it up. "They're withering at the edges! I'm sorry, but I didn't pay all that money for dead flowers. "

Ah.

Dejection settled on my shoulders like a lead weight.

She wasn't exactly wrong, they did have a slight tinge to them, but that was the style of the rose. The petals were green at the tips, and faintly crinkled, but that added to their appeal and uniqueness. She clearly didn't agree—and hadn't done an ounce of research—and it was obvious from her tone that nothing would appease her.

I tried anyway.

"The roses do have an antique look to them, but that's just how they are," I explained, keeping my voice gentle and apologetic, even though retaliation would've felt more natural. "I'm sorry, I thought you were aware of that when you placed the order as there are pictures on my website, but I should have double-checked. Would you like me to replace them? I have other pink roses."

"It's too late now. The party is in thirty minutes." The woman sighed, still very visibly frustrated, but clearly trying to reel in her outburst. She just looked as gutted as I felt. "I'll have to take them and hope my mother doesn't notice."

Any flicker of enthusiasm or confidence I had felt before melted away, leaving only indifference and self-doubt. "I'll go ahead and refund you fifty percent, since the order did not meet your expectations."

She scoffed. "I should bloody well hope so."

There was no point arguing. She wasn't willing to listen, or believe me— me , the fucking florist—and I just wanted the whole exchange done with so I could go upstairs and wallow. Well, what I really wanted was to tell her where to shove the roses until they actually were dead, but it would serve no other purpose than a short-lived moment of satisfaction and giving her more ammo to use against me. One day, it would be worth it to lash out and tell a customer like her where to go, but today was not that day. Too much was at stake, so I'd suck it up and handle it with grace.

And a shite tonne of Ben & Jerry's in bed, later.

Refunding her card was a blur. I spaced out, working on autopilot even while helping her cart the pieces to her boot. No more words were exchanged, but I could already imagine the crappy review she'd probably post in a day or two—if she waited that long.

I locked the door once she'd driven away, flipping the sign to Closed before meandering into the back room to take off my apron. There was a stool under one of the workbenches that I tugged out with my foot, a landing pad for my slumping body. My head dropped onto the counter, and I sat there for Christ knew how long, just taking a minute to breathe before heading upstairs.

What the fuck was I doing? It was like freewheeling down a hill with no brakes, knowing that what awaited me was absolute carnage but being unable to stop. At this point, it could almost be labelled self-sabotage. I had the option to jump out of the car, give up, and take a fraction of the damage, but no. I chose to hold on, to see it through to the bitter end, just in case , like the stubborn fucking idiot I was.

It was surprising I still had any faith left, all things considered. Or maybe I just knew I wouldn't be content until everything had gone up in smoke, because at least I'd be certain it was over and nothing else could be done.

Rolling my head to the side, I clocked the spell supplies within arm's reach, taunting me. They were where I'd left them, but it felt as though they'd moved to purposely catch my eye. I picked up the fiery-orange feather, twisting it between my fingers, wondering what type of bird it came from and what significance it possibly held.

I knew nothing about spells or Tarot, except what I'd picked up from whatever Wayne yapped on about, but even then, I rarely listened. No shade to the believers, but it wasn't my jam, which was why I hadn't bothered popping back to ask the shopkeeper what The Sun card actually meant. Plus, I'd wanted away from there, sharpish. I could research it. Not that it would make a difference to my opinion, but part of me was slightly intrigued. Like whenever I read my daily horoscope in the paper. As with everything else in this vein, I thought it was a sham, but I'd still flick to the back page and find myself nodding along to every word if they even slightly matched my circumstances.

" You'll experience a major complication, but there's a solution at your fingertips. "

Hm, perhaps they'd been onto something with that one.

Fuck it. I grabbed my keys and the items before rushing up to my flat. Let it be understood that eagerness wasn't my guide, it was more that when curiosity had its claws in me, it was better for everyone involved to sate it quickly so I could move on. Left unchecked, it'd fester and grow, stick to me like a leech, and ensure I got nothing done.

There was no space for that kind of unproductivity.

My laptop was in my room, so I threw the card, feather, and ash pouch onto my bed, before flinging myself down with the device in my lap and opening my browser to click on the search bar. It took seconds, even with my bogus Wi-Fi, to bring up page after page of results for ‘sun card tarot meaning.' Since I was no expert, I chose the first interpretation, then skimmed through the wall of text.

At first glance, it was obvious that the card was considered positive, which was good, I supposed. The grinning sunflower on the front probably should have clued me in to that, but it was also pretty creepy, so it was best to consult the specialists on such things. The theme of the page screamed warm energy and happiness, with the bold-lettered words ‘self-confidence,' ‘contentment,' and ‘success' recurring throughout.

"Success," I muttered aloud. "That wouldn't go amiss."

Another scan hailed much of the same: phrases repeated over and over, complete with little doodles of sunny things just to drive the point home. I'd gotten my answer. The card was everything I lacked in life, so the shopkeeper was obviously a psychic, among other things, and hadn't been too far off with his analysis of my needs.

Or I was just that pathetic and wore my misery so obviously that he'd taken an educated guess.

I huffed a humourless laugh, ready to close down the site, get undressed, and find a show or movie to watch as a distraction. It was a day for repeats, I thought. But as my cursor hovered over the little red X, a pop-up appeared on screen, making me hesitate.

" He will guide you through your struggles, resurrect that which you have lost, and help you on the path to success. "

There it was again— success —the word that played on a loop in my head, but who the hell was ‘he?' Did it mean the sun? A higher power? I had no fucking clue, but it was jarring enough to have me chewing my bottom lip and peering over my laptop at the ingredients strewn across the bed.

