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When candle maker Wren Baxter thought she’d left corporate burnout behind for the peaceful mountain town of Hollow Wick, she never imagined her stress-relief candles would become murder weapons. But in a place where ancient energies flow through cobblestone streets and her tabby cat Wick sees dangers she can’t, peace is just an illusion.

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• How Wren’s mystical abilities first awakened
• The supernatural secret that draws guardians to Hollow Wick
• Why Wick chose Wren as his human companion
• Ancient mysteries that set up the entire series

This exclusive prequel story reveals the hidden origins of Wren’s gift and introduces you to the charming yet dangerous world where healing candles hold power, book club ladies solve murders, and a sarcastic handyman might just steal your heart.

Warning: Once you enter Hollow Wick, you’ll never want to leave.

Perfect for readers who love small-town mysteries with supernatural twists, strong community bonds, and just enough romance to keep you burning for more.

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“Welcome home, dear one. Welcome to your true calling.”

The Scented Letter

The brass bell above the door of Wick & Whimsy Candle Shop had developed a particular voice over the months since Wren Baxter had hung it there—a bright, welcoming chime that seemed to sing different notes depending on who crossed the threshold. Today, as gray November clouds pressed low against the windows and the first hints of winter wind rattled the glass, the bell’s song carried an unfamiliar harmony that made Wren look up from her workbench with a frown.

She’d been lost in the meditative rhythm of measuring beeswax, her hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who’d found their calling later in life and treasured every moment of it. The “Woodland Whispers” candles were her latest experiment—a blend of pine, cedar, and something indefinable that reminded her of childhood walks through autumn forests. The scent transported her back to simpler times, before corporate deadlines and fluorescent-lit cubicles had nearly drained the creativity from her soul.

At thirty-four, Wren had learned to trust her instincts about people, and the woman who stepped through her doorway made every intuitive alarm bell she possessed ring at once. Not because she sensed danger—quite the opposite. This stranger radiated the kind of contained sorrow that came from carrying heavy secrets for too long, mixed with a determined elegance that spoke of old money and older grief.

“Miss Baxter?” The woman’s voice carried layers—a refined accent that suggested private schools and symphony subscriptions, but underneath it, something raw and carefully controlled. She wore a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than Wren’s monthly rent, its tailored lines emphasizing rather than hiding a frame that had grown frailer with age. Her silver hair was swept into a perfect chignon despite the wind outside, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame a face marked by intelligence and loss. “I’m Vivian Ashworth. I believe you knew my great-niece, Adelaide Whitmore.”

The measuring cup slipped from Wren’s suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the workbench and sending beeswax pellets scattering across the scarred wood surface. Adelaide Whitmore. Even months after solving the mystery of the perfumer’s disappearance, the name still had the power to stop Wren’s breath in her throat. Adelaide, whose stolen formulas had led to decades of buried guilt and deadly consequences. Adelaide, whose murder had drawn Wren into a web of small-town secrets that had nearly cost her everything.

“Mrs. Ashworth.” Wren steadied herself against the workbench, then forced her legs to carry her toward the front of the shop. Her voice came out rougher than she’d intended, thick with emotions she thought she’d processed. “Please, come in. I… God, I’m sorry for your loss. Even though it was so long ago, I know that doesn’t make it easier.”

From his favorite perch by the window, Wick raised his head with the slow deliberation of a cat who’d been feigning sleep. The gray tabby’s amber eyes—unusual in their clarity and intelligence—fixed on their visitor with an intensity that made Wren’s skin prickle. In the months since he’d appeared in her life, Wick had proven uncannily good at reading people, but she’d never seen him regard a stranger with this particular combination of alertness and… recognition?

Vivian’s smile transformed her face, chasing away years and revealing glimpses of the beauty she must have been in her youth. “Thank you, dear. That’s very kind.” She paused, studying Wren’s face with eyes that seemed to see far more than they should. “Adelaide was more sister than niece to me, despite the age difference. Only fifteen years between us, you see, and she lived with my family for several years after her parents died. She was…” Vivian’s voice caught, and she took a careful breath before continuing. “She was the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known. And I understand you were instrumental in discovering what happened to her.”

“I had help.” Wren gestured toward the sitting area she’d created near the front window, where two mismatched but comfortable armchairs surrounded a small table displaying her seasonal candles. The setup had been born of practicality—a place for customers to rest while she mixed custom scents—but had evolved into something more intimate, a space where people seemed compelled to share their stories. “My friends and I, we just… we couldn’t let the truth stay buried. She deserved better than being forgotten.”

The words felt inadequate, failing to capture the obsession that had driven her to uncover Adelaide’s fate, the way the mystery had burrowed into her bones and refused to let go until justice was served. Even now, she could picture Adelaide’s face from the old photographs—young, brilliant, full of dreams that had been cut short by greed and betrayal.

As Vivian settled into one of the chairs with the careful movements of someone whose joints protested cold weather, Wick surprised Wren by flowing down from his perch and approaching the older woman without his usual feline suspicion of strangers. He sniffed delicately at her gloved hand, his whiskers twitching as if cataloging scents that told stories Wren couldn’t read. After a long moment, he sat beside her chair with the air of a guard dog accepting a trusted visitor.

