Chapter 2 The First Witness Beneath the Floor
The knocking stopped at sunrise.
Fifita Hart had spent the entire night sitting on the floor of The Moonlit Margins, a wooden spoon in one hand and a half eaten cinnamon bun in the other, waiting for whatever lived beneath her shop to knock again.
It never did.
Somehow, the silence was worse.
Across from her, Vans Masayon sat in a chair designed for ordinary humans. The chair had spent most of the night attempting to fold itself around his legs, apparently offended by his refusal to leave.
He claimed that abandoning the First Edition unattended would be irresponsible.
Fifita suspected he simply didn't trust her not to touch it.
She had considered touching it several times.
“You're staring at me,” Vans said.
“I'm trying to work out whether you're always this unpleasant or whether the book brings out your best qualities.”
“I'm trying to keep you alive.”
“Then you should start by escaping that chair before it eats you.”
The chair tightened around his waist.
Vans glared at it.
Fifita laughed so hard she nearly dropped her spoon.
The chair released him.
“Your furniture is malicious,” he muttered.
“Only when it dislikes someone.”
“Then why does it dislike me?”
“Excellent question.”
From inside an empty teacup, Bookmark lifted his folded-paper head.
“Perhaps because you've been glaring at everything since you arrived.”
“I have not.”
“You threatened the umbrella stand.”
“It moved.”
“It's an umbrella stand.”
“It moved suspiciously.”
Fifita grinned and reached for the teapot. The little silver kettle hopped onto the stove, filled itself with water, and began whistling a cheerful tune.
For several precious seconds, the shop felt almost normal.
Then the tune changed.
Three low notes rolled through the room.
The teapot fell silent. Every spoon in the kitchen drawer rattled against the wood.
Fifita slowly set down her cup.
Vans was already standing.
“The seal is weakening,” he said.
“What seal?”
“The one beneath this shop.”
Fifita looked toward the staircase.
“The hidden door?”
He nodded.
“You told me your family had spent generations trying to contain the First Edition. You didn't mention that the entrance might be under my floor.”
“I didn't know it was here.”
“Are you sure?”
His jaw tightened.
“If I had known, I wouldn't have walked through your front door without a plan.”
“That might be the first sensible thing you've said.”
“I'm delighted to have impressed you.”
“You haven't.”
“Then I'll keep trying.”
His answer was light, but his eyes lingered on hers a moment longer than necessary.
Fifita looked away.
She had more important things to worry about than the way Vans Masayon's smile made him seem almost approachable.
Such as the mysterious book that had threatened them both.
Or the child whose footsteps had appeared inside a locked shop.
Or the fact that something beneath her home knew her name.
She crossed the room and approached the staircase.
The hidden door had vanished again. Only the familiar wooden wall remained beneath the lowest step.
Yet when she pressed her palm against it, a faint pulse answered her touch.
A heartbeat.
“There is something down there,” she whispered.
Vans joined her, careful not to touch the wall.
“Then we should find out what it is.”
Fifita glanced at him.
“Together?”
“Unless you would prefer to investigate a cursed passage alone with your wooden spoon.”
She held it up.
“Don't underestimate the spoon.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
For the first time since their meeting, they smiled at each other without either trying to win the conversation.
Then the wall whispered her name.
Their smiles disappeared.
Fifita pulled the silver crescent charm from beneath her collar. It had belonged to her mother, although she had never understood why Amara had insisted she wear it.
She pressed the charm against the wood.
A thin silver seam appeared beneath her hand.
The wall opened inward.
Beyond it, a narrow staircase descended into darkness.
Cold air drifted upward, carrying the scent of rain, old paper, and flowers left too long in a closed room.
Bookmark peered over Fifita's shoulder.
“I have a suggestion.”
“I'm listening.”
“Let's close the door, pretend we never saw it, and move somewhere the books are less judgmental.”
“Moonwick is my home.”
“Then I suggest a very convincing disguise.”
Vans drew his silver knife.
Fifita eyed the blade.
“Does it actually do anything?”
“It cuts certain magical bindings.”
“Can it cut through a staircase?”
“Why would I want to cut through a staircase?”
“Because I might push you down it if you keep being mysterious.”
He gave her a dry look.
“After you, then.”
Fifita descended first.
The steps creaked beneath her shoes. Silver symbols had been carved into the walls, but someone had scratched through many of them, leaving dark grooves in the stone.
