Stories from Candlelit Market
Step a little deeper into the Market and experience the stories in a different way.
Each tale comes with a suggested tea, a piece of music and a Candlelit Market wax melt chosen to match the place you're about to visit
Before you begin.....
Brew: Earl Grey
Play: Gymnopedie No. 1 - Erik Satie
Melt: The Reading Nook
Settle somewhere comfortable, let the fragrance warm the room, and when you're ready... step inside The Old Bookshop.
THE OLD BOOKSHOP PRESENTS....
THE BOOK THAT WASNT THERE YESTERDAY
Before you begin.....
Brew: Earl Grey
Play: Gymnopedie No. 1 - Erik Satie
Melt: The Reading Nook
Settle somewhere comfortable, let the fragrance warm the room, and when you're ready... step inside The Old Bookshop.
Arthur Pendelton knew every book in The Old Bookshop. Not every word, of course — even Arthur would admit that was impossible — but he knew the shelves: which books leaned, which ones stuck when you tried to pull them free, and which had sat untouched for so long that the dust around them had become part of the furniture. That was why he noticed the book immediately.
It sat on the third shelf beside the little reading nook, between a battered book of railway timetables and a green cloth-bound volume on medicinal herbs. Arthur was quite certain it had not been there the night before. It was small, bound in dark brown leather, with no title on the spine. Its corners were worn smooth, although the leather itself looked strangely well cared for. When Arthur reached for it, the little lamp beside the reading chair flickered. “Draft,” he muttered. There was no draft.
Outside, Candlelit Market was only just beginning to stir. Somewhere across the square, a wooden shutter knocked open. From the Bakery came the first warm smell of bread, and further away someone was rolling the Coffee Cart into position over the cobbles. Everything sounded perfectly ordinary. Arthur opened the book. The first few pages were blank, and so were the next few. Then, written neatly in faded black ink, was a name.
Arthur knew that name. The person had visited the shop only the previous week. He closed the book, then opened it again. The name remained. He checked beneath the counter, behind the storeroom curtain and even under the reading chair, which was ridiculous because nobody could possibly have hidden there. The shop was empty. When he returned to the book, something new had appeared beneath the name.
A date.
Tomorrow’s date.
Arthur carried the book to the counter and set it down carefully. For several minutes, he simply stared at it. Then the bell above the door rang and a woman stepped inside, brushing the cool morning air from her coat. “Morning, Arthur.” He looked at her, then at the book, then back at her. It was the same name.
She smiled. “Everything all right?”
“Yes,” Arthur said far too quickly. “Perfectly.”
She wandered towards the reading nook while Arthur slipped the book beneath the counter. He told himself there would be a sensible explanation. Perhaps someone had left it behind. Perhaps he had forgotten it. Perhaps the date meant nothing at all. Ten minutes later, just before leaving, the woman paused beside the counter.
“Oh,” she said. “I nearly forgot. I’m catching the train tomorrow. First one in the morning. I’ve not been away from the Market in years.”
Arthur said nothing. After she left, he slowly pulled the leather book back onto the counter. The date was still there, but underneath it another line had appeared.
She will return.
Arthur stared at the words until, one by one, the letters began to fade. Within seconds, the page was blank again. Outside, the Market carried on as if nothing unusual had happened. The Bakery door opened, a cart rattled across the square and somewhere near the station a whistle sounded. Arthur placed the book on the highest shelf behind the counter and tried very hard not to think about it.
That evening, after locking the shop, he checked the shelf one final time. The book was still there. He turned out the lamps and went home.
The following morning, Arthur arrived early. He unlocked the door, lit the lamp and hung his coat. Then he looked towards the shelf.
The book was gone.
In its place sat another. Blue cloth this time. No title.
Arthur made himself a cup of tea before touching it. Then, while he sat behind the counter staring at the shelf, the book opened by itself. Just one page.
There, written in black ink, was a name.
His own.
And beneath it were four words.
Do not miss the train.
Outside, somewhere beyond the cobbled square, the Old Station clock began to chime. Arthur looked towards the sound, then back at the book.
For the first time in thirty-two years, he closed The Old Bookshop early.
And nobody in Candlelit Market ever quite agreed on what happened next.