“Well,” Wren said, settling into the chair across from her unexpected guest. “Wick approves of you, which is… unusual. He’s typically more suspicious of new people. Took him three weeks to let my neighbor pet him, and she brings him treats every day.”

“Animals have always been drawn to me.” Vivian removed her gloves with practiced efficiency, revealing hands marked by age spots and the slight tremor of someone past seventy. When she offered her fingers to Wick, he sniffed once more before allowing a gentle pat, his purr rumbling to life like a well-tuned engine. “Adelaide used to say I had a gift with them. She was the one with the real gift, though—with plants and flowers. She could make anything bloom, coax scents from the most reluctant blossoms. I swear she could have made roses grow in a desert if she’d put her mind to it.”

The wistful note in Vivian’s voice made Wren’s chest tighten with sympathy. She’d spent months learning about Adelaide through old photographs and faded documents, but hearing about her from someone who’d loved her made the long-dead woman feel suddenly, achingly real.

“Would you like some tea?” Wren asked, needing to do something with her hands before the weight of Vivian’s grief became too much to bear. “I was just about to make some. I’ve got Earl Grey, chamomile, or something called ‘Afternoon Dreams’ that I get from a local herbalist. It’s supposed to be calming, though I can’t vouch for the claims.”

“That would be lovely, dear. The local blend sounds perfect.” Vivian’s gaze wandered over the shop, taking in the neatly arranged candles grouped by color and scent, the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams like fragrant chandeliers, the warm glow of strategically placed Edison bulbs that made everything look touched by golden hour light. “Adelaide would have adored this place. She always dreamed of having her own shop, her own laboratory where she could experiment with scents and formulations without someone looking over her shoulder, questioning her methods.”

Wren moved to the small kitchenette area behind her counter, grateful for the familiar ritual of tea preparation. She’d installed the space partly for her own convenience during long working days, but mostly because she’d discovered that offering tea to customers created a sense of home and comfort that encouraged them to linger and share their stories. Some of her best custom scent consultations had happened over steaming mugs and confidential conversations.

“I brought you something,” Vivian called as Wren arranged cups on a wooden tray she’d found at a local antique shop. “Something I thought you should see, given your… involvement in Adelaide’s story.”

When Wren returned with the tea service, she found Vivian holding a cream-colored envelope, the paper thick and expensive-looking despite its obvious age. The envelope bore Wren’s name in an elegant script that seemed to shimmer in the afternoon light filtering through the shop windows, as if the ink had been mixed with something more than pigment.

Wren nearly dropped the tray. “That’s… that’s my name,” she said, setting the tea down with hands that had begun to tremble. “But how is that possible?”

“Adelaide wrote this thirty years ago,” Vivian said softly, extending the envelope toward Wren like she was offering something precious and fragile. “She gave it to me the last time I saw her, three days before she disappeared. Three days before that monster killed her.” Her voice hardened on the last words, decades of contained fury breaking through her careful composure. “She told me someone would come to Hollow Wick someday, someone who would understand what she’d been trying to do. Someone who would need to know the truth.”

Wren sank into her chair, the envelope feeling impossibly heavy in her hands. The paper was warm to the touch, as if it had been sitting in sunlight rather than hidden away for three decades. “She couldn’t have known my name. I was only four years old thirty years ago, and I’d never even heard of Hollow Wick until I found this place on a random internet search. I was looking for small towns in New England where I could afford to start over, and Hollow Wick just… called to me, I guess.”

“Adelaide had unusual intuitions about people and events.” Vivian accepted the cup of tea Wren offered, her hands steadier than Wren’s despite her age. “She often knew things before they happened, especially about people who shared her gifts. I remember when she was sixteen, she told me I would meet my husband at a train station on a rainy Tuesday. I laughed at her—what were the odds? But three months later, there I was at Grand Central, delayed by a thunderstorm, when the most handsome man I’d ever seen asked if he could share my umbrella.”

“Her gifts?” Wren’s voice came out as barely more than a whisper.

“With plants, with scents, with the subtle energies that most people can’t perceive.” Vivian’s eyes found Wick, who had moved closer to Wren’s chair and was now purring softly, his amber gaze never leaving the envelope in her hands. “The same gifts that allow you to create candles that do more than simply smell pleasant. The same gifts that drew your remarkable cat to you from whatever mysterious place cats come from.”

Wren’s fingers traced the elegant script of her name, noting how the ink seemed to shift color slightly in the changing light. “I don’t understand. How could she have known? How could any of this be real?”

“Read the letter, dear. Adelaide explains it better than I ever could.”

With hands that shook only slightly, Wren opened the envelope. The paper inside matched the envelope—cream-colored, thick, with a subtle texture that spoke of quality and care. As she unfolded the letter, a faint scent arose from the paper, something floral and complex that made her think of hidden gardens and moonlit paths. For a moment, the familiar walls of her shop seemed to fade, replaced by the ghost-impression of somewhere wild and secret, a place where ordinary rules didn’t apply.

