Centuria Books · Hearth of Thorns: A Small-Town Witchcraft Slow Burn Romance (Contemporary Romantasy: Novels)
Hearth of Thorns: A Small-Town Witchcraft Slow Burn Romance (Contemporary Romantasy: Novels) — Read the First Chapter
She came to close a shop and found a town, a witch’s gift, and a gardener who listens.
Chapter 1: A Key to the Past
The bus wheezed to a halt at the Briarwood station, a glorified wooden platform with a rain-warped bench and a faded schedule board that hadn’t been updated since the Reagan administration. Through the smudged window, Isla Hart watched an elderly man in suspenders sweep invisible dirt from the platform, his broom pushing nothing but ambition across weathered boards.
“Last stop for Briarwood,” the driver announced, not bothering to use the intercom for the sole remaining passenger. He had the weary look of someone who’d been making this same announcement to increasingly empty buses for decades. “Town of…” he paused, scratching his stubble-rough chin, “peculiarities.”
Isla clutched her grandmother’s brass key in one hand and the twice-folded, coffee-stained inheritance letter in the other. The key was unnaturally warm against her palm, as though it had been sitting in sunlight rather than the pocket of her sensible navy cardigan. The letter’s coffee stain formed a clean ring around the address, like a target marking her destination.
“Thank you,” she said, gathering her messenger bag as she stood. Her legs protested after the eight-hour journey from Chicago, where she’d abandoned a promising career in data analysis after her computer had spontaneously translated her quarterly reports into what three separate language experts later identified as “possibly Sumerian, but with concerning modern additions.”
The driver—his nametag read “HANK” in capital letters that conveyed resignation—pulled her single suitcase from the luggage compartment. It was a practical gray thing with sturdy wheels and precisely enough space for the life she’d decided to bring with her. The rest she’d donated, sold, or stuffed into a storage unit that cost more per month than she was comfortable admitting.
“Folks don’t usually come to Briarwood,” Hank observed, setting her suitcase on the platform with surprising gentleness. “They mostly leave.”
“My grandmother lived here,” Isla explained, though he hadn’t asked. “She left me her shop.”
“Vivian Hart’s girl?” His eyes widened slightly, crow’s feet deepening. “The trinket witch?”
Isla felt her cheeks warm. “She sold antiques, yes.”
Hank made a noncommittal sound that suggested he knew better but was too polite to contradict a newcomer. “Well. Good luck with that.” He retreated into his bus with the haste of someone who’d just remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.
The bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel exhaust, leaving Isla alone on the platform with her sensible suitcase, her worn leather messenger bag, and the distinct feeling she’d made a terrible mistake. The sensation intensified when her carefully braided auburn hair—which had remained perfectly behaved during the entire journey—sprang upward around her temples, defying both gravity and the three hair ties she’d employed that morning.
“Not now,” she whispered, pressing her palms against the rebellious strands. “We had an agreement. Public cooperation in exchange for no more chemical straightening products.”
A passing elderly woman with a shopping cart full of what appeared to be wind chimes made from spoons and what might have been animal bones gave Isla an approving nod. “Your hair’s got good instincts, dear. It knows you’re home before you do.”
Isla opened her mouth to explain that her hair wasn’t sentient, thank you very much, but the woman had already trundled away, her makeshift wind chimes playing what sounded suspiciously like the opening notes of “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“Wonderful,” Isla muttered, checking her appearance in the reflection of the station’s single window. Her hair had formed a halo of copper-red curls that refused to be smoothed down. Combined with her practical travel outfit—dark jeans, navy cardigan over a white blouse, and sneakers that prioritized comfort over style—she looked exactly like what she was: a woman whose life had veered dramatically off-course.
She gathered her suitcase and adjusted the leather messenger bag containing her grandmother Vivian’s final possessions: the brass key that continued to radiate warmth, the inheritance letter with its coffee-ring partially obscuring the address, and exactly seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents in loose change sealed in an envelope marked “For emergencies or very good pastries.”
The air in Briarwood smelled different from Chicago—richer like soil after rain, pine needles, and something else she couldn’t quite identify. Something that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up and her fingertips tingle in that familiar way that usually preceded minor household disasters.
“No sparking,” she instructed her hands firmly. “We’re making a good first impression.”
As if in direct rebellion, a tiny blue spark jumped between her thumb and forefinger. A nearby streetlamp flickered in response, though it wasn’t even turned on in the daylight.
The walk from the bus station into the heart of Briarwood took exactly twelve minutes, during which Isla observed:
1. Seven cats watching her from various perches, all of whom seemed to be having the same judgmental thought about her footwear.
2. Three shopkeepers sweeping doorways who paused mid-sweep to track her progress, their brooms held at identical angles as though they’d synchronized their curiosity.