Was I seriously still dignifying this with attention?

It was a scam, that much was obvious, and I expected the only outcome to be me needing to hoover the carpet tomorrow—or in three days, when it was due to be done—but I had nothing better going on with my evening. Maybe it was the trials of the day, the pain from losing money still a raw wound in my chest, but for some reason, exploring this felt marginally more appealing than sitting with my face in a tub of Ben & Jerry's, and making myself cry with sad movies. Well, the ice cream was getting scranned, regardless, but if the crying could be delayed, I was all in .

The ingredients were bound for the bin, anyway. May as well make use of them once, either for curiosity's sake or for something to talk to Wayne about when I was ripping him a new arsehole for sending me on this fool's errand to begin with.

Setting my laptop aside, I slid off the bed with the supplies and instructions gathered in my hands. A few piles of clothes had to be kicked out of the way to make enough room for the proceedings before I knelt on the floor. The directions were simple: place the card down flat (be sure the sunflower is facing the correct way up from where you are going to stand), set the feather on top, sprinkle the ash in a circle (roughly the circumference of a truck tyre), then clearly speak the incantation, word for word.

Easy-peasy .

I followed each step, the circle not as neat as the magic man had probably envisioned, but it would have to suffice. Or not, I didn't care. This was already getting more energy from me than it deserved, and I wasn't even finished yet. Thankfully, all there was left to do was stand at the edge, outside the circle—which I did, clumsily—and read the script. It wasn't a complex spell. A weird one, sure, but after silently mouthing each line to familiarise myself just in case any stuttering ruined the supposed effects, I took a deep, steadying breath and repeated the poetic words aloud.

Nothing happened .

I frowned, and despite myself, there was actually a hint of disappointment welling in my gut. Had part of me, the really desperate part, hoped a miracle would materialise like a shooting star in front of my eyes? Or was I purely pissed off about the thirty seconds I'd wasted, which could've been spent shovelling ice cream into my gob instead?

I scanned the page, to be sure I hadn't fucked up the incantation by missing a word or skipping a line. Nothing stood out, and with a quick double-take at my feet, I was certain I'd done everything else right. The placement of the items was correct, and the circle, bar the wonkiness, was still a damned circle. The spell just hadn't fucking worked.

Of course it hasn't, you colossal dipshit.

With a scoff, I crumpled the page in my fist before I threw it on the floor amongst the other rubbish. "Magic Shop? More like a fucking joke shop."

I stared at the ceiling above my bed, where I'd been lying for an hour willing myself to just drift off. My mind was busy, as was typical, but tonight there was an added edge of despair that wouldn't budge. It always happened after an order went pear-shaped. It made the feeling of failure increase tenfold, and the voices in the back of my mind grow louder and more condescending. They told me there was no shame in giving up, that not everyone was cut out to run their own business—least of all me—and it was harder than it once had been to pretend they were wrong.

No matter what I did, it was as if I were destined to hit a snag at every turn. Hurdle after hurdle that most people would call ‘character building,' but I saw as a fat fucking joke at my expense. Was it the universe agreeing with everyone else and sending me signs to pack up and move on? Or was I really that incompetent? I would have put it down to luck—or lack thereof—but I wasn't much of a believer in that, either. People made their own luck through hard work and determination.

I obviously just hadn't reached that quota.

With a huff, I shifted, burrowing further into my duvet burrito, making sure my feet were tucked in for that extra bubble of comfort. It took everything in me not to pick up my phone and doom-scroll the internet, to distract myself from sinking too far into my self-pity session, but that would do the opposite of help. Next thing I'd know, it'd be dawn and my alarm would be ringing for work, and there was only one thing worse than going downstairs to wait around all day for customers that never came—doing the same thing with no sleep.

Hard pass on that one.

I shut my eyes, forcing different, non-work-related scenarios into my head, hoping something would click. But just as I felt the edges of my consciousness slip away, there came a roaring whoosh , a sound so unnatural that it made all the hair on my body stand on end. It was also the warning bell for the flames that followed, erupting like a torch doused in petrol at the bottom of my bed, sucking all the air out of the room.

Jerking upright, I scrambled to my hands and knees, pulse quick and fear overriding my senses.

Had a socket blown?

Had I plugged too many chargers into my extension?

My arms prickled with goosebumps as a tingle of something unfamiliar rolled over my skin, tense and heavy, and a curtain of smog replaced the fire. "What the…?"

There was a soft tinkling sound before a bejewelled hand—wrist adorned in bangles, and long fingers tipped with silver claw-shaped cuffs—swiped through the smoke as if dismissing a pest. The raging cloud dissipated to reveal its master: a tall, ginger-haired man with a lean figure, swathed in silks and veils of other lavish fabrics, now standing in the centre of the magic circle.

The gazelle-like black horns curving up from the top of his head were a little disconcerting, but could very well be a trick of the sleep-deprived variety. Or a headband, given all of his other decorations. Either way, I hadn't the chance to scrutinise it as the stranger's oval, muted-orange eyes pinned me with a hooded stare. Thick lashes fanned out from black liner, winged and catlike, and for a split second his pupils flared as bright as fire, making me gasp, before they flicked to his feet and narrowed in what looked like accusation .

My heart pounded in my throat as that piercing gaze returned to rake over me, arrogant yet sultry, and when our eyes met again, a wicked smirk spread across his face.

He parted his lips to speak, but, ever the master of impeccable timing, I beat him to it. Manners, given the circumstances, could go to hell.

"Who the fuck are you?!"