Chapter 1 #2
I sit there as he disappears into the lunch crowd, my hands shaking so badly I have to grip the edge of the table. Around me, the café continues like nothing happened. Someone laughs. The espresso machine hisses. A child whines for more chocolate milk.
My little brother just walked out that door expecting to die, and I let him go.
The thought hits me like a punch to the chest. I can't breathe. The café is too hot, too loud, too full of people living their normal lives while mine falls apart.
I grab my bag and stand on legs that don't quite feel steady. My throat is tight and my eyes are burning but I will not cry in a Midtown café. I will not.
I make it to the register, pulling out my wallet with numb fingers.
"Just the coffee and croissant?" the barista asks.
"And the broken cup," I manage. "My brother, he threw it. I'm so sorry."
She waves me off. "Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"
The kindness almost breaks me. "I'm fine. How much?"
"Twelve fifty."
I hand over fifteen dollars, my one indulgence this week, and walk out into the October heat.
Outside, Midtown assaults me. The smell hits first. Exhaust fumes mixing with rotting garbage from the overflowing bins on the corner, hot dogs from a nearby cart, someone's perfume so strong it makes my eyes water.
Car horns blare in a discordant symphony.
Someone shouts in Russian. A bike messenger nearly clips me and yells something obscene.
I taste copper in my mouth and realize I've bitten my cheek hard enough to bleed.
Gabe is gone, swallowed by the sea of strangers. And I'm standing here having made a choice I'm not sure I can live with.
My phone buzzes. For one desperate moment I think it's him, but it's just a reminder: Restoration deadline 5pm.
Right. Work. The one thing in my life that makes sense.
I start walking.
"Seraphina! My favorite assistant!"
Mr. Bolinger's voice is warm and jovial as I step back into Antiquarian Rare Books, and for a moment, I can almost pretend the last hour didn't happen.
The shop smells like it always does old leather, paper, and the linseed oil I use for restoration work, underlaid with the faint vanilla sweetness of deteriorating lignin.
It's the smell of home. The only home that's ever felt safe.
"I'm your only assistant," I manage, and I'm grateful my voice sounds almost normal.
Mr. Bolinger looks up from the front desk where he's been cataloging a new acquisition.
It looks like an 18th-century botanical encyclopedia, probably came from the estate sale in Connecticut he mentioned last week.
His face is deeply lined, weathered from years of squinting at tiny print and authenticating signatures.
Wiry gray eyebrows that could use a trim, liver spots on his hands, but his eyes are sharp and kind behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
Those kind eyes narrow as he takes me in. I see the moment he notices something's wrong—the slight redness around my eyes, maybe, or the way I'm holding myself too carefully, like if I relax, I'll shatter.
"You alright, kiddo?"
"Just a family thing." I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm sorry I'm late. It won't happen again."
"Seraphina." He says my name gently, the way my father used to. "You know you can talk to me."
And God, I want to. I want to tell him everything, about Gabe, about the fifty thousand dollars, about the choice I just made that might cost my brother his life.
But Mr. Bolinger has done enough for me already.
He gave me this job fresh out of college.
He lets me live in the rent-controlled apartment above the shop for half what he could get from anyone else.
He and his wife Zola have me over for dinner every Friday, making sure I eat at least one real meal a week.
I can't burden him with this too.
"I'm okay," I lie. "Really. What do you need me to work on?"
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him making the decision to let it go. "Well," he says finally, reaching for an envelope on the desk. "I have some good news that might cheer you up. This came for you."
My heart stops. I recognize the return address—thick cream paper, embossed seal. The New York Public Library.
"I can't look." I push it back toward him, my hands trembling. "Open it. Please."
"Seraphina—"
"Please."
He sighs but takes the letter opener and slits the envelope with practiced precision. I watch his face as he reads, trying to divine my future from his expression. His bushy eyebrows knit together.
"I didn't get it." The words come out flat.
Of course I didn't. Why would I? I have a BA but no master's degree.
I live above a bookshop and can barely pay my bills.
I'm competing against people with PhDs and decades of experience.
What was I thinking, applying for a curator position at the most prestigious library in New York?
