Chapter 17
The next morning Celia came down early to find Daphne already there and instructing the young assistant from Kirsch’s on where
to place a round piecrust table. Someone had moved the front library table, which was usually piled high with sale books.
In its place were two upholstered chairs, which Celia had never seen before, placed on an angle to each other. It was between
these new items that the boy placed the piecrust table.
Daphne, hands on her hips, frowning at the new placement, suddenly noticed Celia. “What do you think?”
“It’s different.” Actually, it was quite pretty, but did it really make sense to take up book space with chairs that would
encourage customers to sit and read without buying for even longer than they were already inclined to do?
“And Olivia was okay with all this?” Celia asked.
“Yes,” Daphne snapped defensively.
Celia reminded herself not to be so hard on Daphne, especially if she wanted Daphne to take more responsibility in the day-to-day
operations. And she did, purely selfishly; she wanted her sister to take over everything she could.
Daphne stood back to survey her work. “A few new bestsellers,” she said, “placed title forward on the table, will catch the eye of customers as soon as they enter. Inviting, fresh, and clean—not musty old books whose titles you can barely read because the light is so bad.”
“It’s not that bad,” Celia answered automatically. Actually, she’d never really thought about it. It was just the way it had always been.
But now that Daphne pointed it out . . .
“It’s called presentation. And it’s very important in sales. You wait and see.”
Celia looked around. “The carts are already outside?”
“Yes, Henry did it for me.”
Celia wondered if Daphne expected the boy’s tip to come from the shop’s petty cash. “And the throwaway box?”
“I left it out there for you.”
Of course. Celia went out to lug it in and deposit it on the cashier’s counter. While Celia began to sort the books, Daphne
paid the boy, then wandered over to lean both elbows on the counter, her chin supported in her hands.
“Why do you even go through those? They’re disgusting.”
This morning Celia was inclined to agree with her. Even Jane Addams, after taking an exploratory whiff, jumped to the floor
and slinked off to explore more familiar “presentations.” The box was full, and the books were in pretty bad shape. Evidently,
the Applebaums weren’t the only people doing inventory. She would probably send most of them to the trash; today she was interested
in only one book. She found it near the bottom. A cookbook, so old its binding was nearly nonexistent. At first, she didn’t
see a bookmark, and she couldn’t really look for it with Daphne standing there, watching.
Before Celia could think of an excuse to send her away, Daphne said, “I wonder where Mr. Starling is. We haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He was just here yesterday,” snapped Celia, then immediately got irritated with herself for being caught off guard. Actually,
she wondered, too. She was certain that he hadn’t let Daphne lure him into carrying her supplies back to the shop without
having an ulterior motive.
At first she thought he might have come to see how she had recovered from the run-in with the burglar, but after his initial
hello, he hadn’t even looked in her direction.
She should be glad that her sister was so engaging; it kept the onus of trying not to say something incriminating away from
Celia. Especially after his enigmatic instructions not to move anything or say anything. Which put the fear of God in her.
He sounded like he knew what they had. But which contraband material was he hinting about? She was convinced that he was some
kind of agent, but was it really for a wealthy art dealer looking for unique works? The Sappho poetry certainly qualified
as that. She couldn’t imagine his working for the post office or for Anthony Comstock. She really hoped he wasn’t one of those.
“If Olivia had been nicer to him and offered him something valuable for his client, he might still be here.”
Alarm bells erupted inside Celia. “I’m sure she offered what we had available to sell.” Then added, “Whatever was safe. Now
why don’t you finish up your chair and book presentation while I get rid of these castoffs?”
Daphne sighed and turned away; Celia impatiently picked up the cookbook.
It fell apart in her hand, spilling pages onto the floor.
She grabbed for them and watched in horror as a single paper bookmark floated to the floor.
She tossed the pages back into the box and reached down to pick it up, but Daphne beat her to it.
“What’s this?” Daphne held the bookmark between two fingers, frowning at the writing.
“Looks like someone was using it as a bookmark.” Celia reached for it.
“There’s writing on it.”
“Probably notes on a recipe, totally illegible. C’mon, Daph, I’ll toss the book and the bookmark. It’s ruined anyway. And
I have other things to do.”
But Daphne stretched the bookmark out in both hands, frowning at the scrawled message it contained. “Hmm.”