The deeper they went, the colder the air became.
After the twelfth step, Fifita heard a melody.
She stopped so abruptly that Vans nearly walked into her.
“What is it?”
“My mother used to sing that.”
He listened.
The lullaby drifted up from somewhere below them, slow and gentle, with a small rise at the end of every verse.
Fifita remembered lying in bed as a child while Amara brushed her hair. She remembered warm hands, the scent of lavender, and the soft tap of a silver ring against the wooden headboard.
But the memory always ended the same way.
A door closing.
Footsteps fading.
Silence.
“I thought she died,” Fifita whispered.
Vans didn't contradict her. He didn't tell her what she should believe or insist that he knew better.
He simply stood beside her and allowed the silence to remain.
That small kindness unsettled her more than his warnings had.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
“Because the First Edition has returned.”
“That explains why you're interested in the book. It doesn't explain why you're interested in me.”
For once, Vans seemed uncertain how to answer.
“My mother left me a warning,” he said at last. “If the First Edition ever returned, I was to find the girl who could hear the knocking.”
Fifita's fingers tightened around her charm.
“What girl?”
“She never gave me your name. She said the girl would hear things other people couldn't.”
“And you think that's me?”
“I think the book recognized you. I think it knows your family.” He hesitated. “And I think my mother was afraid of what you might remember.”
Fifita searched his face.
“Did your mother know mine?”
“I believe they did.”
“Then why didn't you tell me yesterday?”
“Because I didn't want to ask you to trust me before I had anything to prove.”
She had expected another evasive answer.
Instead, she found herself considering the possibility that Vans was frightened, too.
“You realize most people try to make themselves seem trustworthy.”
“Most people don't carry cursed books into enchanted bookshops.”
“Fair point.”
They continued down the stairs.
At the bottom lay a circular chamber lined with empty shelves. Small glass bottles stood in neat rows upon them, each sealed with silver wax.
Some were empty.
Others held tiny lights that fluttered like fireflies.
In the center of the chamber stood a wooden table. A single sheet of paper rested upon it.
Fifita approached.
The handwriting was elegant and unfamiliar.
THE FIRST WITNESS MUST NEVER BE ALLOWED TO REMEMBER.
Beneath the sentence was one name.
MARA.
Fifita read it twice.
“Who is Mara?”
Vans examined the paper without touching it.
“I don't know.”
A soft rustling came from the staircase.
Bookmark had followed them after all. He reached the bottom step, took one look at the paper, and went completely still.
“Oh, dear.”
Fifita turned.
“You know that name.”
“I knew someone who knew it.”
“Bookmark.”
His paper arms folded tightly across his chest.
“I can't remember her face.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone took it from me.”
For once, Fifita had no joke ready.
Before she could ask another question, a bottle shattered.
Silver light spilled across the floor, circled the table, and gathered above it. Slowly, the light took the shape of a little girl wearing a dress with silver ribbons.
Fifita forgot how to breathe.
She recognized the girl from her dreams.
The girl regarded her with eyes full of sorrow.
“You're late,” she whispered.
Fifita took a cautious step forward.
“Who are you?”
The girl's image flickered.
“You promised you would come back.”
“I don't remember making a promise to you.”
“I know.”
The girl's gaze dropped to her hands.
“That's why it hurts.”
Something inside Fifita seemed to crack. She wanted to reach out, to take the girl's hand, to apologize for a promise she couldn't remember making.
But the figure was only light.
“I want to remember,” Fifita said.
The girl looked up.
“Then find the page they buried.”
“What page?”
“The page that explains why you were allowed to live.”
Vans moved closer.
“What does that mean?”
The girl turned toward him.
Her sorrow vanished.
Fear took its place.
“No,” she whispered. “Not him.”
Vans stiffened.
“What do you know about me?”
The girl began to retreat.
“Don't let him remember his father.”
The silver light trembled.
Vans's knife slipped from his hand and struck the floor.
“My father is dead,” he said.
The girl shook her head.
“Your father is the reason you're here.”
Then the light collapsed into a single silver spark and vanished.
Silence filled the chamber.
Fifita looked at Vans.
His hands were clenched at his sides. His face had lost its color, and he stared at the place where the girl had disappeared as though he expected her to return and finish what she'd started.
“Vans?”
He didn't answer.
She moved closer but stopped before touching him.