"You didn't get it," he confirms, and something inside me crumbles.
"Right. Well." I force another smile. "It was a long shot anyway. I love it here. I wasn't even sure I wanted—"
"But you are a finalist."
The world stops.
"What?"
He's grinning now, holding out the letter. "You're one of three finalists for the position. They want you to come in for a final interview next month."
I snatch the letter from his hands, my eyes scanning the words frantically. ...impressed by your qualifications...extensive knowledge of rare manuscripts...pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a finalist for the position of Associate Curator of Special Collections...
"Oh my God." My voice comes out as barely a whisper. "Oh my God."
"Looks like you've got a real shot, kiddo."
I read the letter again. And again. My eyes are burning but this time it's not from trying not to cry, it's because I can't stop smiling.
"There's an event next month," I read aloud. "A private reception for the finalists to meet the selection committee and..." I look up at him. "Mr. Bolinger, this is real. This is actually real."
"Of course it's real. You're brilliant." But there's something in his voice, a sadness that dulls his enthusiasm.
My own excitement deflates immediately. "I meant what I said before. I love working here. If I got this position, and that's a huge if, I wouldn't just abandon you. We could work something out, maybe part-time—"
"Seraphina Romano, you stop that right now." His voice is stern, but his eyes are wet. "You are not giving up your dream to stay in this dusty bookshop."
"It's not that dusty—"
"It's very dusty. And you are too brilliant to spend your life here.
" He comes around the desk and puts both hands on my shoulders, looking me directly in the eye.
"Your parents would be so proud of you. I'm proud of you.
And if the New York Public Library has any sense at all, they'll snap you up and I'll lose the best assistant I've ever had. "
"Mr. Bolinger—"
"Ah!" He holds up a hand. "No arguments. Now, about that event. It says here it's a benefit gala at The Palazzo Hotel. Very fancy."
I scan the letter again and my stomach sinks. "Next week. Oh God, it's black tie."
"You'll need something to wear."
I look down at my thrift-store jeans and vintage cardigan, the ink stains on my fingers that never quite wash off. "I don't... I can't afford..."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Zola already thought of that. She left something upstairs for you. Had it dry cleaned and everything."
"Mr. Bolinger, I can't—"
"You can and you will. This is important, Seraphina. These are the people who will decide your future. You need to show them you belong in their world." His expression softens. "Even if you don't quite feel like you do yet."
My throat tightens. "Thank you. For everything. I don't know how I'll ever—"
"Bah." He turns back to his desk, suddenly gruff in that way men get when they're feeling emotional. "You can thank me by restoring these books. I need them done by tomorrow morning, I have a buyer coming in."
He gestures to two volumes on the restoration table, and I'm grateful for the change of subject. Work. This I can do. This I understand.
I move to the table, setting my bag down and tying my hair back.
The restoration room is in the back of the shop, separated from the main floor by a heavy velvet curtain.
It's my space. My tools arranged exactly how I like them, the familiar bottles of adhesives and solutions and leather treatments, the special brushes I've collected over the years, the work lamp that casts everything in warm, focused light.
This is where I disappear. Where the world and its problems can't touch me.
I pull on my cotton gloves and carefully examine the first volume.
Jane Eyre. First edition, third printing, 1847. Smith, Elder & Co.
My breath catches. I've worked with first editions before, but never a Bronte. Never something this significant.
The Moroccan leather binding is cracked along the spine, the gilt lettering nearly worn away. The boards are separating from the text block. Someone, and I wince thinking about it, tried to repair it with scotch tape at some point, which has yellowed and left adhesive residue.
But underneath all the damage, I can see the contours of something beautiful. The original binding structure is intact. The pages, though foxed and brittle, are complete. The frontispiece is still there, slightly faded but salvageable.
This is what I love. Not just preserving words on a page but preserving someone's history.
In 1847, someone bought this book fresh from the printer.
Maybe they read it by candlelight. Maybe they argued about whether Jane should have married Rochester.
Maybe they pressed flowers between the pages or made notes in the margins or cried at the ending.
And now, 178 years later, I get to make sure someone in 2025 can hold this same book and connect with that same story.