The handwriting was the same elegant script as her name, but as Wren began to read, she felt a strange sensation building in her chest, as if the words were speaking directly to her heart rather than her eyes.

My Dear Wren,

If you are reading this, then my worst fears have come to pass, and I am no longer in this world to guide you as I had hoped. But do not grieve for me—I go to my fate knowing that the right person will eventually find their way to Hollow Wick, someone who will understand and continue the work I began.

I know you must be confused, wondering how I could possibly know your name or predict your arrival in our small town. The truth is both simpler and more complex than you might imagine. You see, Hollow Wick sits at the convergence of what some call ley lines—streams of energy that flow through the earth like invisible rivers. These energies affect those who are sensitive to them, enhancing natural abilities and creating connections across time and space.

I have seen you in my dreams, dear one. I have watched you grow from a child sensitive to the subtle properties of plants and scents into a woman who will one day create candles that heal not just the body, but the spirit. I have seen you arrive in Hollow Wick seeking peace, only to find yourself drawn into mysteries that will test your courage and expand your understanding of what is possible.

Wren looked up from the letter, her heart hammering against her ribs. “This is impossible. She couldn’t have known… I mean, dreams are just random brain activity during sleep. There’s no scientific basis for prophetic visions.”

“Keep reading,” Vivian urged gently, though her own face had grown pale. “I know it’s difficult to accept. I struggled with it for years.”

I know you will doubt what I am telling you. I know you will look for logical explanations, as any sensible person would. But I also know that part of you has always sensed there was more to the world than what most people see. Haven’t you noticed how your candles affect people differently than other candles? Haven’t you wondered why certain scent combinations feel exactly right to you, even when you can’t explain why? Haven’t you observed that your cat companion possesses unusually keen instincts?

Wren’s breath caught. Just last week, Mrs. Henderson from down the street had told her that the “Evening Peace” candles helped her sleep better than any prescription medication. And there was the time Jake Morrison had bought a “Clarity” candle before his job interview and swore it had helped him think more clearly than he had in months. She’d dismissed these comments as placebo effects, people wanting to believe her candles were special because they’d paid good money for them.

But Wick… Wick was different. He’d appeared outside her Chicago apartment exactly thirteen months ago, a scruffy stray who’d somehow gotten past three locked doors to sleep on her fire escape. When she’d tried to take him to a shelter, he’d escaped and found his way back to her building within hours. The veterinarian had been baffled by his ability to sense her migraines before she felt them herself, his tendency to position himself between her and people who later proved untrustworthy.

These are not coincidences, Wren. They are manifestations of the same sensitivity that allows you to perceive the subtle energies that flow through Hollow Wick. The same sensitivity that will make you a guardian of this place, whether you choose that role or not.

I write this letter because I fear my time in Hollow Wick is ending. Someone here has discovered what I truly am, what I can do, and they mean to use my abilities for their own profit. I have tried to leave, but the energies that drew me here will not let me go. I am bound to this place now, and I suspect my binding will only be broken through violence.

The clinical language couldn’t disguise the fear bleeding through Adelaide’s words. Wren found herself gripping the letter tighter, her knuckles white against the cream-colored paper.

But you, dear Wren, are not bound as I am. You come to Hollow Wick by choice, seeking healing and a new beginning. You will find both, but you will also find responsibility. The protection of this town and its people will fall to you, as it fell to me, as it fell to others before me.

Do not fear this responsibility. You will not bear it alone. The friends you make in Hollow Wick will stand beside you, even if they don’t fully understand what they are supporting. Your cat companion will guard you with abilities that surpass those of ordinary animals. And the candles you create will serve as more than sources of light and fragrance—they will be tools of protection and healing.

Wren thought of Elena Morris, the local doctor who’d become one of her closest friends despite their different backgrounds. Elena, who seemed to know instinctively which of Wren’s candles would help her most difficult patients. And Margaret Haddonfeld, the retired librarian who’d appointed herself unofficial guardian of Hollow Wick’s history and mysteries. Even Jake Harding, the local handyman whose family had lived in the area for generations and who always seemed to appear when she needed help with repairs or protection.

I have hidden something for you, something that will help you understand the full scope of what awaits you in Hollow Wick. Behind the loose stone in the fireplace of what will become your shop, you will find a journal containing everything I learned about the energies that flow through this place. Study it well, but be careful who you trust with its contents. Not everyone in Hollow Wick will welcome a new guardian.

Wren’s gaze flew to the fireplace at the back of her shop, where she’d created a cozy reading nook complete with two comfortable chairs and a bookshelf filled with volumes on aromatherapy, herbalism, and candle making. She’d been meaning to have the fireplace cleaned and inspected before winter set in properly, but had been putting off the expense.

Trust your instincts, dear one. Trust your cat. Trust the friends who stand by you when others doubt. And remember that the light you bring to this world is needed, even when the darkness seems overwhelming.

