Chapter Six

The Moorfield library was not what Eliza expected.

Given how young the township was, she couldn’t say why she’d envisioned an old brick building with creaking floors and rows of age-yellowed volumes—she simply had.

Instead, the library gleamed. Skylights poured sunshine across carpeted floors, and glass walls revealed study pods, computer stations, and ergonomic chairs in colorful hues. Everything thrummed quietly—printers, air vents, hushed voices—but not a single sound was out of place.

Eliza was agitated. Searching online had uncovered a wealth of general knowledge, but a frustrating lack of specific details.

The Spanish crown had sent Dominican, Jesuit, and Franciscan missionaries to New Spain as early as the 15th century, establishing Catholic outposts to spread their doctrine among Native Americans and maintain a foothold on the frontier. These missions introduced European livestock, agriculture, weaving, and other basic industries into the area then known as Spanish Texas.

There had been dozens of them seeded throughout the state over nearly four centuries, ostensibly to facilitate colonization and convert the local tribes into “productive” citizens.

Many were lost, abandoned, or destroyed by natural disasters, native unrest, or simple bad luck. Some of these were later resurrected under new names, which only muddied the waters of history.

But Eliza had doggedly kept at it, sifting through digitized records, handwritten correspondence, and ink-faded treatises until her office walls felt too confining.

She’d needed to get out, spread her wings, and the trail had led her here, standing at the central desk, feeling underdressed in her plain linen shirt and jeans as she addressed the librarian.

The woman behind the counter was striking—sleek, symmetrical, and immaculately well-put-together, with glossy auburn hair pinned in a neat twist and a model-esque figure that belonged on a Parisian runway. The name tag pinned to her pressed pink blouse read: Sandra in a curly silver font.

“Yes, we do have an archive section,” Sandra confessed, glancing up over wire-rimmed spectacles. “But it’s quite small. And mostly of regional interest. Old merchant records, cartographers' maps, missionary logs, that sort of thing.”

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” Eliza said. “I’m researching the old Franciscan mission that was somewhere around here. Mission San José de los—”

“—los Nazonis,” Sandra finished smoothly. “Mission of Saint Joseph of the Nazonis.” Her professional smile didn’t reach her eyes. “A curious choice of topic.”

Eliza blinked. “So you’ve heard of it?”

Sandra tilted her head slightly, as though considering how much to say. “The more scholarly among us have. It’s part of our… heritage.”

Before Eliza could ask what that meant, a warm, melodic voice interrupted their conversation.

“Eliza! My goodness—what a pleasant surprise.”

Tammy Gresham glided toward them, burgundy hair coiffed into a chic chignon. She wore a teal skirt suit that fit her well-padded frame with tailored precision, lacking a blouse beneath her double-stuffed blazer.

The mature realtor’s immense cleavage bulged up between the jacket lapels like rising bread dough. Eliza felt an involuntary flicker of self-consciousness.

“T-Tammy,” She stammered, startled. “I was—”

“Exploring, as expected,” Tammy interjected with an amicable chuckle. “It’s only natural to be curious. I love that about new arrivals. But don’t go hiding yourself behind a book just yet.”

She gestured toward a nearby reading room, where a half dozen finely dressed beauties sat around a circular table, impeccably primped and styled, teacups resting beside their open novels.

“We’re about to begin our weekly book club,” Tammy said. “Many of your neighbors attend. You simply must join us—get to know them better.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude—”

“Nonsense, honey.” Tammy’s hand came to rest lightly on Eliza’s shoulder. The touch was too familiar. “It would mean so much to us. And to me.”

Sandra was watching with an unreadable expression, still staring coolly over her glasses.

Eliza hesitated, the words of that anonymous email rising unbidden in her mind: Trust no one.

Still, refusing might make her look paranoid—or worse, rude. And Tammy’s presence had a gravity all its own.

“All right,” Eliza said at last, forcing a brittle smile. “Just for a bit. I’m supposed to be working from home–”

“Wonderful!” Tammy exclaimed. “I promise you’ll fit right in. How do you take your tea?”

“Oh… uh, black, I guess?”

As Eliza followed her toward the meeting room, the air-conditioning faltered for a moment, and she felt a bead of sweat trace down her spine. The chatter from the women within sounded carefree and pleasant—yet somewhere beneath it, she thought she heard another noise, soft and rhythmic.

Like waves lapping against a distant shore.

A confusion of emotions wrenched Eliza’s stomach, her psychic antenna pinging loudly as the universe and the great beyond delivered a metaphysical gut punch that almost knocked her flat.

Dread tangled with elation. Tranquility collided with chaos. Somewhere beyond human ken, unfathomable forces battled—ancient, colossal, and indifferent to the mortals who felt their wake.

Was it a warning? A message?

“Sugar?”

“Huh?”

Eliza blinked, and the connection dissolved. Tammy stood before her, a single sugar cube poised delicately above a steaming teacup, her smile serene and knowing.

“Are you quite well, honey? Heavens, you’re pale as a ghost.”

Tammy’s voice was all warmth as she guided Eliza into a chair, pressing the steaming cup into her limp fingers. “Drink up and catch your breath. You look to be suffering a touch of the vapors. Don’t fret—rest and good company will soon set you right.”

Eliza wanted to argue.

The vapors? Really?

But the armchair was absurdly comfortable, and the tea smelled inviting. Floral and faintly sweet. Around her, the women offered companionable concern and sisterly nods of support.

