The Keystone
Chapter One
Lexi
"OH! NO! OZZY! NO!!"
My coffee crashes to the floor as Ozzy, one of my two Maine Coons, launches himself onto the counter. Grams gifted me the cats when I moved to Merchant Square three years ago, insisting a house isn't a home without them. She named the pair Ozzy and Sharon, and they came with me—no ifs, ands, or buts.
I don't know why she thought I needed two huge Maine Coons to keep me company in this tiny apartment, but here we are. She does not trust anyone who doesn't like her cats, or anyone her cats don't like.
Ozzy and Sharon have gorgeous long black hair, while his is tipped in gray, hers is jet black. He has a serious, regal face, and his eyes are always judging you, and you are always coming up lacking. Sharon, the yin to his yang, is a sweetheart who loves to wind herself around your legs.
The inseparable duo have become quite well-known here in Merchant Square, roaming freely in and out of the shops, preening under the attention of tourists and college students in Colonial Williamsburg. About a year ago, a few CW merchants started tagging them in social media posts, and now they're little celebrities under #OzzyandSharonofCW. Spoiled rotten.
"I hadn't even taken one sip," I grumble, tossing the soggy paper towels. "And that was my last drop of creamer." Ozzy gives me the slow, regal blink that says he is not sorry and never will be.
I have a habit of running completely out of creamer before I get more. Thankfully, this little setback isn't really that big a deal. I don't have to go far; I live right above Morrigan Antiques, the shop that I help my Aunt Sera run.
Making a mental note to run by the store and get some creamer before I come home tonight, I grab my backpack and the dress off the back of the chair, and head down the stairs and straight over to Aromas for a second attempt at a cup of coffee.
The bell jingles overhead as the aroma of brewed coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls assaults me in the best possible way. Havalah, a sprite of a thing with her pixie cut, large brown eyes, and turned-up nose, pops up on her toes behind the pastry case.
"Hey girl!"
"Hey Havs."
She's already pouring my usual extra-large, extra-dark coffee with oat milk, a double shot of salted caramel, and whipped cream. "You run out of creamer again?"
Havalah and I grew up together in Williamsburg. Her parents are professors at William and Mary, where she's a junior. There weren't many kids within the gates of Colonial Williamsburg, so we only had each other. Pretty much everyone else in our neighborhood has gray hair and dresses like Thomas Jefferson.
"Actually, this one is on Ozzy. He's a menace."
She hands me the cup, brows furrowed in mock outrage. "Well, I'll be sure to reprimand him when I see him today."
"Somebody needs to." I respond with an eye roll. "Will I see you tonight at the birthday party?" I lift my arm with the dress hanging over it.
"Oh yes, of course, I wouldn't miss it." She feigns enthusiasm.
It's an obligation for both of us, really. When someone in CW has a birthday, it's worth celebrating because most of these folks are over 80 years old! Even so, they are still gardening, tending to farm animals and keeping up the tourist attractions that Colonial Williamsburg has become so famous for. Living inside the gates means embracing 18th-century life every day; period clothing, very few modern conveniences, and tourists snapping photos like we're exhibits, which honestly, I guess we are...
Now that I live outside the gates, I'm in jeans and flannels like they're my new uniform. But the dress currently hanging over my arm is a different story. I belong in this dress. The emerald silk hugs every curve like it remembers me, the waterfall of ruffles at the back begging to be twirled. I could live in it—a gorgeous emerald green with fifteen fabric–covered buttons on the bodice front, gold embroidery around the neck and sleeve cuffs. The apron-style layers drape across the front and pull up at the back, creating a ruffled fabric waterfall. Grams tells me it's a perfect reproduction of one she saw in old attic photos. That's how we have most of our clothes for inside the gates. She went through those photos when I was a teenager and had the CW seamstress shop recreate them. Most are simple, true to harsher times, but there are a few nicer pieces, like the one draped over my arm right now. I wear it whenever I get the chance.
I thank Havalah for my coffee and head back across the cobblestones to the shop where I can see Aunt Sera is already inside.
"Good morning Aunt Sera! What time do I need to pick up the cake?"
Silence.
I turn to look at her while lifting my dress to a hook in the back room. She's staring at me, eyes wide, hand clapped over her open mouth.
She forgot to order the cake.
Aunt Seraphina. She is something else! A short little thing, couldn't be more than 5 feet and thin as a rail. She has short white hair that she spikes straight up, big red glasses, and bright clear blue eyes with laughing lines deeply etched around them. Her antics keep me entertained every day. She doesn't try to be funny, it's just who she is!
"I'll be right back." I wink as I walk by her, still frozen in place, only her eyes tracking my movements.
When I get back from the bakery, she is up on a ladder rifling through items on a top shelf while her sweet friend, Ben Jenkins, stands precariously holding all the random items she keeps mindlessly handing down to him. She clearly has no idea he’s overloaded and about to drop everything.
I have to chuckle as I trot over to help him.