With love and hope for your future, Adelaide Whitmore

P.S. – The lavender that grows wild on the hillside behind the shop has been enhanced by the energies of this place. Use it in your candles, and you will find it has properties that ordinary lavender does not possess.

Wren’s hands were shaking as she finished reading. She looked up to find Vivian watching her with knowing eyes, her own cup of tea forgotten and cooling on the table between them.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” Vivian said softly. “The truth of what she wrote, even if your rational mind rebels against it.”

“I…” Wren swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’ve always been good with scents, with knowing which combinations would work together. I thought it was just intuition, maybe some kind of inherited talent. My grandmother was an herbalist before it was fashionable, and my mother always said I had her nose for plants.”

“And your cat? Has he always been so… perceptive?”

Wren glanced down at Wick, who was now sitting perfectly still, his amber eyes fixed on the letter in her hands with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “He found me, actually. Showed up at my apartment in Chicago about a year before I moved here. The landlord said he’d never seen him before, but Wick acted like he’d been waiting for me specifically. He’s… he’s saved my life more than once. Warned me about gas leaks, bad weather, people who meant me harm. I told myself he was just a smart cat, but…”

“But deep down, you knew he was something more,” Vivian finished gently. “Because he had been waiting for you, dear. Animals like Wick are drawn to people like you and Adelaide. They serve as companions, guards, and guides. Adelaide had a cat very much like Wick—a tortoiseshell named Sage who disappeared the same night Adelaide did.”

The implications of what Vivian was saying made Wren’s head spin. She stood abruptly, pacing to the window and staring out at the gray November afternoon without really seeing it. “You’re telling me that Wick isn’t just a smart cat. You’re saying he’s… what, magical?”

“I’m saying he’s a familiar, dear. A spiritual companion drawn to those with certain gifts. And yes, that means he has abilities beyond those of ordinary cats.” Vivian leaned forward, her expression serious. “Tell me, have you found the journal Adelaide mentioned?”

Wren shook her head, still staring out the window. “I haven’t looked. I mean, I’ve been meaning to have the fireplace cleaned and inspected, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Part of me has been… avoiding it, I think. Like I knew there was something important hidden there and I wasn’t ready to face it.”

“Perhaps it’s time you were.”

They moved to the fireplace, where Wren had arranged her reading nook with care and love. The fireplace itself was old but well-maintained, with a stone surround that showed the wear of many decades. Some of the stones were darker than others, worn smooth by countless hands, and Wren found herself wondering about all the people who had sat in this spot before her, warming themselves by fires that had burned here for over a century.

Wick immediately jumped onto the hearth and began sniffing around the stones, his tail twitching with excitement. His behavior was more purposeful than curious, as if he knew exactly what they were looking for. After a moment, he sat down next to one particular stone—slightly smaller than the others and set just a little differently—and looked at Wren expectantly.

“That one,” Wren said, pointing to the stone Wick had selected. “It does look a little different from the others, doesn’t it?”

With Vivian’s help, Wren worked the stone loose from its setting. It came away more easily than she’d expected, revealing a cavity behind it that had been carefully lined with what looked like waterproof material. Nestled inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, was a leather-bound journal with Adelaide’s initials embossed on the cover in faded gold.

“She was quite the planner,” Vivian observed with a sad smile. “Always thinking ahead, always preparing for possibilities. Even as a child, she had contingency plans for everything.”

Wren lifted the journal from its hiding place with reverent hands, aware that she was holding something precious and potentially dangerous. The leather was soft with age but still supple, and the pages inside were thick and cream-colored, similar to the letter paper but with a different texture.

She opened the journal carefully, and immediately her senses were flooded with the faint scent of lavender and something else—something wild and green that made her think of moonlit forests and ancient secrets. The pages were filled with Adelaide’s elegant handwriting, interspersed with pressed flowers that still held traces of their original colors, botanical sketches that were works of art in their own right, and what appeared to be maps of the town marked with symbols and notations in different colored inks.

“The Hollow Wick Convergence,” Wren read from the first page. “A study of the energy patterns that make this place unique, and the responsibilities they place upon those who can perceive them.”

“Adelaide spent three years documenting everything she discovered about Hollow Wick,” Vivian explained, settling into one of the reading chairs with a slight grimace that spoke of old bones and cold weather. “The history of the people who lived here before the town was established, the patterns of energy that flow through the area, the ways those energies affect plants, animals, and sensitive individuals. She was meticulous in her research.”

Wren sank into the other chair, flipping through the pages with growing amazement. Adelaide had documented everything with scientific precision—which plants grew better in which locations, how the phases of the moon affected the energy patterns, even which residents seemed to be sensitive to the energies without realizing it. There were detailed maps showing the flow of what Adelaide called “earth currents,” notes on seasonal variations in energy levels, and careful observations about how different types of weather affected the invisible forces that shaped the town.

“This is incredible,” Wren breathed, pausing at a page filled with sketches of local flora. “She documented everything—soil composition, water table patterns, even the migration patterns of local birds and how they correspond to energy fluctuations.”

