Chapter Fourteen #2
“Actually,” he says, “you’ll find that we’re choosing not to bring a charge of theft.”
Despite the reading’s ordeal, there must still be some blood circulating in George Templeton because he flushes. “How dare you insinuate that—”
Lowell tilts his glasses downwards, and even though he and George are the same height, Lowell suddenly seems to tower over the other man.
“You stole the book. You betrayed the trust of the bookshop. It was not yours, and now, it will never be.”
The river remembers its own, Cassandra thinks.
And it remembers its thieves, too. For the Templetons, it probably means they’ll never step foot in a tributary bookshop again.
But then again, Cassandra seems to have slipped through its fingers just fine.
Bookseller and thief. Even without the scales in front of her, she knows which side would weigh heaviest.
Lowell glances at the Templetons dismissively, who collectively flinch. “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but frankly, it has not. So you’ll forgive me if I take my leave.” He pauses at the door. “With my book.”
Cassandra follows him down the driveway, relief lightening her steps. Now that the reading has dissipated, the driveway is just a normal gravel path, lined with prim hedgerows.
“Reckon the Templetons will try again?” she asks.
“I think if they do, the bookshop will deal with them accordingly.” Lowell pauses. “You handled yourself decently in there.”
“A compliment? I may swoon,” she says drily.
But Lowell’s frown returns. “Aloysius should have known. I should have known. That could have been so much worse. They have no idea how lucky they are.”
If Lowell hadn’t spotted the missing book in his ledger, if he hadn’t pieced together its absence with the irate Templetons, Cassandra has no doubt the house would have crumbled in on its inhabitants within a few weeks. They would have died where they fell, none the wiser for their greed.
The reading, swallowing the reader.
“Now you understand why a bookshop in inexperienced hands is so dangerous,” Lowell says. “So why do you continue to court tragedy with your mismanagement?”
Cassandra’s good mood evaporates instantly. “I thought we were over this—”
“Why did you think I brought you here?” he demands. “To play hero?”
“Well, it sure wasn’t for the delightful company,” she says flatly.
How foolish of her to think that Lowell would let this go. That he would ask for her support because he believed—however reluctantly—that she was an owner, like him. That she would be respected.
“This isn’t a game,” he says. “One day you will be in the same situation, and you will fail. What happens then?”
A slow, burning fury is working its way upwards through her skin. She’s an inch from saying something she’ll regret.
“Paris, 1908,” he says. “A tributary bookshop exploded and forty-seven people died. The reason? Poor ownership and waylaid stock. Frankfurt, 1888. A book went around the fair for three weeks, killing everyone who touched it because an owner sold it to a malicious reader. Bologna, 1741. Two hundred and twelve children—”
“Enough,” Cassandra says sharply.
“Actions have consequences, Ms. Fairfax. I’m simply stating a fact.”
Don’t say anything. But her mouth is open, words already formed. “Ah yes, a warning from the great Lowell Sharpe. God forbid you say nothing at all and risk tragedy in someone else’s bookshop. Never mind your own intentions.”
“You have no notion of tragedy,” he hisses. “None at all. And I—”
Fury turns to ice in her veins.
“How dare you,” she says quietly. “How dare you speak to me about tragedy. You have no idea.”
Blood and ink flash in her vision.
Something must show in her face because Lowell takes an unnerved step back. And he should. Let him be afraid of her.
“Don’t be so quick to offer me ‘advice’ again, Mr. Sharpe. And let’s get one thing clear. As long as I’m owner, you will never set foot in Chiron’s bookshop.”
Letters from Sister Wulfrun of Whitby Abbey: 867–870
Sister Hilda,
I write to you with poor news on the horizon. The Danes have raised their sails, and our coastline once more bears their scars. I send this missive to you as I do to our fellow sisters of fortune in Bolton, Knaresbor… [Paw prints obscure the rest—some cat has stepped in ink, clearly.]
We received the first intake of sisters late last week.
The stories they bring are… troubling. They tell us the armies are men breaking upon men, relentless as the tides.
They have made graves out of muddy fields, and are now inching soldiers over the border.
Across the sea, to your coastal haven, is the next step.
You have been my steadfast ally, fiercer than the knights who have failed to come to our aid.
But now, you must choose yourself over your manuscripts.
They are but little warps in the weft of time, when all is considered.
You may court the king himself with them, but where is he now?
On the battlefield, and heedless of your plight.
[The bookshop must come first—origination?]
Hilda,
The river will look after itself. I am begging you.
Sister Hilda,
Even from here, the smoke on the horizon is a poison laced through the sky. Though we have not yet received word, the abbey is gone.
How, you ask, am I so certain of its fate?
Last night, I lay awake long after compline and some time before vigil prayers.
Then, I heard the grinding of rock, the shunting of the earth to make way for a new door.
The repository has found a new home beneath my feet.
Too late, Lady Fortune has roused herself.
I write this letter to a dead woman.
Sister Hilda,
Near two years have gone by since we laid you to rest; yet still I write.
I understand what comes, now. The personal magics, the illuminated manuscripts, the whisper of story and power and threat.
We are once more courted by our noble brethren.
But the heart-book hums. There is… temptation.
To reverse injustices, to rewrite impending disasters.
To take the neck of Time and throttle her so that she may do no more damage.
Sister Hilda, give me strength.
[Time as a woman—Wulfrun referring to Lady Fate? Temptation—the compendium? Next steps: letters 871–895…]