Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rainy walked through the library, following the sound of piano music. Under one of the floor-to-ceiling arched windows, a man sat at a baby grand playing a piece she instantly recognized from the score to The Red Shoes; it was called “Vicky’s Last Dance.”
She had a feeling Maxine had chosen the music herself.
Rainy looked up from the piano player and saw that the woman in the bathroom had been right—it was standing room only in here.
Hundreds of people filled the atrium. Most sat in folding chairs, but some sat on the floor, others on the stairs, and many more stood by the walls. A dais sat in front of an enormous fireplace, and on it was a speaker’s podium.
When Rainy reached the main floor, the woman she’d met in the bathroom saw her and waved.
“I found us seats,” she whispered as Rainy slid in beside her.
“Thanks,” Rainy whispered. “I never got your name.”
“Frankie. What’s yours?”
“Ra…chel. Rachel.”
“Hi, Rachel.”
The music changed to a song Rainy didn’t recognize, but a woman with gray hair sitting in front of them clearly knew it because as soon as the notes hit the melody, she laughed.
“What is this song?” Rainy whispered to her.
“It’s the Beatles. ‘Paperback Writer.’ You’re so young,” the woman said, shaking her head.
“I’m fifty,” Rainy whispered, but the woman didn’t hear her. Everyone who was seated stood as three people walked out a side door and onto the dais.
Two women and one man. The man had white hair. Rainy recognized him from the mirror on Maxine’s bedside. Anthony. Her husband. No, not her husband. Her widower. And what did that make Rainy? An orphan? Again?
The other woman, the older one, Rainy didn’t recognize. But the younger one? The younger woman had red hair. The redheaded March Heir.
“Who is that?” Rainy asked, pointing out the redhead.
“That’s Jessa Charming, the mystery writer,” Frankie said. “She’s giving one of the eulogies.”
Eulogy? So that’s what this was—Maxine’s funeral. Held not in a church or a temple or a mosque, but on the sacred ground of all writers—the public library.
The woman with white hair nodded toward the pianist, who let the music trail off gently. She stood at the podium and adjusted the microphone. Silence filled the atrium, silence broken only by the sounds of people quietly crying or trying valiantly not to cry.
The white-haired woman coughed once, then smiled at the hundreds of people gathered there. “You know already Maxine Blake was a very special woman,” she began, “to get this many introverts to leave their houses.”
At the punch line, the crowd laughed, and the heavy blanket of sorrow seemed to momentarily lift.
“It’s good to see so many faces here today,” the woman continued. “Thank you all for coming. My name is Nancy Kendell, and I’ve been director here for seventeen years. And yes, if you’re wondering, I was named for Nancy Drew. A show of hands, please…Do we have any Rainys in the room?”
Rainy didn’t hold up her hand, but she saw three other hands go up.
“Mama was a Book Witch reader,” Ms. Kendell said.
Lots of head nods, more laughter. “Although this is a sad occasion that brings us together, let’s all remember that in the midst of our sadness, we are here also to celebrate Maxine Blake and her stories.
Before I turn the mic over to our special guests, I want to share some numbers with you.
And don’t be afraid. These are not math problems.”
Ms. Kendell pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, then placed her reading glasses on her nose.
“The numbers are…one hundred seventy-two, ninety-six, seventy-eight, one hundred eighty-eight. Those,” she continued, “are the numbers of holds on the first four Book Witch novels at this branch of the library. Almost five hundred total holds in our community. For books that are fifty years old. That tells me two things. One—we need to order more copies of those books.” More laughter rippled through the atrium.
“And two—Luigi Pirandello was right in his play Six Characters in Search of an Author when he wrote, The writer, the man, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die. ”
No one laughed then. Not even a giggle.
“Now let me introduce our first guest. And I know many of you are big fans of her books too, so if you need to applaud, go ahead. Nothing would be more fitting. It is my great honor to introduce the Edgar Award–winning author of the Skulls & Skullduggery series, Jessa Charming.”
The crowd applauded, a few even cheered, and Rainy joined in. The woman came to the podium and shook Ms. Kendell’s hand.
Rainy studied her. Dressed up, Jessa Charming was pretty in a bookish way, although she didn’t look particularly comfortable in her dark gray pantsuit and high heels.