“And now it’s yours,” Vivian said quietly. “Along with the responsibility Adelaide wrote about.”

Wren closed the journal and held it against her chest, feeling the weight of knowledge and expectation settling into her bones like lead. “But I don’t understand. If Adelaide knew all this, if she was so careful and prepared, how did she…” Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was asking.

“How did she end up murdered?” Vivian’s expression grew pained, years of grief and anger flickering across her features. “Because even with all her knowledge and preparation, she was still human. She made the mistake of trusting someone who saw her abilities as a means to profit rather than a gift to be protected. And because she loved him, or thought she did.”

“Raymond Cross,” Wren said, remembering the antique dealer who had killed Adelaide and then spent thirty years selling recreations of her stolen perfume formulas, building a fortune on her stolen work.

“Yes. He was charming, sophisticated, everything a young woman might dream of in a partner. He managed to deceive her completely, to make her believe he loved her and supported her work. By the time she realized his true intentions, it was too late.” Vivian touched the journal gently, her fingers trembling slightly. “But her knowledge survives, and now it passes to you.”

Wren stood and moved to the window again, watching as the first snowflakes of the season began to drift past the glass. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I came to Hollow Wick to heal from burnout, to build a simple business and find some peace. I didn’t sign up to be a guardian of ancient energies or whatever this is supposed to be.”

“None of us signs up for our true calling,” Vivian said with a gentle smile. “But look at what you’ve already accomplished. You’ve solved murders, protected your community, and created a business that brings healing to people who desperately need it. You’ve been acting as a guardian without even realizing it.”

As if in response to Vivian’s words, Wick jumped down from the hearth and rubbed against Wren’s legs, purring loudly. The sound was somehow more comforting than usual, a reminder that whatever lay ahead, she wouldn’t face it alone.

“What about you?” Wren asked, turning away from the window to face Vivian. “Do you have these abilities too? Is that why you knew to bring me the letter now?”

Vivian shook her head with what looked like genuine regret. “I’m afraid not, dear. I’m perfectly ordinary in that regard, though I’ve spent thirty years wishing I weren’t. But I was Adelaide’s family, and I loved her more than life itself. When she gave me that letter, she made me promise to find a way to get it to you when the time was right. I’ve been watching Hollow Wick from a distance for three decades, waiting for the right person to arrive.”

“How did you know I was the right person?”

“Because of what you did for Adelaide. You didn’t just solve her murder—you honored her memory, exposed the truth about her work, and made sure she was finally laid to rest with dignity.” Vivian’s voice grew thick with emotion. “That took courage, compassion, and a sense of justice that convinced me you were exactly who she’d been waiting for. And because…” She hesitated, looking suddenly uncertain.

“Because what?”

“Because you look like her. Not identical, but there’s something in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself when you’re thinking deeply. Adelaide had that same quality of being present and elsewhere at the same time, as if part of her was always listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear.”

Wren looked around her shop, taking in the carefully arranged candles grouped by color and intention, the herbs drying from the ceiling beams like fragrant promises, the cozy reading nook where she’d just discovered a link to powers and responsibilities she’d never imagined. Everything looked the same as it had an hour ago, but she felt fundamentally changed, as if she’d been sleepwalking through her life and was only now beginning to wake up.

“There’s something else,” Vivian said, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a small velvet pouch that looked as old as the letter. “Adelaide asked me to give you this as well.”

Inside the pouch was a pendant—a simple silver chain holding a small crystal that seemed to capture and reflect the light in impossible ways. The crystal appeared to be clear quartz, but as Wren held it up to the window, she could see tiny inclusions that sparkled like trapped stars. As soon as she touched it, she felt a surge of something she couldn’t name—energy, awareness, connection to forces she’d never acknowledged before.

“She wore this every day,” Vivian explained, watching Wren’s face carefully. “It’s a piece of quartz from the hillside behind your shop, but it’s been enhanced by the energies of this place. It will help you sense when those energies are disturbed, when danger threatens the town or its people.”

Wren fastened the chain around her neck, surprised by how natural it felt, as if she’d been wearing it for years rather than seconds. The crystal settled against her chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with her body temperature, and suddenly the world seemed slightly sharper, more vivid. She could sense the flow of air through the shop, the subtle vibrations of the building settling around them, even the rhythm of Vivian’s heartbeat across the small space.

“Oh,” she whispered, one hand rising instinctively to cover the pendant. “I can… I can feel…”

“The beginning of true awareness,” Vivian said softly. “It will grow stronger with time and practice. Adelaide said the pendant would help you learn to distinguish between natural energy fluctuations and genuine threats.”

“Will you stay in Hollow Wick?” Wren asked, still adjusting to the strange new sensations the pendant brought. “I mean, now that you’ve delivered the letter and the journal?”

“For a few days, perhaps. I’d like to visit Adelaide’s grave, now that she finally has one. And I’d like to get to know you a little better, if you don’t mind. You’re the closest thing to family Adelaide has left, which makes you family to me as well.”

