Chapter 1 #3
My hands are steady as I examine the damage, making mental notes.
The spine will need to be carefully removed and the gatherings re-sewn.
I'll have to mix a custom wheat paste for the adhesive—nothing commercial, it needs to be archival quality.
The leather will need treatment, maybe something to stabilize it before I try any repairs.
The gilt lettering might be possible to restore, but that's delicate work that will take time.
This is going to take days. Beautiful, meditative days where I can lose myself in the work.
I reach for my restoration journal, a beat-up notebook where I document every project, and start making notes. Measurements. Observations about the binding structure. Ideas for treatment approaches.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. When I'm working, nothing else exists. Not Gabe. Not the money I don't have. Not the impossible choice I made today.
Just me and the book and the gentle, precise work of restoration.
I'm mixing the wheat paste, the ratios have to be exact, the consistency has to be just right, when Mr. Bolinger pokes his head through the curtain.
"I'm heading home to Zola," he says. "Don't stay too late."
I glance at my watch. It's already past six. "Just another hour. I want to get the spine work done tonight."
"One hour," he says firmly. "Then go home, try on that dress, and get some rest. You've got a big week ahead."
After he leaves, the shop settles into the kind of silence I crave. Just the tick of the old clock on the wall, the occasional creak of old wood, the soft sounds of the city filtering in from outside.
I work slowly, carefully. First, I have to remove the damaged spine leather without causing more harm to the text block. It's delicate work—the kind that requires complete focus. One wrong move and I could tear a page, break a gathering, cause irreparable damage.
My hands don't shake when I work. They never do. This is the only time the anxiety that lives in my chest like a second heartbeat goes quiet. The only time I feel completely, entirely present.
I'm testing the adhesive on a hidden corner when my phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
With a sigh, I set down my tools and pull it out.
Seven missed calls from a number I don't recognize. Three voicemails. And a text from Gabe: I'm sorry. Tell Mom and Dad I'm sorry.
My blood goes cold.
I'm dialing the unknown number before I can think, my heart hammering against my ribs. It rings once. Twice.
"Hello?"
The voice is male, unfamiliar, with a slight accent I can't place. Russian, maybe?
"Who is this?" My voice comes out shaky. "Why are you calling me?"
"Is this Seraphina Romano?"
"Yes. Who—"
"Your brother gave us your number. Said you might be able to help with his...financial situation."
Oh God. Oh no.
"I don't have any money," I say quickly. "I already told him—"
"Fifty thousand dollars is not a large sum. I'm sure we can work something out."
"I'm a bookshop assistant; I don't have fifty thousand dollars or any way to get it."
There's a pause. I can hear voices in the background, music, the clink of glasses. He's calling me from a bar or a club.
"That's unfortunate." His voice is pleasant, conversational, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "Your brother seems to think you're very resourceful. That you work with valuable items."
My stomach drops. "I restore old books. They're not…" I swallow the bile in my throat. "I don't own them. They belong to my employer and his clients."
"Perhaps your employer would be willing to help? For the right motivation?"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp and fierce. "Don't you dare drag him into this. He's an old man. He hasn't done anything."
"Neither have you. Yet you're involved anyway. Funny how that works."
I'm gripping the phone so hard my hand aches. "What do you want?"
"I want your brother to pay his debts. Since he can't, I'm exploring other options." Another pause. "You seem like a nice girl, Seraphina. Good job, working hard. It would be a shame if something happened to you because of your brother's poor choices."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm explaining the situation. Your brother has one week to come up with the money. After that..." He trails off. "Well. Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Have a good evening, Ms. Romano."
He hangs up.
I stand there in my restoration room, phone still pressed to my ear, unable to move. The book on the table in front of me, 178 years old, precious, irreplaceable, suddenly seems very fragile.
Everything seems very fragile.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Gabe: Don't answer if they call.
Too late, I think. They already called.
And now I'm not just worried about Gabe dying. I'm worried about me dying too.
The shop suddenly feels too quiet, too isolated. The front door is locked but there are windows. The apartment upstairs has windows too, old ones with locks that probably wouldn't stop anyone determined.
I look down at my hands. They're shaking now.
I pack up my tools with movements that feel mechanical, distant, like I'm watching myself from outside my body. Lock the restoration room. Turn off the lights. Set the alarm. Check the lock twice.
The stairs up to my apartment have never felt so steep.
Inside, I lock the door and shoot the deadbolt and hook the chain. Then I stand there, breathing hard, listening to the sounds of the building. Pipes creaking. Someone's TV playing through the walls. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
But I don't feel safe.
I move through my tiny studio apartment, really just one room with a kitchenette and a bathroom and check the windows. They're locked. I pull the curtains closed anyway.
On my bed, there's a garment bag.
I should try it on. I should be excited about next week, about the interview, about the possibility of my dream job finally becoming real.
Instead, I'm thinking about my brother's text. About the man on the phone with his pleasant voice and terrible implications. About fifty thousand dollars I don't have and one week I don't have either.
I sink onto the bed, the garment bag crinkling under me, and finally let myself cry.
Not for long. I don't have time for long. But for a few minutes, I let myself fall apart in the privacy of my shitty apartment where no one can see.
Then I wash my face, change into pajamas, and unzip the garment bag.
The dress is simple but elegant, black, knee-length, fitted. Classic. Expensive. The kind of thing I'd never buy for myself in a million years.
I hold it up to my body and look in the mirror mounted on the back of my bathroom door.
The girl looking back at me is puffy-eyed and pale, her hair a mess, still wearing a ratty NYU t-shirt from college.
But with the dress held in front of her, she could almost be someone else.
Someone who belongs at a gala at The Palazzo Hotel.
Someone whose biggest problem is which curator position to accept.
Someone whose brother isn't going to die.
I hang the dress carefully on the hook and get into bed, but I know I won't sleep. Instead, I lie there in the dark, listening to the sounds of the city outside my window, and try to figure out how to save my brother's life with money I don't have and one week that's already started ticking away.