Chapter Seventeen #2
The first few books go quickly, amidst a babble of called-out numbers and glares levelled at the inevitable winner.
Otherwise, the auction is surprisingly quiet, save for the rustle of people shifting in their seats.
Despite her insistence on remaining an observer, she finds herself appraising each lot with increasing interest, to the point where she clutches the edge of her chair to stop herself from raising her hand to place a bid.
Most of the books are pushed to a price beyond their value, but there are a few steals that she semi-regretfully lets go uncontested.
Then the auctioneer brings out the next book and Cassandra realises that the others must have been a warm-up act.
Because if the room was quiet before, now it’s pin-drop silent.
She leans forward just enough to catch the edge of the cover, before a tall bookseller tilts their head, obstructing her view.
Numbers are barked, first in quick succession and then slower as they rise. One by one, people drop out of bidding. The owners’ mouths tighten, their gazes daggers at one another. The price’s ascent grows sluggish.
Then a voice cuts across the silence, calling out an absurd figure. Absurd—except for the way it’s spoken, assured to the point of arrogance, as though he already knows the outcome.
Lowell Sharpe.
Every owner’s glare snaps to him. The auctioneer hesitates over the gavel, waiting for a counter-offer. But even Cassandra knows that Lowell’s overpaid. The gavel strikes down, and Lowell nods fractionally at his glowering competitors.
After that, the auction picks up pace again, but the spell is broken. Booksellers get out of their seats, stretch, wander away and return with cocktails in unusually shaped glasses. Cassandra finds herself on the edge of a conversation, drawn in simply by her proximity.
One of them—the tall bookseller who had blocked her view—asks for her name. Caught off guard, she almost says Cass Holt. But halfway through, her brain catches up to her, and if the booksellers wonder why she stumbles over what should be a certainty, then they don’t mention it.
“That’s a tad on the nose, isn’t it?” When Cassandra murmurs something noncommittal about classics, he continues, “Well, I suppose we’re all Fate’s stooges anyway. At least we’re delightful stooges.”
Someone else cuts in. “Most of us.”
They all exchange meaningful glances. And even though it could be anyone, Cassandra has a fairly good idea of who they’re talking about.
“Lowell Sharpe,” she guesses.
“Ah, I see you’ve met Lowell already.” The tall bookseller rolls his eyes. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Sharpe.”
“So he’s always like that, then. Like…”
She pauses, trying to come up with a description that’s not an outright insult. But the tall bookseller beats her to it.
“Like he has a rulebook shoved up his ass?”
“How could we not match up to the great Lowell Sharpe?” another says bitterly. “Forgive him for our sins.”
“Yes, God help us all for not adhering to his astronomical standards.”
Behind her, she hears a cough. Even before she turns around, she knows who it is. Her heart plummets.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” Lowell says. He tilts his head in Cassandra’s direction. “Fairfax.”
Oh bloody hell.
“Wait—” she says.
But the tall bookseller pulls her back, away from him. “He’s not worth your energy, Cassandra. Trust me on this.”
Another one leans in closer, as though disclosing secrets to a confidante. “We’ve all extended the hand of friendship and been bitten for our troubles.”
“Totally rabid. It’s a shame he’s so terribly handsome.”
Cassandra at least has the presence of mind not to say, handsome? Oh, I hadn’t noticed. Someone starts to recount another story about Lowell, and she half-listens, while the rest of her stares at the space where he’d been. Trust Lowell Sharpe to make so few friends and inspire so many enemies.
She looks up at the booksellers. “Excuse me.”
Then she half-walks, half-runs towards the stair landing and Lowell’s retreating figure. He moves surprisingly quickly, and by the time she catches up to him, she’s slightly out of breath.
“The owners’ lounge is behind you,” he says drily.
“Lowell—” she starts.
“It’s fine.” His eyes flick to the group lingering in the hallway, who aren’t even pretending not to gawk. “They can think of me what they will.” He adjusts his cuffs. “As may you.”
Her gaze follows his movement, and she notices that Lowell is as dressed up as the rest of them, if more subtly.
His suit and waistcoat are all shades of grey, but each tailored immaculately, so that the overall look is one of elegant precision.
And his shirt is a soft charcoal, the collar crisp against his throat. Not a single thread out of place.
She swallows. “Glad I have your permission.”
“Anyway, I’m pleased you’re here. I wanted to apologise,” he says, more stiffly. “For my behaviour at the Templeton estate.”
Cassandra can feel the ghost of her anger burning inside her. “For what, exactly? The part where you called me a wholly unsuitable bookseller, or—”
“I had no right to say you had no notion of tragedy,” he says.
Cassandra stops short. Lowell’s hands are suddenly deep in his pockets, his gaze on a spot somewhere behind Cassandra’s left ear.
He hesitates. “We all carry things inside us which we’d rather not share with the world.”
Suddenly, she recalls the way he’d looked in the bookshop, with his mussed hair and rolled-up sleeves. That version of Lowell had looked… not broken, but human. Breakable.
“I won’t apologise for anything else, you understand,” he says, his sharp tone returning. “I stand by what I said. We don’t run normal bookshops. We are custodians, and our skills, our judgement is all that stands between a reader and disaster. But that comment… was uncalled for.”
Cassandra considers her reply. “It’s still my bookshop, so you can think of me what you will.”
He raises his eyebrow. “Touché.”
Silence shoulders in between them. Lowell’s apology plays itself in Cassandra’s head, rewinds, plays again.
“Well, enjoy your evening,” he says. “I hear they’ve blown their budget on the expensive champagne this time.”
He starts to walk away. But she has the odd sensation of being asked a question, without any words at all.
“Lowell,” she calls after him.
He pauses on the last step. Even from here, she can see that his shoulders are tense, his posture rigid.
She doesn’t particularly care about Lowell’s feelings, but there is something maddening about his determination to let the whole world hate him.
She feels… bested. As though this has been his intention the entire time.
“Do you ever consider that sometimes you’re wrong?” she says. “About a person?”
“I’m never wrong.” His gaze catches on hers. “But sometimes I would very much like to be so, Cassandra.”
He turns back down the stairs.
“Liar,” she says, too quietly for him to hear.
Only later does it occur to her that this is the first time he has ever called her by her first name.