As evening settled over Hollow Wick, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold, Wren made fresh tea and they sat together in the gathering darkness, talking about Adelaide’s life before she came to town. Vivian shared stories of the brilliant, restless young woman who had struggled to find her place in a world that didn’t understand her gifts—how she’d excelled in chemistry and botany classes but been dismissed by professors who couldn’t explain her intuitive leaps. How she’d worked for several perfume companies but always clashed with supervisors who wanted to limit her creativity to market-tested formulas.

“She was searching for something her whole life,” Vivian said, cradling her teacup like it was a source of warmth against old grief. “Looking for a place where she could be herself without having to hide what she was capable of. When she found Hollow Wick, she thought she’d finally found home.”

“She had,” Wren said softly, watching Wick curl up in her lap with the satisfied air of a cat whose job was nearly complete. “She just didn’t get enough time to enjoy it.”

“Perhaps that’s where you come in,” Vivian suggested. “Perhaps you’re meant to live the life she was denied, to fulfill the dreams she never got to realize.”

After Vivian left for her hotel, promising to return the next day, Wren sat alone in her shop with Adelaide’s journal open on her lap and the crystal pendant warm against her chest. She read by candlelight—one of her own “Evening Peace” candles, scented with lavender and chamomile—and began to understand the true scope of what she’d inherited.

Adelaide had been thorough in her documentation, recording not just the scientific aspects of Hollow Wick’s unique properties but also the emotional and spiritual dimensions. She’d noted how certain locations in town seemed to amplify particular emotions—how the old cemetery promoted healing and acceptance of loss, how the town square encouraged community and cooperation, how the hillside behind Wren’s shop fostered creativity and spiritual growth.

Some of the names in Adelaide’s notes surprised Wren with their familiarity. Dr. Elena Morris was described as having “strong healing intuition enhanced by proximity to the convergence,” which explained her uncanny ability to diagnose difficult cases and her instinctive understanding of which alternative therapies would help her patients. Margaret Haddonfeld was noted as having “natural protective instincts that manifest as fierce loyalty to the community,” which certainly matched Wren’s experience of the retired librarian’s fierce guardianship of Hollow Wick’s secrets and traditions.

Even Jake Harding was mentioned, listed as having “family connections to guardian traditions, though he may not be aware of his heritage.” That explained his tendency to appear whenever Wren needed help, his intuitive understanding of the town’s rhythms, and the way he seemed to sense trouble before it fully manifested.

As Wren read deeper into the journal, she began to understand that her arrival in Hollow Wick hadn’t been the random decision she’d thought it was. The energies Adelaide wrote about, the same forces that had drawn Adelaide to the town and bound her to it, had been calling to Wren for years. Her growing dissatisfaction with her corporate job, her increasing interest in natural healing and handmade crafts, her sudden decision to leave everything behind and start over—all of it had been leading her here.

The pendant against her chest grew warmer as she read, as if responding to her growing understanding and acceptance. She found herself thinking about all the small moments since arriving in Hollow Wick that had seemed like coincidences but now revealed themselves as part of a larger pattern. The way she’d known exactly which building would become her shop the moment she saw it. The ease with which she’d made friends with people who should have been strangers. The immediate sense of belonging she’d felt in a town she’d never visited before.

“What do you think, Wick?” she asked softly, stroking the cat’s fur as he purred in her lap. “Are you ready for this? Because I have a feeling our quiet life is about to get a lot more complicated.”

Wick’s purr deepened, and for just a moment, Wren could have sworn she heard something like words in the rumbling sound. Not words in any human language, but a communication nonetheless, one that spoke of acceptance, dedication, and the promise of partnership in whatever challenges lay ahead.

Outside, snow continued to fall, dusting the windows of Wick & Whimsy Candle Shop with crystalline patterns that caught and reflected the candlelight. Wren closed Adelaide’s journal and held it against her chest, feeling the weight of knowledge and responsibility settling into her bones like something she’d been carrying her whole life without realizing it.

Tomorrow, she would begin studying the journal in earnest, learning about the energies that flowed through her adopted home and the ways she could help protect the town and its people. She would experiment with the wild lavender Adelaide had mentioned, incorporating it into new candle formulations designed not just to please the senses but to enhance the protective barriers around Hollow Wick.

But tonight, she simply sat in her shop surrounded by the fruits of her labor—the candles she’d made with her own hands, each one infused with intention and care; the herbs she’d carefully selected and dried, chosen as much for their energetic properties as their aromatic ones; the space she’d created for healing and community, a sanctuary that had drawn troubled souls seeking solace. Tonight, she allowed herself to feel the satisfaction of a dream realized and the anticipation of a purpose discovered, even if that purpose was far grander and more mystical than anything she’d ever imagined.

The crystal pendant pulsed gently against her chest, its rhythm matching her heartbeat, and Wren found herself remembering fragments of dreams she’d dismissed as stress-induced nonsense. Dreams of walking through moonlit forests where flowers glowed with inner light. Dreams of standing in a circle of stones while energy flowed through her hands like visible rivers. Dreams of a woman with dark hair and sad eyes who whispered secrets about the hidden connections that bound all living things together.