“It’s just trash,” said Celia, trying to feign lack of interest. Even if Daphne read it, it only had meaning for Celia. If
she could just get it away from Daphne.
“Initials and numbers.” Daphne’s eyes widened. “A time or a date. It’s an assignation!” She turned a suspicious eye on Celia.
“Is this how you and Yannis communicate?”
“Don’t be daft. He’s right next door. If I needed to talk to him, I would merely pick up the telephone or walk over to the
printshop. I have no reason to send secret messages to Yannis or anyone else.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Let me see.”
Daphne held it out but wouldn’t relinquish it.
“Hold it up a little,” Celia asked in her most uninterested voice.
“WGC71/2.” Celia shrugged. “Greek to me.” Wednesday, Grace Church.
7:30. “Just a bunch of scribbles. Or maybe some kind of baking instruction. Assignations, indeed. You’ve been reading too many romance novels. Now hurry up, we have to open.”
Daphne still frowned at it.
“Daph, get a move on.”
“It was sent to you, wasn’t it? That’s why you always make sure you empty the throwaway box.”
Celia huffed out a sigh of irritation, trying to mask the anxiety beneath. “No, it’s because you don’t ever want to get dirty.
So I have to.”
Daphne shook her head until the curls danced around her face. “I don’t believe you. You’re not going out to knit socks for
orphans; you’ve been clandestinely meeting a man. If not Yannis, someone else. I knew it!” she cried, seemingly on the edge
of tears. “I’m telling Olivia. Ugh.”
“Don’t be a brat—you don’t know what it means, who wrote it, to whom it is written, or if it’s just a bunch of doodles.”
“Just tell me. I promise not to tell. Are you sneaking out to meet a man?”
“I don’t know any men,” Celia retorted. “Except those I meet at the shop, and you know them all, too.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m going to be left all alone to run this horrid old store by myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll never meet anyone to marry and have babies with. Even Olivia has Mr. Krause.”
“What?” Celia blurted incredulously. “The butcher?”
“He’s always asking about her.”
“He’s just being polite. No one is going to end up an old maid .
. . unless she wants to,” Celia amended, thinking of Olivia, nearly on the wrong side of twenty-four.
And herself, who would never give up the cause for a man, though, come to think of it, Margaret was married, and she hadn’t given up her husband for the cause.
“Look, if it will make you believe me, you can be in charge of the box from now on, and can intercept any clandestine notes
that come your way.”
Daphne stopped for a second. “I will not. You’re just trying to get out of your work.” She stuck the bookmark out to Celia.
“Just drop it on top, and I’ll take these out back to the trash. And then I want to get something special for dinner. Something
we can cook besides eggs. Olivia’s been doing all the work.” And staying up to all hours with the Sappho. Celia was a little worried.
Every morning since that package had arrived, Olivia had dragged into the kitchen looking more and more tired. At first, Celia
blamed the lack of sleep from staying up all night with the Sappho fragments. But last night she seemed to be burning from
an inner fire. It was something she’d never seen in her sister before. It gave her a kind of beauty, but a frightening beauty,
as if it might burn itself out when the poems were taken away. And what would happen then? Would she go back to her normal
serious self, or would she crumble like ash from burning wood?
Celia wished more than ever for her mother—not for herself, but for Olivia. For when Olivia was forced to relinquish the fragments,
Celia was afraid her sister would be left with nothing but the memory and her failing eyesight. And how would Celia be able
to comfort her alone?
She hurried out to the trash bin, spending as little time as possible, then ran back into the shop and locked the door. Feeling absolutely silly, she took her knitting bag and, feigning a cheerful “back in a bit,” she took off down the avenue, leaving Daphne to open the shop by herself.
Her first stop was the churchyard. It was well after eight but there were no messages or material to be printed—which wasn’t
a total surprise. Word must have gotten out about the raid on the Tellers’ shop and everyone was lying low; the last message
must have crossed paths with the information that printing was back on.
She stopped at the newsstand, noticed that Mr. Starling was not among the regulars. There was definitely a lighter mood than
there had been last week when they were expecting a renewal of one of Comstock’s frenzied cycle of raids.
There were several theories as to why this didn’t materialize. The most popular was that during the postcard seller fiasco,