The Bookshop Below

Prologue

IT IS NOT an easy thing to slip a knife between a man’s ribs. So the hand that wields the blade has been practising.

They have practised, too, infiltrating the bookshop, quieting its magic with an ink-black tongue—because it really is ink that stains their mouth—and creeping up the staircase that could so easily betray them with its protest of groans.

By comparison, the murder itself is tragically straightforward.

The owner of the bookshop is sleeping in an armchair, his body open in the looseness of slumber. If anyone was observing, they might believe he has no notion of what’s coming next, and indeed he doesn’t stir as the murderer approaches.

The knife flashes, twists, releases.

The owner gives a terrible cry and tries to rise, but his murderer gently forces him back down. If there was ever a time to call for help, it was when the murderer was casing out the bookshop weeks ago. Now, it is far, far too late.

Still, the owner grips the armrests for one more attempt at strength.

With a laboured breath, he gasps a question.

Not who are you? or why are you doing this to me?

or even how did you get in?, though they are all valid concerns.

He knows the answer to two of them, and he thinks he knows the answer to all three—although on this last point, he’s woefully wrong.

“How did you find out?”

With every exhalation, a little more blood soaks into the chair.

The murderer tilts their head, and steps outside the crimson ring now seeping over the floorboards.

The owner clutches his side and hisses, but it’s a feeble motion.

His grip is slackening, the pain travelling to a distant place in his mind.

“How?” he says again, and this time it’s a sigh.

“Lady Fate always finds out in the end.”

The murderer waits until the owner’s breaths still, before tucking the knife away. For a murder, there is little fanfare; the work is done, they think.

Down in the bookshop, there is a whisper.