Adelaide. She’d been dreaming of Adelaide for months before she’d ever heard the name, before she’d known anything about Hollow Wick’s missing perfumer. The realization sent chills down her spine and made her question everything she thought she knew about destiny, free will, and the nature of reality itself.

She was Wren Baxter, former corporate drone turned candle maker. She was Wren Baxter, accidental detective who’d solved murders that had baffled local authorities. And now, apparently, she was Wren Baxter, guardian of Hollow Wick—protector of a small New England town and the ancient energies that flowed through it like invisible bloodstreams.

The brass bell above her door chimed softly as a gust of wind rattled the windows, but instead of the welcoming note she’d grown accustomed to, the sound carried an undertone of warning. Wren looked up from the journal, her newly awakened senses prickling with awareness. Through the snow-dusted windows, she could see the town settling into its evening routine—lights coming on in windows, the last few shopkeepers locking up for the night, the gentle bustle of people hurrying home to dinner and warmth.

Everything looked normal, peaceful even. But the pendant against her chest had grown noticeably warmer, and Wick had lifted his head from her lap, his amber eyes fixed on something beyond the windows that she couldn’t see.

“What is it, boy?” she whispered, her hand instinctively moving to cover the crystal. “Do you sense something?”

Wick’s ears flattened slightly, and he made a low sound that wasn’t quite a growl but carried clear warning. Whatever he was sensing, it wasn’t immediate danger—his body language spoke more of distant threat, of something approaching that would require attention but not panic.

Wren stood carefully, moving to the window and peering out into the snowy evening. At first, she saw nothing unusual. Then, as her eyes adjusted and her new awareness expanded, she began to notice things that would have escaped her attention hours earlier. The way the snow fell in slightly different patterns around certain buildings, as if invisible currents were affecting its descent. The subtle variations in the light emanating from different houses, some glowing with warm contentment while others carried shadows that had nothing to do with the approaching darkness.

And there, at the edge of her vision, a figure standing perfectly still beneath the old oak tree in the town square. Too far away to make out details, but something about their posture—patient, watchful, calculating—made her skin crawl.

As she watched, the figure turned slightly, and though she couldn’t see their face, she had the unmistakable impression that they were looking directly at her shop. The pendant grew warmer still, and Adelaide’s words echoed in her memory: Not everyone in Hollow Wick will welcome a new guardian.

The figure stood there for perhaps a minute longer, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings with a fluidity that seemed almost supernatural. Wren remained at the window for several more minutes, but whoever it had been didn’t reappear.

“Well,” she said to Wick, who had joined her at the window and was now sitting with his tail wrapped neatly around his paws, “I guess we know someone’s watching us. The question is whether they’re friend or foe.”

Wick made a small chirping sound that could have been agreement or commentary, then padded back to the reading area and settled himself pointedly next to Adelaide’s journal. The message was clear: there was more to learn, more to understand before she’d be ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Wren returned to her chair and picked up the journal again, this time turning to a section titled “Threats and Protections.” Adelaide’s handwriting here was more urgent, the ink occasionally blotted as if she’d been writing quickly or under stress.

Not all who are drawn to Hollow Wick come with benevolent intentions, Adelaide had written. The same energies that enhance healing and creativity can be corrupted, turned toward manipulation and harm. I have identified several concerning individuals during my time here, though I pray I am wrong about their intentions.

What followed was a list of names, some familiar and some unknown to Wren. Most troubling was the inclusion of several people she’d met since arriving in town—people who had seemed perfectly normal, even friendly. Had Adelaide been paranoid, driven to suspicion by her isolation and growing fear? Or had she genuinely identified threats that Wren would need to be aware of?

One name in particular caught her attention: Thomas Blackwood – antique dealer, arrived in Hollow Wick six months ago. Claims to be interested in local history, but his questions focus specifically on indigenous spiritual practices and sites of power. Has been asking about my work with unusual persistence. Possible threat level: HIGH.

Wren frowned, trying to place the name. She didn’t remember meeting anyone named Thomas Blackwood, but then again, she’d been so focused on establishing her business and making friends that she might have overlooked someone who kept a lower profile.

She flipped through more pages, finding detailed instructions for creating protective barriers using candles, herbs, and focused intention. Adelaide had developed an entire system for safeguarding both individuals and locations, complete with diagrams showing optimal placement of various materials and careful notes about timing and lunar phases.

The protection of Hollow Wick requires constant vigilance, Adelaide had written in one particularly sobering passage. The convergence of energies here makes this place a beacon for those who would exploit such power. Some come seeking healing and growth, as you did, dear Wren. But others come seeking dominion, the ability to bend these forces to their will regardless of the cost to the town and its people.

Remember that your role as guardian is not to control these energies—that way lies corruption and madness. Your role is to maintain balance, to ensure that the forces flowing through Hollow Wick continue to serve healing and growth rather than greed and manipulation. You are a facilitator, not a master.