3. One extremely fat rabbit sitting completely motionless in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to move until she apologized for nearly stepping on it.
4. A bakery called “Kneaded Enchantments” where the displayed muffins changed colors as she passed.
5. A bookstore named “Spine Tinglers” with a sign in the window reading “We know what you want to read before you do—Today’s Special: Books for Women Who’ve Recently Inherited Magical Real Estate.”
The town itself seemed to curl around her like a question mark. Streets wound between buildings that leaned toward each other conspiratorially. Mist clung to rooftops and chimney stacks despite the afternoon sun, and the shadows seemed a shade too dark, the sunlight a touch too golden. Briarwood had the distinctive quality of a place that operated according to its own rules, with only a casual relationship to the physical laws governing the rest of the world.
When Isla finally reached the intersection of Thimble Lane and Main Street, she stopped dead in her tracks, her suitcase bumping against her ankles.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Grandmother’s Trinkets” stood before her, a three-story Victorian monstrosity that appeared to have been designed by someone with an architectural vision best described as “enthusiastically undecided.” Turrets sprouted at odd angles. Gables overlapped like playing cards in a poorly shuffled deck. Dormers jutted outward as though the house was slowly budding new rooms. The entire structure was painted a shade of purple so deep it bordered on black, with trim the color of polished copper that gleamed despite the overcast sky.
Most striking were the windows—dozens of them, no two the same size or shape, their stained glass panels creating a kaleidoscope effect that cast multicolored light across the weathered porch and the cobblestone street. The patterns in the glass shifted subtly as she watched, like liquid caught between solid states.
Isla checked the address on the letter again, though she didn’t need to. She remembered this place from childhood visits, though in her memories it had seemed less… imposing. Less aware.
Because that was the unsettling thing about Grandmother’s Trinkets. The building seemed to be watching her. Not in a threatening way, but with the patient curiosity of a cat observing a new houseguest.
“Well,” Isla said aloud, straightening her shoulders. “I’m here now.”
She approached the front door—a massive oak affair with an ironwork gate in front of it. The gate’s pattern shifted as she watched, scrollwork rearranging itself into what almost looked like the words “WELCOME HOME ISLA” before settling back into abstract swirls.
The brass key slid into the lock with a satisfaction that felt almost physical, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. The lock turned with barely any pressure, as if eager to grant her entry.
The door swung open onto darkness and the smell of cinnamon, dust, and something else—something green and growing and decidedly out of place in what should have been a musty old shop.
Isla stepped over the threshold, her modern sneakers squeaking against the ancient hardwood floor. The moment both feet landed inside, every light in the shop blazed to life simultaneously—oil lamps, electric bulbs, candles that hadn’t been lit—all flaring with such sudden brilliance that she had to shield her eyes.
“Sorry!” she gasped as the lights dimmed to a more reasonable glow. “I didn’t mean to—”
She stopped, realizing she was apologizing to a building. Or perhaps to the hundreds—thousands?—of objects that filled every available surface of the cavernous space before her.
The interior of Grandmother’s Trinkets defied conventional retail logic. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with items that ranged from the mundane to the bizarre: teacups with handles that curled like question marks, pocket watches whose hands moved counterclockwise, spectacles with lenses that changed color when you weren’t looking directly at them, hat pins topped with miniature silver animals that occasionally scratched themselves, music boxes that played different tunes depending on who wound them, marionettes with tangled strings that seemed to have tied themselves into knots, globes of worlds that definitely weren’t Earth, books bound in materials that shifted between leather, cloth, and something that resembled fish scales when viewed from different angles.
The floor plan, if such a thing existed, appeared to have been designed by someone who considered straight lines a personal affront. Display cases curved around corners that shouldn’t have been possible given the exterior dimensions of the building. Narrow aisles wound between towering shelves that leaned at physics-defying angles without toppling. A spiral staircase in the center of the shop led to a second-floor gallery that wrapped around the perimeter, offering even more display space for increasingly curious items.
The cash register—a brass behemoth with keys the size of dominoes—sat atop a counter made from what appeared to be a single massive slice of tree trunk, its polished surface revealing growth rings that formed unusual patterns, almost like writing.
A movement caught her attention. On a shelf directly at eye level, a collection of small porcelain frogs—at least twenty of them in various poses—shuffled closer together, their painted eyes conveying expectation.
“I’m Isla,” she found herself saying. “Vivian’s granddaughter.”
The frogs remained motionless, but something about their collective posture suggested they were listening intently.
“She left me the shop. I’m… I’m going to be living here now.”
A tiny golden bell on the counter chimed once, though nothing had touched it.
One of the porcelain frogs—a particularly smug-looking specimen with gold spots—hopped forward an inch, then froze again.