He would have married her years ago–and tried to–but she wouldn’t have it. She says that she's lived all her life without being tied to one man, and she has no intentions of changing that now. She told me once with a big mischievous grin and wagging eyebrows, “Lexi darling, why would I give out the whole cake to one man, when I can give out one bite at a time and keep them coming back for more!” I don’t know if I agree with her outlook, but it works for her, and apparently it works for Ben, because he keeps coming back for another bite.
Ben is a small, soft-spoken sweetheart of a man with a slight curve to his shoulders. He was married once, and they used to come to Williamsburg every year as reenactors, but when his wife died, he came here to live full time. And now, he is just smitten by Aunt Sera. I mostly see him wearing a white linen shirt under a tan sleeveless waistcoat that has about 50 gold buttons, tan breeches that come to his knees and tall white knee socks, because I usually see him inside the gates of CW. He's the only person I know of that calls her "Seraphina," which is adorable, because she also calls him "Benjamin."
Just as we get all the items she has handed down to him safely on a small nearby table, she exclaims, "There you are!" and triumphantly holds out a small black wooden box, just now noticing that I'm back and standing next to Ben. She hands me the box and climbs down. Ben dutifully picks up the ladder and walks it to the backroom, while Aunt Sera takes her little treasure box over to the counter. "Elly asked me to find this for her. We knew it was in this shop somewhere!"
Elly is my Grandmother, Aunt Sera's sister. The two of them raised me here in CW, just a few blocks from where we are standing. The house I grew up in is still very much the same as it was in the 1700s when it was built. The way my Gram tells it, we were here first and Colonial Williamsburg just grew up around us. Over time, the city turned it into a popular tourist spot. Since it's also home to William and Mary University, we are surrounded by college kids and tourists pretty much all the time. But honestly, I don't know any other way! This is where I grew up. I know and love every single person that lives here.
She didn’t go into any more detail, so I didn’t press it. One thing I’m quite used to, growing up around here, is secrets. Everyone seems to have them. I gave up trying to figure them out a long time ago.
I leave her to it and get to work. I’m going through a box of items that was dropped off yesterday when I hear her quietly giggling and turn just in time to see Ben drop a kiss on her ear and give a little smack to her red polka dotted britches, with a low, “I’ll see you tonight, Seraphina.”
As he walks out the door, I stand there wide eyed, hand on my hips, shaking my head. “Oh child, I’m not dead yet! Let an old lady have some fun! Speaking of fun, when are YOU going to start having some?” She eyes me over the top of her red frames, pointing her pen at me.
She’s got a point, but how can I explain that I am in love. Deeply and madly. The problem is, I’m the only one who knows he even exists. And even that is debatable. So I just nod in defeat. "Touché, Aunt Sera. Touché."
When six o'clock hits, Aunt Sera has already gone home to get ready for the party. I am locking up when I see Havs trotting towards me with her dress in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Flipping the sign to 'closed,' I hold the door open for her. She scampers past me and I grab a couple of wine glasses we have for sale on the floor, following her to the back room.
I lean on my elbows on the counter while she works on getting the cork out of the bottle. "Are we starting the party early??"
"Girl, it's going to be a long night. I need all the help I can get."
I laugh, hand dramatically on my chest. "What? You aren't looking forward to three hours of Bunco?"
She sighs with exasperation and hands me a glass as her answer. Although I love her dearly, we do not see these events in the same way. I love them. She tolerates them. Barely. I actually love Bunco…
We laugh, share our crazy customer stories from the day, and drink our way through buttons, corsets, bum pads, and hoop skirts. The familiar ritual of period dressing is grounding, even amidst our tipsy haze.
As I lace up the vintage black kitten-heel boots, I inhale deeply, appreciating the sharp scent of polished leather. I stand and make my way to the floor-length mirror, taking it all in. The emerald green of this heavy silk dress makes my red hair practically glow. The corset nips my waist into an exaggerated hourglass shape, like stepping into another era entirely. Layers of fabric cascade down my back in soft waves, reminiscent of waterfalls, shifting and shimmering with every movement. Below my waist, the fabric poofs out dramatically—classic 18th-century drama—giving it an undeniable air of regality, as if I've stepped out of a painting.
Trailing my fingers over the intricate gold embroidery twining around the bodice, I murmur, "This dress does something to me that I can't explain."
Havalah comes to stand by me. "For real, girl. It's like it was made for you."
We stand in silence, pleased with the transformations we've accomplished in mere minutes.
“Ready?” Havalah holds out an arm as though we’re about to embark on some grand adventure rather than a simple errand run through town.
“Ready,” I link my arm through hers as we step out into the cool evening air together.
Definitely feeling a little tipsy, we weave through clusters of people, making our way to the bakery, trying our best not to stumble too obviously over every uneven patch beneath our feet. On a good day, walking in heels on cobblestones is a challenge, but we're extra ungraceful tonight, having downed a whole bottle of red in thirty minutes.