“Whatever she meant, we can investigate it.”
He swallowed.
“I don't want to remember my father.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I try, I hear someone screaming.”
His voice had become so quiet that she almost missed the next words.
“And I don't know whether it was him or me.”
Fifita felt the weight of her own forgotten memories pressing against her chest. She knew what it was like to fear the truth waiting inside an empty space.
She had no clever answer.
No joke.
No spell that could make the pain disappear.
So she held out her hand.
Vans looked at it for a long moment.
“You don't have to tell me everything today,” she said. “But if we're going to investigate this together, don't disappear behind your secrets every time the truth hurts.”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“And if the truth makes you hate me?”
“Then give me the chance to decide what I think after I hear it.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Slowly, he took her hand.
“Agreed.”
His fingers were warm.
For the first time, their alliance felt like a choice rather than something the First Edition had forced upon them.
A faint click interrupted the moment.
The table had shifted.
A narrow compartment had opened beneath the paper, revealing a silver key and a small photograph.
Fifita released Vans's hand and picked up the photograph.
Two women stood in front of The Moonlit Margins.
One was Amara Hart.
Fifita recognized her mother immediately, despite the years that had passed since she'd last seen her face clearly.
The second woman had dark hair and a solemn expression. She wore a silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon.
Between them stood a young boy holding a wooden rabbit.
Fifita turned the photograph over.
Two names had been written on the back.
AMARA HART AND ELARA MASAYON KEEPERS OF THE FIRST PROMISE.
Vans stared at the handwriting.
“That woman is my mother.”
Fifita looked from the photograph to him.
“Our mothers knew each other.”
“More than knew each other,” he murmured. “They were keeping the same secret.”
“Or protecting the same thing.”
He didn't answer.
A faint tremor passed through the chamber. The lights inside the remaining bottles dimmed, then brightened again.
Fifita placed the photograph carefully on the table.
“We need to find out what the First Promise was.”
“And the page the girl mentioned.”
“And why your father is apparently alive inside a wall.”
Vans gave her a startled look.
“I don't think we should assume that last part.”
“His portrait hasn't spoken to me yet. I'm reserving judgment.”
Despite himself, he laughed.
The sound eased something in the room.
Then three knocks sounded from behind the farthest shelf.
Fifita turned.
A narrow seam appeared in the stone wall. The shelf slid aside, revealing a black wooden door.
Across its surface, silver letters slowly emerged.
ONLY THE FORGOTTEN MAY ENTER.
Vans stepped forward.
The silver mark on his wrist began to glow.
Fifita caught his hand.
“Wait.”
He looked down at her fingers around his wrist.
“What is it?”
“The book called you the Masayon heir. The girl warned you about your father. Now this door is reacting to your mark.”
She studied the inscription.
“I think it wants you to open it.”
“Then perhaps I should.”
“Or perhaps we should consider why every magical object in this building seems determined to ruin our morning.”
“An excellent point.”
He didn't move.
For a moment, they examined the door together, searching for another way to approach it. There was no handle, no keyhole, and no visible hinge.
At last, Vans pressed his marked wrist against the wood.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Beyond it lay a small room filled with photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Some were yellowed with age others looked as though they had been taken only yesterday. Every photograph showed a different person standing in front of The Moonlit Margins.
In each picture, one person had been scratched out.
Fifita stepped closer to the nearest frame.
She recognized the shop's former sign in the background, though its lettering was older than the one hanging above the front door.
“These people were connected to the shop,” she whispered.
“Or to the First Edition,” Vans replied.
At the center of the room hung a portrait of a man with Vans's eyes.
Beneath it, a silver plaque bore a name.
ADRIAN MASAYON.
Vans went utterly still.
A thin line of writing appeared beneath the name.
FATHER OF THE BOY WHO WAS NEVER MEANT TO EXIST.
The portrait's eyes opened.
Vans took one involuntary step backward.
The man inside the painting leaned forward, his expression strained, as though speaking required an effort.
“Vans,” he whispered.
The voice sounded distant, like someone calling from the other side of a closed door.
“If you can hear me, do not let Fifita read the next page.”
The portrait went dark.
Fifita stared at it.
Then she looked at Vans, whose face had become unreadable.
“What page?” she asked.
He didn't answer.
Behind them, somewhere deep beneath the shop, the First Edition opened by itself.
And a single page began to turn.
