Chapter 2
The inside of Beulah Bonecrusher’s Emporium of Books is like something out of my dreams: bursting with books.
Shelves line every wall, floor to ceiling, and books are piled haphazardly on them, not an inch of space wasted.
Books lie in heaps on the floor, in stacks on every available surface, in every nook and cranny.
No matter how small the space, some tiny book fills it.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. That extraordinary scent fills my senses and thrills me to my bones: the dusty, deep promise of old paper, crumbling spines, disintegrating glue, and perfect, beautiful happiness.
Romance, adventure, excitement…everything I crave: It’s all here, all waiting for me. To the degree I’m permitted, of course.
I open my eyes. I can just make out stairs hidden partially behind one bookcase; there may be whole other stories in this shop, filled with even more books to explore.
Honeyrose’s disapproving expression rises in my mind, and I sigh.
I have only a few minutes to find something to read.
Perhaps I’ll be able to slip away and come browse after all my duties are finished today, or before we leave tomorrow morning.
In the meantime, I do what any reasonable person does when faced with too much choice and too little time: seek out an expert.
I head down the book-lined entryway, as I can see a desk at the end of it, which is perhaps where the person who runs this heaven oversees their operation. Beulah Bonecrusher, perhaps, herself. The name is orcish; I love the idea that this crammed and musty store is overseen by a hulking orc.
But I am doomed to disappointment. The desk is piled high with books and papers and a domestic illusive cat, about the size and shape of an ordinary cat, but with four tentacles sprouting from her tortoiseshell back, between her shoulder blades.
She’s apparently sleeping on an ancient, moth-eaten sweater.
Being an illusive cat, there’s no way of knowing whether she’s actually on that sweater or seven feet away; little illusory magics such as hers mean that you’re never quite sure that you’re looking at something that’s actually where it appears to be.
And beyond her, a tiny, white-haired old lady sits, beaming at me rather shortsightedly across one of the massive piles of stuff.
If she is Beulah Bonecrusher, she’s not an orc, and probably hasn’t crushed any bones recently—at least, not any big ones.
But she is exactly the sort of person who ought to be running a bookstore that looks like this one: ancient, a little dusty, radiating gentleness.
“Hello,” I say, a little breathlessly, and dip in a shallow curtsy. It’s only polite, after all.
“How may I help you, my dear?” the old lady says. Her voice is soft and cracked, but she’s smiling at me.
“I only have a few moments but I need a book—what can you recommend?”
“Well, now,” she says slowly, and I feel my heart sinking. I have a sudden vision of her, creakily getting to her feet and leading me up seven stories to look for something obscure. That won’t do. Time is ticking away. “Let me think. Perhaps a romance of the southern highlands?”
“I do like romances,” I say. “But I’ll read anything, as long as it’s diverting. I spend a lot of time in carriages, going from place to place, you see.” She doesn’t seem to recognize me. That is a delightful surprise.
“Ah,” she says. She looks around herself vaguely. “I just got a new lot in—a local collector, one who recently passed. Such a tragedy, really…”
Ordinarily I’d have asked her one or two polite questions about the local collector, but needs must. “Perhaps one of these?” I say, indicating the nearest pile.
“Let me see,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “Why, yes.” She looks up at me and smiles. “One of my very own favorites is right here—surely you must have read Pomander de Senqual’s Voyages by now?”
I’ve never heard of Pomander de Senqual, but “Voyages” sounds promising. “I’m afraid not—I’m sure that would do nicely.”
“A pity,” she says, reaching for a book at the very bottom of the precarious stack I’d indicated. “De Senqual was required reading in my day.”
“Please allow me,” I say in a rush, intercepting her hand. I start disassembling the pile, unearthing the title she indicates, and hand it to her. It is a beautiful, if crumbling, book, bound in browning calfskin, with gilt lettering on the spine.
“Oh dear,” she says, taking it from me and (slowly) opening the front cover. “I haven’t had a chance to price this lot yet.”
I hear the chime over the door somewhere behind me tinkle, and know without turning that it must be Honeyrose, come to collect me. “Ten crowns?” I offer, a little desperately.
“My dear, no, that’s far too much,” the old lady says. “Now, let me think…”
Honeyrose draws up beside me with a disapproving sniff.
“What time do you open tomorrow morning?” I say, knowing Honeyrose will never allow me to spend twenty minutes haggling.
“I can pay ten crowns now and come back tomorrow, if you think that’s too much, and find something else that’ll make up the difference.
I want to come back anyway; I’d love to spend more time exploring. ”
“Oh dear me, I’m just not sure I feel entirely comfortable with that,” the old lady begins. “What if something were to happen and you weren’t able to return for your change? How dreadful.”
Honeyrose jingles the purse. I can feel my heart rate increasing; this is too much anxiety for one desperate princess trying to buy one old book.
“I give you my word,” I say, too loudly.
“I’m afraid I’m in something of a rush this afternoon, but I’ll absolutely be back tomorrow morning.
” Honeyrose hands over ten coins, and I hold out my hand for the book.
The old lady runs her own ancient hand over it almost lovingly.
I swallow, pull my hand back, and wait. It’s a good thing I spent years learning how to school my features; if the old lady were to look up at me, she’d see nothing but reassuring calm in my expression.
I am, I need not mention, an expert at sitting through long speeches by local dignitaries.
Finally, the old lady takes the money from Honey and hands the book to me. I do a very good job not hugging it to myself.
“Books can change your life, young lady,” she says, almost mistily. “Each book is a dream, a cathedral, a temple to the gods. Treat them well, and they will love you in the way no lover, no friend, no parent ever can.”
My expression only slips a little at this.
“Thank you, and I promise I’ll be back tomorrow at…when did you say you open?”
“Heavens, yes, you did ask—I’m always here, my dear; I live in the back. Simply ring the bell if the door is locked.”
I dip a curtsy and thank her and then, not daring a glance at Honeyrose, hold my book to my chest and walk with as much stately grace as I can through the maze of books and out into the little town. I climb back into the coach, and after a moment, Honeyrose joins me.
She arches an eyebrow at me, but says nothing.
“I really appreciate it, Honey,” I say.
“You have twenty minutes until the ceremony,” she says. “Just enough time to put on a formal gown and do something about your hair.”