Trust your instincts above all else. The pendant I have left for you will help you sense disturbances in the natural order, but your own intuition is your greatest weapon against those who would deceive you. If someone feels wrong to you, trust that feeling. If a situation seems dangerous, assume that it is. Better to be overcautious than to allow harm to come to those under your protection.

The weight of responsibility settled even more heavily on Wren’s shoulders as she read. She’d thought solving Adelaide’s murder had been difficult, but that had been a finite puzzle with a clear solution. This was open-ended, ongoing, a commitment that could span decades.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” she whispered to Wick, who had moved to lie across her feet with the warm weight of a living security blanket. “I mean, I’m just a candle maker. I don’t know anything about energy work or spiritual protection or… or any of this.”

But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t entirely true. She might not have understood what she was doing, but she’d been practicing energy work all her life. Every candle she made with careful intention, every herb she selected for its emotional properties, every moment she’d spent creating a space where people felt safe to share their deepest fears and hopes—all of it had been preparation for this role, whether she’d realized it or not.

The pendant pulsed again, and this time Wren felt a surge of confidence that wasn’t entirely her own. For just a moment, she could have sworn she felt Adelaide’s presence in the room, a sense of encouragement and support that made her sit straighter in her chair.

She turned to a new section of the journal, one labeled “Allies and Resources.” Here, Adelaide had documented not just the people in Hollow Wick who might be trusted with the truth, but also the natural features of the area that could be used for protection and healing. There were detailed maps showing the location of natural springs with enhanced properties, groves of trees that seemed to amplify positive energy, and even specific stones and rock formations that Adelaide had found particularly effective for grounding and centering work.

Dr. Elena Morris, Adelaide had written, possesses natural healing intuition that could be developed with proper guidance. She does not yet understand the source of her abilities, but she is trustworthy and genuinely committed to helping others. Recommend gradual introduction to concepts if she proves receptive.

Margaret Haddonfeld has appointed herself unofficial historian and guardian of Hollow Wick’s secrets. She knows more about the town’s hidden history than she admits, and I suspect she has been protecting certain knowledge until the right person comes along to receive it. Approach with respect and patience.

Jacob Harding comes from a family line of guardians, though the knowledge may have been lost over generations. His instinctive understanding of the town’s rhythms and his tendency to appear when help is needed suggest that the bloodline remains strong. He may not consciously understand his heritage, but his actions consistently serve the protection of Hollow Wick.

The descriptions matched Wren’s own observations so perfectly that she felt a chill of recognition. Adelaide had seen clearly, understood the hidden connections that bound people to this place and to each other.

As the last light faded from the western sky, Wren carefully extinguished her candles one by one, whispering a small blessing over each flame as it died. The blessings were something new, words that seemed to come from some deep part of herself she’d never accessed before. With each blessing, she felt the protective energy of the shop strengthen, creating a sanctuary not just for herself and Wick, but for anyone who might need shelter from the storms that occasionally swept through even the most peaceful of small towns.

“May this light guard against darkness,” she heard herself saying as she extinguished the last candle. “May this space remain a haven for those who seek healing. May the energies of this place flow in harmony and balance, bringing peace to all who enter here.”

The words felt right, ancient and new at the same time, as if she was remembering something she’d always known but never consciously accessed. The pendant against her chest pulsed once more, a gentle acknowledgment that she was learning, growing into her role one small step at a time.

In the darkness of the shop, Wick’s eyes glowed like amber lanterns, watching over his human as she prepared for the adventures that lay ahead. Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing Hollow Wick in pristine white that muffled sound and created an almost ethereal quiet.

But beneath the peaceful surface, Wren could now sense the pulse of something larger—the flow of energy that connected every living thing in the town, the invisible network of protection and power that she was now part of. It was beautiful and terrifying and completely overwhelming, but it was also undeniably real.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new lessons to learn from Adelaide’s journal, new ways to understand her role as guardian of this special place. She would need to reach out to Elena, Margaret, and Jake, to begin the delicate process of building a network of allies who could help her protect Hollow Wick from whatever threats might emerge.

But she would also need to be careful. The figure in the town square, the names on Adelaide’s list of potential threats, the constant reminder that not everyone would welcome a new guardian—all of it pointed to dangers she was only beginning to understand.

For now, though, she was home. She was exactly where she was meant to be, surrounded by the tools of her trade and the fruits of her labor, protected by a cat who was far more than he seemed and connected to energies that spanned time and space. She was Wren Baxter, candle maker and guardian of Hollow Wick, and her story was just beginning.

The brass bell above the door chimed once more as a gust of wind rattled the windows, but this time the sound was purely welcoming, a musical note that spoke of doors opening to new possibilities and new ways of understanding what it meant to be truly home.

In the quiet darkness, surrounded by the lingering scent of lavender and beeswax, Wren smiled and prepared to embrace whatever adventures awaited her. After all, she had work to do, mysteries to solve, and a town to protect. And somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking, she could have sworn she heard Adelaide’s voice whispering words of encouragement and hope:

“Welcome home, dear one. Welcome to your true calling.”

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