We laugh uncontrollably about the tourist couple who just took several pictures of us, like we're some sort of 18th-century celebrities. I clutch my stomach, trying to catch my breath, thinking of the stupid poses we did. It's hard enough to breathe in these corsets, but the laughter makes breathing almost impossible—which only makes us laugh more.
Stumbling around a corner, heading between two buildings, I collide—no, crash—into what feels like a wall made of steel. The impact sends me bouncing back, arms flailing helplessly at my sides as gravity takes over. I feel myself tipping backward, panic lancing through me as the world tilts. I brace myself for an ungraceful meeting with the hard ground.
Before I know what's happened, the wall I smashed into steps forward and catches me—one hand around my waist, the other cradling the back of my head. My hands instinctively shoot out, clutching at him, finding his biceps absolutely solid under my grip. A startled gasp escapes my lips as I cling to him.
The breath catches in my throat as I meet his eyes—pools of crystal blue so piercing they seem to see right through me, framed by thick lashes that would make any model jealous.
His face is devastatingly perfect—high cheekbones leading down to a sharp jaw dusted with a neatly trimmed beard, just enough to highlight his masculinity without overwhelming his features.
Dark waves of hair fall across his forehead in casual disarray, as though he's just run a hand through them—or maybe he always looks this effortlessly flawless.
He’s not moving. He’s just... holding me here, suspended. His gaze is locked on mine, but he's not just looking–he’s studying me, dissecting me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His brows knit slightly in confusion as his eyes flicker away from mine for the briefest moment. They dart down to my embroidered collar, linger there for half a second too long, then return to my face, then my hair. Then he turns his head slightly to look at my dress again for what seems like an awkwardly long time.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with something unspoken and unexplainable. My heart pounds erratically against my ribcage as unease begins to creep in. This moment is shifting quickly into ‘danger’ territory. Without warning, he pulls me tight to his chest, his face at the curve of my neck. I freeze completely as his breath ghosts over my skin, warm and feather–light yet sending chills racing down my spine. Then...
He inhales.
It’s not subtle or accidental; it’s deliberate and deep. The sound of it sends shivers through me–not because it’s sensual but because it’s primal. His grip tightens instantly–his hand at the back of my head tangling into my hair until he’s practically gripping it at the roots. It’s not gentle anymore; it borders on painful. A soft whimper escapes me before I can stop it.
He pulls back so sharply it startles me–his entire demeanor has changed.
The man who had moments ago simply seemed confused now looks anything but. His crystal blue eyes have darkened completely into pools of obsidian so cold they seem otherworldly. His brows are furrowed low over those blackened depths, his jaw clenching so tightly I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. Every line of his face has sharpened into something feral–a predator locked onto prey.
Okay, it’s now or never. I move my hands to his steel wall of a chest and start pushing him to release me. Which he suddenly does. He straightens us both up to standing again, lets go of me and takes a couple steps back, his chest rising and falling deeply, rapidly. As I work to get control of my wobble and regain my balance, my hand instantly goes to the back of my neck, which I’m just noticing is hot and tingling.
He looks almost pained now, like he’s fighting some internal battle I can’t begin to understand. His chest rises and falls rapidly with each shallow breath he takes, and for one horrifying second, I think he might lunge at me. He quickly glances down at a ring on his finger–that I could swear is faintly glowing. He makes a fist and then looks back up at me, confusion starting to creep in over his current pained expression.
“Damn, that man really rattled my cage.” I whisper to Havalah.
“What the hell...” I whisper under my breath.
Just then I hear it–a growl–not out loud but in my head–a low, gravelly command spoken directly into the deepest part of me: “Run.”
I go to grab Havalah’s hand, to do exactly that, when he takes off down the alley faster than humanly possible. We stand there, not believing our eyes, for what seems like several minutes. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to make a sound. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
We stand there in silence for long minutes, clutching each other, wondering if we should forget the cake and the party and head back to my apartment.
Eventually though, we remember how to walk again after the adrenaline of the moment eases, deciding we need to carry on. With arms locked tight, we cautiously continue our trek to the bakery.
Finally, with the cake in hand, we head towards the party, still too rattled to even speak. These streets that have always been home to us, suddenly feel too dark, with far too many shadows.
Just as we are leaving Merchant Square, heading into the gates of CW, we make a quick stop in front of a store window taking a few minutes to use our reflection to straighten ourselves up a bit. The last fifteen minutes have definitely stolen our buzz, and at this point we look more like we are heading to a funeral rather than a birthday party. We need to re-group and put our ‘party faces’ back on before we continue. We know that if we walk into that house looking like this, we will get a very well-meaning and concerned third degree. We definitely want to avoid that.
I lean in a little to the glass reflection to check my lipstick lines and over my shoulder, I see a man standing on the corner of the roof behind me. Startled, I spin around to look, but there is no one there. I breathe out a deep sigh.
“Damn, that man really rattled my cage.” I whisper to Havalah.
