Chapter 19
Daphne awoke suddenly. She’d heard a noise. Someone was in their room. The door to the hall was ajar, and Daphne could see
someone on their hands and knees, looking under Celia’s bed.
Her immediate thoughts flew to the Sappho book under her own pillow. She slowly turned her head to see if Celia was awake,
too.
Celia wasn’t in her bed. It was Celia crawling around, probably looking for her shoes.
Daphne sat up, checked her watch. It was only six thirty. “Why are you up so early?”
Celia banged her head in her haste to stand up.
She was fully dressed except for one shoe, which she was holding in her hand.
“We need groceries. Unless you want eggs and toast tonight. And I’m trying to get out early so I can get back in time to open
the store so you won’t complain again. Go back to sleep.”
Daphne didn’t believe that she was going out to get groceries or that she cared what Daphne thought about anything.
She’d been acting oddly for months, but Daphne knew Celia would never confide in her, even though there were only two years between them.
For a few minutes last night, reading those poems, it had felt like they were sisters.
Like they once had been. Before Mama died, she realized. No use thinking about that.
“I will. Have a nice time.” Daphne snuggled back under the covers.
But she didn’t go back to sleep.
As soon as she heard Celia hurrying down the hall, she jumped out of bed, put on the first dress that came to hand, grabbed
her shoes, and started after her.
She was determined to find out what Celia did every morning, besides buy the paper and do the shopping. She was acting too
suspiciously by half. And Daphne knew, just knew, that “bookmark” had been a message arranging a clandestine meeting. It was
her responsibility to make sure Celia wasn’t getting herself into some kind of trouble.
She’d had time to think about it and a lot of other things while she was moving all those books yesterday. She’d tried to
remember if she’d seen bookmarks of that kind in the throwaway boxes before. But she hadn’t really noticed. The times when
Celia was late, Daphne had just left the throwaway box for her to peruse. And Daphne hadn’t given it another thought, until
yesterday. That had definitely been a message, and Celia had been expecting it.
Now it was time for Daphne to find out who it was from and what they were doing. She carefully picked her way down the stairs,
avoiding the treads that creaked, and had just reached the landing above the main floor when she heard the front door open
and close. She waited another few seconds, time for Celia to lock the door, then she ran down the last flight, nearly tripping
over Jane Austen, who had come out expecting her morning treat.
“Sorry, Jane, I have to run.” And that’s when Daphne realized she didn’t have keys to lock the store when she left. A moment of indecision and she barreled out the door, calling, “Don’t let anyone in, Jane. I’ll be right back.”
Pressing against the bow window, she peered out, searching up and down the avenue, and caught sight of Celia, carrying that
disgusting knitting bag, heading south. Daphne took a deep breath and hurried after her. It was amazing how many people were
on the street this early. Still, it wasn’t easy keeping Celia in sight while trying to make herself invisible. She bumped
into more than one pedestrian as she wove in and out between them, trying to keep her sister in sight.
And then, suddenly, Celia disappeared. She was there walking behind a rotund man in a bowler hat, and then she was gone. Pfft.
Like magic.
She must have gone into a store, but it was too early. Daphne hurried forward, keeping her eyes on the spot where she’d last
seen her. Slowed down, looking in as many directions as she could, trying to catch a glimpse of Celia. And came to the corridor
to the Grace Church. GC. There had been a GC on the note. They were meeting in Grace Church!
Feeling very clever, Daphne slipped into the alleyway and was immediately cloaked in shadows. The morning sun hadn’t broached
this part of the avenue yet. She kept close to the walls, where it was cool and damp and shadowy, like The Castle of Otranto. Her heart was pounding. She was like a thief. A spy. A romantic heroine.
Everything exciting she’d never been.
She slowed as she reached the end of the passageway, just in case Celia hadn’t gone inside yet. Daphne eased her head around
the corner to look and immediately pulled it back again. Celia hadn’t gone inside. She was sitting on one of the benches in the park that surrounded the church, the knitting bag slumped by her
feet. What could she possibly be doing?
She heard steps behind her and whirred around. But no one was there. No murderous lord of the manor. Not even a priest. It
was her imagination. That was all.
She turned her attention back to Celia.
