Chapter 351: Fiona's Fate

The inside of Watters Antiques always had that faint smell I associated with a cross between a library and a funeral home, a mix of old chemicals, leather, ancient books whose pages had begun to decay and the passage of a multitude of souls through the life and times of the artifacts within. I suppressed a faint shudder, though it was a musty sort of humid inside, keeping Petunia tight on my heels as we navigated the narrow way left for customers amid the piles of antiques, display cases and cases filled with old tomes surely no one had even dusted in an age.

Oliver stood behind the counter, leaning forward over the glass with his gaze locked on a tiny woman in a large wheelchair that looked much too big for her slight frame. She turned to watch me approach as if she'd been expecting me, while he seemed irritated by my arrival. I chose to ignore his attitude-anyone who knew Oliver did their best to, frankly-and extended my hand to the woman instead.