Chapter Ten
CHAPTER
Ten
LOWELL SHARPE DOESN’T make a habit of checking on his enemies, lest someone accuse him of paranoia or mischief.
But he’s also not in the habit of waiting by the phone for his enemies to hand over their bookshops.
So on the third day after his offer, he leaves his shop in the careful hands of his assistant, and takes a stroll into central London.
It’s a grey, ominous day, but even when the clouds finally break, Lowell remains at a leisurely walk, letting rain darken his already dark suit. It simply wouldn’t do, after all, to look as though he’s hurrying.
When he reaches the street, the bookshop looks mostly the same, if perhaps even shabbier. The only change is the shutters on the right-hand side, which someone has obviously tried to shut, and then given up halfway when it became clear just how long it’s been since someone has oiled the hinges.
Despite himself, Lowell walks up the steps to the front door, ready to push it open—
And finds the door unyielding against his hand. A hasty note has been scrawled and taped to the nearest window, stark white against the grimed glass. Lowell scans it once, then turns on his heel and walks away, back into the downpour.
A very observant passer-by might notice the quick upturn of his lips, the self-satisfied arch of an eyebrow. Closed, indeed.
And yet the day after, the phone fails to ring.
Three days later—nearly an entire week, wasted—he finds himself taking yet another, slightly less casual walk along the riverbank. Instead, his pace quickens.
He made a compelling argument: the bookshop cannot remain in the hands of an amateur.
He still has no idea how Cassandra Fairfax knew Chiron, or how she’d conned her way into his confidences.
What a strange, scruffy creature she’d been, drenched as though she’d hauled herself out of the river specifically to usurp him.
Icy blonde hair hewn at her chin, with dark roots already peeking through; smooth, uncalloused hands that have so clearly never done a day’s work in a bookshop—or anywhere else, for that matter; the evident panic in her face, before she’d disguised it.
How utterly out of place she was. How unlike Chiron, in every possible way.
And yet those quick blue eyes had been everywhere, unnerving.
She’d put up more of a fight than he’d anticipated. But she’s as amateur as they come, and both of them know it.
Therefore, the only logical thing is for his damned phone to ring.
When he reaches the bookshop, he has to pause to catch his breath.
It gives him a full moment to realise that this is not the dilapidated bookshop that he passed only a few days ago.
It’s the same shop, of course, but there are certain changes.
The shutters gleam with new paint. There is a new layer of black varnish on the rails.
Even the windows have lost their wax-like impenetrability.
The very air around the shop seems to glitter with swept-away dust.
As Lowell takes this in, it slowly dawns on him that he’s not the only one eyeing the bookshop curiously. A few others have gathered, mostly with the same kind of half-longing and surprise on their faces that he recognises from his own customers.
If only they knew how truly wondrous this moment is. The bookshop is making itself known, deliberately taking up space on this dank, uninspiring street. The bookshop is looking for business. And if it’s actively seeking customers, then—
Lowell takes the stairs to the bookshop two at a time, unable to pretend a lack of concern anymore. He doesn’t open the door; he doesn’t need to. For there is a new note taped to the window.
Lowell reads it twice. He must be mistaken. Surely she wouldn’t.
Wanted: assistant bookseller.
Assistant.
Lowell Sharpe is not prone to outright anger; he’s spent years mastering his patience, so any remnants of bad temper have long been buried. But today he has strayed beyond the boundaries of irritation and into fury.
Cassandra Fairfax thinks she can be an owner with some spring cleaning and a bookseller at her hands. Never mind that she doesn’t know the first thing about running a bookshop tied to the river. Never mind that she is masquerading ownership, when the letter is his. The bookshop should be his.
If Cassandra Fairfax wants to keep what isn’t hers, then she can try.
But she will fail.