Celia sat upright on the bench, her face lowered, almost like she was praying. Something the Applebaum sisters never did much
of. Had Celia suddenly found religion? Was she really knitting socks for the Ladies of Charity?
Celia held perfectly still except for one foot that seemed to be searching beneath the bench. She hesitated for moment, then
leaned over, but Daphne couldn’t tell what she was doing.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t religious.
Celia stood abruptly. Did she just slip something into her pocket?
Daphne wanted to race ahead and demand to see what it was.
Who would leave clandestine notes in the church garden? It didn’t seem right.
She was so mesmerized by her sister’s strange actions that she was startled into a little cry when Celia abruptly stood up,
her bag in her hand. Daphne pressed against the wall, afraid to move as Celia turned toward her.
She was leaving and would catch Daphne for sure. Daphne whirled on her feet and ran as fast as she could, hugging the wall
and scraping her clothes as she fled toward the crowds on the street.
Celia could swear someone had been watching her.
Well, if she was right, they wouldn’t find anything in her bag today.
She’d searched for more canisters, or flyers, even directions for action, but, even contorting to reach far beneath the bench, she found only a note attached to the underside of the seat.
She turned to leave, caught a glimpse of a yellow and pink skirt as it whipped around the corner and out of sight.
She knew that skirt. She hurried down the corridor to the avenue, stepped onto the sidewalk, and searched the foot traffic
headed north toward Union Square. And caught another glimpse of yellow and pink as its wearer veered between the other pedestrians.
Just when she was getting too far away to see, she stopped abruptly and hurried inside the Arcadia Rare Bookshop.
There was a traitor in their midst, and the traitor was her sister. How had she learned of Celia’s activities . . . ? It had
to be that last bookmark.
Celia was always on alert for things out of the ordinary, people where they shouldn’t be. Making certain she was alone before
going into the church grounds.
How had she missed her own sister?
Because she was her sister. It never occurred to her that Daphne would think outside her own self. So what was she up to? First,
all the fixing up of the shop, and now secretly following Celia.
Celia had been extra careful not to put her sisters in harm’s way. And now it might come tumbling down on her head. How had
things gotten so precarious because of one little piece of paper drifting to the floor? Well, she would just have to be extra
attentive from now on. Brazen it out and make up a story that would put Daphne off the scent.
A clandestine lover’s tryst: that is exactly something that Daphne would understand. But with whom? She didn’t know any men. And she wasn’t about to further involve Yannis in this mess.
She could just deny it. Tell Daphne, if she confronted her, that she always stopped at the church in the mornings to enjoy
the garden and spend a moment in contemplation.
Which held about as much water as the church knitting club.
Well, it couldn’t be helped now. Hopefully, Daphne would be too polite, at least too embarrassed, to out and out ask what
Celia was up to. Fingers crossed. She turned her back on her sister’s escape and headed for the newsstand, where the release
of the silent film Birth of a Nation was the main topic of conversation. “The way things are going, we won’t even be able to give away a history book, much less
sell one,” groused Mr. Gepfert. “Not if you can just sit back and see it unroll right before your eyes.”
The movies were a marvel, Celia agreed, but she didn’t think they would ever replace books, and at the moment she’d rather
hear that Anthony Comstock had suffered an untimely demise or that Margaret would be returning home to carry on the fight.
She would have settled for a glimpse of Joshua Starling, but the bird seemed to have flown. That should have been a relief;
it meant that he wasn’t the spy she’d suspected him of being. But instead, she felt rather flat.
After a quick stop at the butcher’s and the bakery, curiosity got the best of her and she ducked into the alcove of the Chinese
laundry to slip the note out of her pocket. A hundred more vitamin flyers. She sighed with disappointment. Vitamins were important, but time was passing, women were dying, and not just from lack of
nutrition.
Celia could scream with impatience. They needed to do more. Now.
On her way back to the shop she stopped to say hello to Mr. Kirsch, who had just stepped out of his doorway. She took the opportunity to ask about Joshua Starling.
“We haven’t seen anything of him lately,” she said.
“He had some other business to attend to. He’ll be back, if you’re interested.” Mr. Kirsch winked.
“Only if he’s interested in buying books,” she quipped, and waved goodbye before he could say more.