“I don’t think we’re quite at the talking stage yet,” Isla told it firmly.
The frog didn’t move, but she could have sworn it looked disappointed.
Isla set down her suitcase and moved deeper into the shop, drawn to a massive oak desk near the back wall. Atop it sat an old-fashioned ledger book, opened to a fresh page. A fountain pen lay beside it, uncapped, its nib gleaming with ink that hadn’t dried despite obvious disuse.
Next to the ledger was a note written in her grandmother’s elegant script:
Dearest Isla,
If you’re reading this, I’ve gone to argue with the universe about its organizational system. The shop is yours now. It knows you already, but proper introductions are always appreciated.
The apartment upstairs has been aired out. The third floor remains locked for your own safety (for now).
The artifacts will test you. The customers will confuse you. The townspeople will either adore or avoid you, with very little in between.
Trust your magic, even when it misbehaves. It sees clearer than you do.
With absolute faith in your abilities,
Grandmother
P.S. Whatever you do, don’t let the porcelain frogs outside. They have a vendetta against the botanist next door that spans three decades, and I’ve only recently negotiated a fragile peace treaty.
P.P.S. The teacups on the second shelf by the window have abandonment issues. The grandfather clock in the corner runs backwards on Tuesdays. The collection of thimbles in the display case by the register should never be counted—the number is different every time and it upsets them to be reminded of this inconsistency.
P.P.P.S. I love you, my wild girl. You’re exactly where you need to be.
Isla looked up from the note to find that the collection of porcelain frogs had migrated from their shelf to the edge of the desk without making a sound. They sat in a neat semicircle, their painted expressions now unmistakably mischievous.
“Don’t even think about it,” she told them firmly.
A teacup on a nearby shelf boiled over, steam rising in agitated puffs. The porcelain frogs scattered in twenty different directions, disappearing into the shadowy recesses of the shop with small ceramic clicking sounds.
“Great,” Isla sighed, dropping into the chair behind the desk. “Day one, and I’ve already got rebellious ceramics and…” She eyed the steaming teacup. “…temperamental dishware.”
The brass key felt warm against her palm as she set it on the desk. The coffee-stained inheritance letter fluttered slightly, though there was no breeze.
She should have been overwhelmed, she realized. She should have been questioning her decision to abandon her sensible life in Chicago for…whatever this was. Instead, she felt a peculiar calm settling over her, as though some part of her had been waiting for this moment, this place, this inheritance of beautiful chaos.
“Right,” she said to the shop at large. “I suppose I should see the apartment.”
The spiral staircase seemed to twist slightly as she approached it, adjusting its height to better accommodate her. The brass railing was cool under her palm, despite the warmth of the shop, and each step creaked in a different note, creating an ascending scale as she climbed.
The second floor opened into a surprisingly spacious apartment that bore little resemblance to the cluttered shop below. Sunlight streamed through more stained-glass windows, painting colorful patterns across hardwood floors and comfortable, if slightly outdated, furniture. A kitchen with copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack occupied one corner, while a four-poster bed draped with a handmade quilt dominated another. Bookshelves lined every available wall, packed with volumes whose titles Isla could sense rather than read—books of recipes, spells, family histories, and knowledge that had no proper categorization in conventional libraries.
“This could work,” she said to herself, setting her suitcase beside a wardrobe large enough to contain a small country. “This could definitely work.”
A crash from downstairs interrupted her assessment.
Isla raced back down the spiral staircase to find the shop’s front door standing open, a cool breeze wafting in from the street. The shelf where the porcelain frogs had been displayed was conspicuously empty.
“No,” she groaned, rushing to the doorway.
Outside, a trail of small ceramic frogs hopped determinedly down the front steps and across the narrow strip of garden that separated Grandmother’s Trinkets from the neighboring property—a Victorian greenhouse whose glass panels gleamed with unnatural clarity in the afternoon light. The building next door was as precisely maintained as Grandmother’s Trinkets was chaotically whimsical—all straight lines, polished surfaces, and mathematical precision.
The frogs, moving with surprising speed for inanimate objects, disappeared through a gap in the greenhouse door.
Isla hesitated on the threshold of her new home. On one hand, she’d just arrived and hadn’t even unpacked. On the other hand, her grandmother’s note had been quite specific about the frogs’ vendetta, and the last thing she needed was a neighborly feud on her first day in town.
A crash of breaking pottery from the greenhouse made the decision for her.
“Marvelous,” she muttered, marching down the steps. “Just marvelous.”
As she crossed the garden boundary between the properties, Isla noticed several things simultaneously:
First, the greenhouse was larger than it had appeared from her doorway, extending backward into what should have been an impossible space given the size of the neighboring lot.