“Don’t be fooled by the outfit,” Jessa Charming said. “I had to buy this since I was told yoga pants were unacceptable attire for a funeral.”
The crowd laughed again.
“Although, considering it’s a writer’s funeral, maybe it would’ve been all right? Anthony?” Jessa glanced over at him, pale and silent in his somber black suit.
“Too formal. Try sweatpants,” he called back. Another soft ripple of laughter.
Even from the back of the atrium, Rainy could see that despite the joke, Anthony was struggling.
He sat stiffly and his clothes looked large on him, like he’d lost too much weight too quickly.
But still, he carried on, sitting up straight and doing his best to keep it together, though, she imagined, he was ready to fall apart.
Jessa continued her eulogy.
“Some of you know I dedicated my first book to Rainy March,” she said.
“When I turned fifteen, I was going through a hard time. My grandmother, who was always trying to get me off my phone, gave me a book called My Buttered Toast Waits for Nobody. If you haven’t read it, it’s about Rainy March’s adventures in The Woman in White, the famous mystery novel by Wilkie Collins.
Maybe because it rained—a gift from Rainy?
—that weekend and I had a cold, I was bored enough to try reading the stupid book, if only to make my sweet grandmother happy.
And a funny thing happened. I enjoyed the book—a lot.
A lot more than I expected to. I blinked and I was already on page one hundred.
But then…when I finished the book, I realized I kind of wanted to read The Woman in White.
Women kidnapped and forced into asylums?
A ghostly figure walking around in all white?
Sign me up. I told Grandma I was a little curious about it, and she gleefully ordered a copy to be delivered to my house.
And so two days later, a brick landed on my doorstep. ”
Another laugh, which Rainy didn’t understand. The Woman in White was nearly eight hundred pages long. Calling it a brick wasn’t a joke at all but a fair and accurate description.
“I was this close to returning it,” Jessa said.
“Or keeping it and reading the Spark Notes. But Rainy March had whetted my appetite. I started reading it. Try to imagine convincing any fifteen-year-old to read an eight-hundred-page novel published in 1860. Miracle, right? But Rainy March had done it. And the crazy thing was…I read the whole book. Took a week, but I did it. And I loved it. My first Gothic mystery novel. Now I write them. Maxine Blake created Rainy March, but Rainy March created Jessa Charming. Literally, I mean, and I’m using ‘literally’ literally since I have a feeling Maxine is listening.
My pen name, Charming, is an anagram of Marching. ”
A soft ripple of delight passed through the crowd.
“For her entire career, Maxine was a fierce advocate for books and the freedom to read. She said many times that those who loved books and those who wanted to ban them have one single thing in common—we all believe reading a book can change you. It’s only that the book banners consider this a bug, and Maxine—and likely everyone in this room—sees it as a feature. ”
After another round of applause, Jessa continued.
“I’m sure nearly everyone here was changed by one of Maxine’s books. Did anyone here, like me, become a writer because you were inspired by a Book Witch story? Raise your hand, please.”
Rainy was astonished when six hands shot up.
“Wow,” Jessa said. “Let’s try another. If you became a librarian or an English teacher because of the Book Witch series…please raise your hand.”
Fifty hands or more shot into the air. Rainy gasped softly to herself.
“Amazing,” Jessa breathed. “Okay, hands down. Let’s do one more. And let’s get loud. If you read a book you were too scared to read until Rainy March convinced you to try it…please stand up.”
Everyone, all three hundred or more people gathered in that library, stood. When everyone standing realized everyone else was standing, they all applauded, cheered, laughed.
Jessa gazed out onto the assembly and nodded her approval.
“I hope you’re seeing this, Maxine,” she said, glancing up to the heavens. “I hope you’re seeing this, Rainy.”
Rainy whispered, “I am.”
—
Jessa Charming finished her eulogy, and then Nancy Kendell returned to the podium.
“Thank you, Jessa. Now, before our last speaker, I have a special announcement. Before her passing, Maxine Blake and her husband, Anthony, began work on a very special project, called the Pilcrow House for Young Writers. Currently under construction, Pilcrow House will be a haven for underrepresented writers of fiction from diverse backgrounds to live and work in community. The residencies will range from one to six months, and all writers will receive full stipends to cover all living expenses. Pilcrow House will open to its first writers in May of 2026.”