All except one.

In the far corner sat a short Asian woman in a high-necked wool knit dress, her teacup untouched. Her almond eyes darted anxiously around the room, like a mouse in a cattery. When Tammy called the meeting to order, she visibly flinched.

“Welcome, everyone, to another meeting of the Moorfield Ladies’ Book Club,” Tammy began, her tone chipper. “I’m so gratified y’all could make it. This week, we were reading Mrs. Bradley’s Housekeeper’s Guide…”

Eliza let the words wash over her, her focus blurring at the edges. She lifted the teacup and took a tentative sip. The flavor was delicate—fragrant and comforting. Within seconds, a strange calm crept through her body, soothing her racing thoughts.

She relaxed into the cushions as Tammy’s voice faded to a musical hum, and for the first time that day, Eliza took some time to center herself. An hour passed in a pleasant kind of meditation, drinking the wondrous tea and letting the women’s conversation lull her into a placid fugue.

When the meeting ended, Eliza woke from the dreamlike state to Tammy taking her empty teacup. She blinked, glancing around the room to find them alone.

“S-sorry, I seem to have drifted off there.” She stammered, “I didn’t mean to–”

“No need to apologize, honey.” The burgundy-haired realtor crooned, setting aside the china. “We all need to clear our heads from time to time. My Ma used to call it ‘sweeping away the cobwebs.’ Are you feeling better?”

Remarkably, Eliza did feel better and said so.

“Glad to hear it.” Tammy busied herself by tidying the tea service. “Now, I couldn’t help overhearing you chatting with Sandra earlier. What’s your interest in the old mission?”

The question came out casual, but Eliza could practically see her ears pricking.

“You mentioned it on our first day in Moorfield, and I’m fascinated by local history.” She said carefully. Trust no one. “Collecting folklore is a hobby of mine. There aren’t any dark secrets haunting the site, are there?”

Tammy barked out a laugh.

“Dark secrets? Hardly. There ain’t nothing left but a crumbling stone foundation over by Ally Creek. Not much to see, even less to tell. Young lovers sometimes picnic up that way. Nice and private, if you catch my meaning.” She shot Eliza a cheeky wink, burdened with insinuation. “C’mon, I’ll show the archive–what little there is of them.”

Eliza stood, eyeing the teapot wistfully and wondering how much she had drunk. Had it been more than a single cup? Her bladder felt uncomfortably full.

Then a book beside the tray snagged her attention.

Mrs. Bradley’s Housekeeper’s Guide. Seriously?

“Have you considered more contemporary reading material for the book club?” She asked, skipping to keep up with Tammy, who moved with elegant efficiency despite her ripe figure. “Something from this century? I’m certain Mrs Bradley’s worldview is… somewhat out of date.”

“No more than Plato, Voltaire, or Socrates. Your point is taken, however. I do my best, honest to god. We tried Jane Eyre but the ladies found it too dry. Too dense. Little Women fared marginally better–the sisterhood resonated well with everyone. Ultimately, books like Mrs Bardley’s put bums in seats, and the reading’s what’s important. ‘It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever,’ my Pa was fond of saying. Now there’s a worldview that’s out of date. We’re working to break that stigma.”

The passion in her statement struck Eliza with a stab of remorse. Had she judged Tammy and the women of Moorfield too harshly? Could her initial reaction to the town’s unusual atmosphere be a case of culture shock?

Small, insular communities probably evolved microcosms of their own, she considered, and the people here weren’t bad, per se. They were overly friendly and kinda pushy, but hadn’t actually done anything wrong.

It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever…

The phrase lingered with Eliza. Inexplicably lurking at the periphery of her thoughts. As though a girl should only care about her hair. And get cookbooks for Christmas. And focus on her appearance–dressing pretty for her man.

“Here we are.” Tammy declared, indicating a side door between two potted ferns. “The older texts are kept under glass to preserve the fragile bindings and pages. Sandra is the only one qualified to handle them. Bless that woman. She can help you find transcripts of most everything here—translate the original Spanish, too.”

Eliza stepped into a well-appointed space. It was artfully laid out with display cases, the ubiquitous bookshelves, and framed survey maps on the walls above the study nook. A computer terminal sat under an antique pencil sketch of a landscape–the lake prominent amid dense groves of pine and cedar.

The archive felt… peaceful.

A faint scent of cleaning fluid mingled with the dry paper and bygone age. The air was cool and still. The sense of normalcy settled her nerves. Everything was neat, organized, and ordinary.

It was all right there out in the open. Not hidden or locked away.

“Thank you,” she breathed, feeling a rush of relief. “Sincerely.”

“Happy to be of assistance, honey.” Tammy’s thousand-watt smile reappeared as she patted Eliza’s back. This time, the touch didn’t feel so invasive. It felt… reassuring. “You need anything, just holler. Lookin’ out for each other is the Moorfield way. I’ll let Sandra know you’re not to be disturbed before I head off.”

It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever…

“Actually,” Eliza said, hesitating. A spark of unease stirred in her chest. “Would you mind staying a while? Just for the company. And maybe another cup of tea or two?”

Tammy’s already sunny disposition somehow brightened even further.

“Why, of course, honey. No trouble at all.” She clasped Eliza’s hand between her own. “I’ll fetch us a fresh pot. Then we’ll have ourselves a proper chin wag. Did you know we girls hold salon days? They’re marvelous. You’ll simply love it here once you make some friends.”

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