Et Sequitur Magazine

Et Sequitur Magazine, Issue 17

Issue 17 (Spring 2026)

An Inventory of Quiet Things

By Sara Baughn

(cover art by Carl Spitzweg c. 1845)

As she did every morning, Celeste opened her bookshop and set out the clapboard sign advertising a cozy reading experience within. She put freshly baked cranberry scones drizzled with orange glaze next to the display of cookbooks. The coffee station was refilled, as was the selection of tea bags.

The previous owner had left quite suddenly, and Celeste bought the shop and the apartment above for a song. The books had been included in the sale, as well as a stuffed raven with dusty charcoal feathers. The raven, which she named Clarence, had since been dusted and remained on the bookshelf near the display window. His beady eyes seemed to watch her move about the shop.

Celeste finished tidying up and perched on a stool behind the counter to review the accounts. She was in the middle of inventorying. Books had been haphazardly shelved, stuck in crannies, and shoved into nooks. Celeste could not find evidence that the previous owner sold any books at all! 

The door opened, little bells tinkling in response, and Gerald walked in. He was a well-proportioned man, dressed fashionably and with pleasing features who frequented her bookshop on Mondays. He smiled as he approached the counter. 

Good morning, Celeste. What’s on the menu today?

Celeste gestured to the pastries. Orange cranberry scones. Would you care for one?

After a time, Gerald left—a pastry in hand and his tie somewhat askew. Celeste straightened her blouse and took up her perch on the stool once more. She glanced over to where Clarence watched her, his glass eyes like pools of black ink.

Smiling, she put a finger to her lips. Then went back to her inventory as Clarence looked on, his feathers a glossy black.

~~~

Celeste’s sweets drew customers to the shop, who shared the latest gossip over tea and pastries. But very few bought any books. When no patrons were present, she took to conversing with Clarence on the matter.

Do you think we should organize the books differently?

Clarence stayed silent, though his feathers looked somewhat ruffled.

Of course, that’s a silly notion. I agree. Perhaps I might persuade a poet to do a reading?

Clarence’s glassy eyes seemed a bit brighter and Celeste smiled.

Several Mondays came and went. Each one brought a slightly less pleasant looking Gerald, who now took to studying Clarence before he left with a pastry in hand. Clarence appeared to study him in return.

~~~

One morning, Gerald was clearly not as polished and composed as usual. There were dark smudges under his eyes, which were bright as if with fever, and his skin was clammy to the touch.

Afterward, he lingered near Clarence.

Does it not seem odd that he’s perched here, near the window, but that I cannot see him from the outside?

Celeste smoothed her hair. I’m sure it’s just a trick of the light on the glass. After all, it’s just a stuffed raven, dear.

Gerald’s mouth tightened on the last word. My dreams are filled with dark wings of late. I am haunted by feathers and dust.

He left without a pastry.

~~~

Monday arrived, but Gerald did not.

He must have had more pressing business. Celeste sighed.

Clarence said nothing as Celeste dusted his feathers, taking care not to unsettle them.

The poetry reading was scheduled for that evening. She ate a quick supper of an almond scone with vanilla glaze, Gerald’s favorite, and a cup of chamomile tea. Then lit the candles and unlocked the front door.

The poet was the first to arrive, wearing a tweed jacket against the chill and a scarf wrapped around his neck. Tucked under one arm was a thin leather volume, and he held a long stemmed pipe in his hand. Unlit.

Celeste gestured inside and he swept past, immediately noting Clarence on his perch.

What a lovely bird! It adds a touch of elegant macabre to the evening, does it not?

Celeste smiled at Clarence, whose feathers looked sleek and shiny in the candlelight. The shadows dancing behind him made it seem as if he was bobbing his head at the flattery.

Celeste gestured to the pastries. Can I offer you a scone? Some tea?

Of course, my dear. I couldn’t possibly read without a cup of tea.

Celeste led him to the green velvet armchair she had set up, placing a scone and his tea on the small mahogany table next to him.

His gaze followed her as she retreated behind the counter to take up her usual perch. The poet sipped his tea and took a bite of almond scone, extolling its virtues.

Celeste smiled at the compliments. 

Clarence watched the poet with a hint of knowing in his fathomless black eyes.

The little bookshop filled with Celeste’s usual patrons, who tittered excitedly at the prospect of an evening’s entertainment. But Gerald did not come. A hush settled over the room and the reading began.

The poet had an unusually vibrant reading voice, his cadence drawing people into the ebb and flow of his words.

Take care my beloved for

Your caress leaves fingerprints, 

Tender rendings of flesh.

My soul knows your touch,

But it withers in your embrace,

Curling and blackening into dust,

Until nothing remains but memory.

Celeste’s hand fluttered to her breast with his words, and melancholy stole over her face as her heart’s sorrows were revealed.

Once the poetry reading was over and the last customer left, the poet asked Celeste if she might want a private reading. After glancing at Clarence, she assented. The poet left his pipe on the table, along with his thin leather volume, forgetting to retrieve them when he left somewhat later.

~~~

The next morning, Celeste heard the news, from those who came for pastries and coffee, that Gerald had died in the night. His maid found him with a mouth full of glossy, black feathers, his eyes open and staring. Both his bedroom door and his window were closed and locked.

Some suspected he dabbled in the black arts, as he was a confirmed bachelor and had several books on the occult. A few thought he’d gone mad. They cited his deterioration over the past month. Where once he had been well groomed and pleasant, he was furtive and disheveled. Some mentioned that his maid was pregnant—the scandal! One or two glanced at Clarence, who remained regally perched as he always did.

Celeste listened to all this while shelving some new arrivals, then dusting Clarence's feathers until they gleamed in the light from the window.

Once she closed the shop for the day, she placed a bit of blueberry scone drizzled with lemon glaze on a saucer in front of Clarence.

Gerald did not love me.

Clarence’s eyes gleamed.

He would have consumed me until only crumbs remained. Maybe this poet will love me better.

Clarence said nothing.

Celeste stroked Clarence’s feathers before climbing the stairs to her small apartment above the shop with her own blueberry scone in hand.

She slept soundly while Clarence remained vigilant below, his beady black eyes taking a quiet inventory of the shelves and the street outside his window.

In the morning, the bit of blueberry scone was gone.

Celeste smiled as she stroked Clarence’s gleaming black feathers.

Then she opened her bookshop as she did every morning, setting out the clapboard sign advertising a cozy reading experience within. Celeste perched on her stool behind the counter, waiting for those who would come for her sweets. Today she offered red velvet scones with a cream cheese glaze drizzled over top.

They were Clarence’s favorite.

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