The bell above the antique shop door did not ring, not really. It exhaled, a soft metallic sigh swallowed by the layers of wards stitched into the doorway. Evening pressed against the front windows, dusk bleeding into the glass in bruised shades of violet and gray, turning the cluttered displays into silhouettes of curved wood, tarnished brass, and forgotten histories.

Donna Pritchard sat behind the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hands resting flat on a velvet cloth darkened by age and use. A deck of cards lay between her palms, old edges softened by decades of handling, by Cora’s hands, and now her own. The shop smelled of dust, beeswax, and something faintly bitter, like burnt herbs. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, magic shifted, restless and alert, responding to the presence crossing the threshold.

She did not lift her head. She didn’t need to. The air changed when someone entered, pressure gathering at the back of her skull, a familiar prickle along her wrists. The wards recognized the intruder before she did, whispering their assessment through the shelves and the walls. Friendly. Curious. Or dangerous. It was never nothing.

Her fingers brushed the top card, turning it over without looking. The image revealed itself anyway, sharp and inevitable. Donna exhaled slowly through her nose, jaw tightening just a fraction as memory and instinct tangled together. Cora used to say the cards spoke loudest when you pretended not to listen.

Still, Donna remained motionless, gaze fixed on the spread before her, as though the rest of the world had no claim on her attention at all.

“You can come in properly,” she said at last, voice calm and low. “The shop doesn’t like being sneaked up on.”