The Library of Lost and Found(12)

“And I need to ask you for another favor,” Lilian added.

“Yes?” Martha said. She fumbled in her bag for her notepad and pen and flipped to her current task list. “What is it?”

“Will you look after the kids the weekend after next? I need to, um, work away.”

“I bet it’s at a posh spa,” Will quipped.

Lilian fixed him with a brief stare, then found a smile for Martha. “I have a few things to sort out. Can we make it an overnighter?”

Martha wrote this down and thought about it. Now that they were getting older, Will and Rose hadn’t slept at the house for a couple of years. Her parents’ old bedroom was full of bags and boxes. “I’m happy to have them during the day, but there’s not enough space for them to—”

“Great,” Lilian interjected. “Thanks, Martha. Now, let’s grab that dessert.”

Martha’s mind ticked between her two options. She was here now, but Chamberlain’s closed in a few minutes. She placed her notepad in her handbag and fastened the zip. Lilian’s eyes still looked tense, but it could be because of the pollen. “The restaurant looks lovely, but perhaps some other time…”

A veil seemed to slip across Lilian’s features. She wrapped her arms around Will’s and Rose’s shoulders. “You seem to remember our grandmother as some kind of fairy godmother figure,” she said sharply. “It really wasn’t the case.”

Martha’s mouth fell open a little. “Zelda was wonderful. She was bright and fun, and always…”

Lilian shook her head. “Sometimes, Martha,” she said as she placed her hand against the restaurant door. “It’s easy to remember things differently to how they actually were.”



* * *



Martha could hear faint electronic tunes from the amusement arcades on the seafront, but the street where Chamberlain’s Pre-Loved and Antiquarian Books was located was quiet, except for two seagulls cawing and flapping over a dropped bag of chips.

Suki said the bookshop was new, but the shade of the duck egg–blue paint coating the window frames and door, and the semicircle of silver lettering embossed on the large windowpane made it look a couple of centuries old.

Flustered after her uncomfortable discussion with Lilian, Martha struggled to regulate her breathing. Her chest felt tight again and she gave it a rub. There was something about the flicker in her sister’s eyes that made her question her decision to come here.

Even though Lilian was the younger sister, she’d always taken the lead. When she first arrived home from the hospital, as a plum-faced newborn, she had assumed control. She would sleep and eat when she wanted, and the rest of the family had to fit their lives around her.

Thomas loved his new daughter. He cooed at her and puffed out his chest when he pushed Lilian in the pram, showing her off to friends and neighbors. He didn’t allow any of the fun toys that Zelda bought inside her cot.

Martha could admit that, with her icy-blond hair and blue eyes, her sister was a beautiful child. However, her father’s devoted attention to her made Martha feel like the ugly sister in comparison.

As she stood in front of the shop door, she lifted her chin. There were only a couple of minutes left until closing time and she had to follow her instincts. Twisting the brass knob, she opened the door.

A brass bell rang and she felt a little otherworldly as she inhaled the heady aroma of leather, cardboard and ink. Her eyes widened at the sight of the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, some worn and some like new.

Her forehead crinkled a little with disapproval as she spotted a screwed-up tissue and a felt-tip pen without its lid on the desk. There was a small heap of sweet wrappers, several key rings and a plastic pug dog with a nodding head. Her own house might be busy, but this shop looked disorganized, in need of a good system.

A long wooden ladder, leaning against a bookshelf, stretched from the floor and rose upward as far as Martha could see. There was a pair of legs, with feet facing her, clad in monogrammed red slippers. The toes wriggled as if their owner was listening to music that nobody else could hear. The ladder rungs creaked and bowed as the legs climbed down.

The red slipper–wearer was tall with a circular face. His sandy hair was pushed back off his forehead and streaked white around the temples. A red silk scarf framed his open-neck black shirt and his gray suit fitted loosely over his large rounded chest. He wore four colorful pin badges. One featured an illustration of a book, and another said, “Booksellers—great between the sheets.” Martha noticed that his hand was large enough to hold several books in its span and that he had a smear of ink on his cheek.

Martha tapped her own face. “You have a smudge.”

“Oh.” The man put down his books and lifted his scarf. He used it to rub his face. “I keep finding bruises in strange places, but it’s ink from the books and newspapers. There,” he said triumphantly. “Is that better?”

Martha stared at his cheek, which was now denim blue. “You may need a mirror.”

“I don’t think I have one.”

Taking the battered book from her bag, Martha searched for a spare space on the countertop. “I think you might have left this for me?”

“Ah, you must be Martha?” Owen smiled and held out his hand.