lover’s dream. It was the epitome of the antiquarian book collector’s world, and was tucked away on 16 St. Edward’s Passage. The shop’s wood storefront was painted blue, making it stand out from the stores around it, like a welcoming little cottage. The name “G. David” had appeared in white, creating a sharp contrast against the blue wood and white brick of the storefront of the building.
Much of the shop was full of the standard sort of used books. Kat meandered through the aisles, her shoulders brushing against the thickly stacked shelves containing hundreds of musty- smelling paperbacks. Some of the pages were yellowed with age and their covers faded. Unable to resist, she trailed a fingertip over their sun-warmed spines, idly reading the titles. A thousand stories hummed from the pages, whispering to her of heroes long gone, and tales of love that spanned centuries.
I could spend my life wandering through this shop, glimpsing worlds through the windows of these books.
She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered telling Tristan about Jules Verne and why she liked his stories. The fantastical adventures were addictive, almost as much as kissing him.
She jerked to a halt and shook her head a little, trying to clear it.
Stop thinking about him. The way he smelled of winter and spice, how his warm breath fanned over her face as he panted to regain his breath, and how that had sent shivers of excitement through her.
Glancing about, she looked for the sign pointing to the rare-book room. Once there, she paused in the doorway. Rows of gilded spines glinted beneath the soft lights overhead. Each one seemed to whisper secrets from the stories they held. Bookstores were holy to Kat. They offered adventure and the truth of the human soul, both dark and light.
Goose bumps covered her arms as she touched the spines nearest her, tracing the gilt letters of the titles. Some of the sturdier editions weren’t protected by glass casing. The musty scent that clung to the air brought back old memories of her father’s library. Her mother hadn’t been one for reading. It was her father’s lap she’d climbed onto for a story. As she’d gotten a little older, he’d perched on the edge of her bed and read her tales until her eyes had drifted shut and she’d slipped into dreams filled with dragons, warriors, and magic.
Homesickness swamped her, and her throat constricted. She hadn’t thought of those days in a long time. The days before she and her father had become nomads. He couldn’t bear to stay in one place too long, as the sense of missing something grew stronger over time. Her father used to come into the kitchen and pause, stare at the stove, then, with a sigh, reach for a pot to make dinner.
Cooking had been the one thing her mother had enjoyed. Before she’d left, the stove had always had something good-smelling on the cooktop. After the divorce, the house seemed to be gripped with a gaping void. An emptiness tempered by a quiet sense of grief was embedded in the very brick and wood of the house itself.
Her mother was still very much alive somewhere far away from them, and her leaving had felt like a death, in a way. It was hard to explain, but the pain Kat felt when she thought about her mother was still fresh.
“Hello, can I help you find anything in particular?” A female clerk’s voice jerked Kat out of her thoughts. The woman stood at the opposite end of the room, by a narrow wooden door labeled “storage.” In her late forties, she had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and a hint of gray in her hair.
She gently dusted the tops of books with a flat paintbrush as she slowly made her way down the nearest shelf toward Kat. It was a sight Kat was used to in old bookstores. Paintbrushes were an ideal dusting tool for books.
“Actually—” Kat shifted her backpack and took a step into the rare book room. “I heard you have a buyer for the first edition of The Mysterious Island by Jules
Much of the shop was full of the standard sort of used books. Kat meandered through the aisles, her shoulders brushing against the thickly stacked shelves containing hundreds of musty- smelling paperbacks. Some of the pages were yellowed with age and their covers faded. Unable to resist, she trailed a fingertip over their sun-warmed spines, idly reading the titles. A thousand stories hummed from the pages, whispering to her of heroes long gone, and tales of love that spanned centuries.
I could spend my life wandering through this shop, glimpsing worlds through the windows of these books.
She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered telling Tristan about Jules Verne and why she liked his stories. The fantastical adventures were addictive, almost as much as kissing him.
She jerked to a halt and shook her head a little, trying to clear it.
Stop thinking about him. The way he smelled of winter and spice, how his warm breath fanned over her face as he panted to regain his breath, and how that had sent shivers of excitement through her.
Glancing about, she looked for the sign pointing to the rare-book room. Once there, she paused in the doorway. Rows of gilded spines glinted beneath the soft lights overhead. Each one seemed to whisper secrets from the stories they held. Bookstores were holy to Kat. They offered adventure and the truth of the human soul, both dark and light.
Goose bumps covered her arms as she touched the spines nearest her, tracing the gilt letters of the titles. Some of the sturdier editions weren’t protected by glass casing. The musty scent that clung to the air brought back old memories of her father’s library. Her mother hadn’t been one for reading. It was her father’s lap she’d climbed onto for a story. As she’d gotten a little older, he’d perched on the edge of her bed and read her tales until her eyes had drifted shut and she’d slipped into dreams filled with dragons, warriors, and magic.
Homesickness swamped her, and her throat constricted. She hadn’t thought of those days in a long time. The days before she and her father had become nomads. He couldn’t bear to stay in one place too long, as the sense of missing something grew stronger over time. Her father used to come into the kitchen and pause, stare at the stove, then, with a sigh, reach for a pot to make dinner.
Cooking had been the one thing her mother had enjoyed. Before she’d left, the stove had always had something good-smelling on the cooktop. After the divorce, the house seemed to be gripped with a gaping void. An emptiness tempered by a quiet sense of grief was embedded in the very brick and wood of the house itself.
Her mother was still very much alive somewhere far away from them, and her leaving had felt like a death, in a way. It was hard to explain, but the pain Kat felt when she thought about her mother was still fresh.
“Hello, can I help you find anything in particular?” A female clerk’s voice jerked Kat out of her thoughts. The woman stood at the opposite end of the room, by a narrow wooden door labeled “storage.” In her late forties, she had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and a hint of gray in her hair.
She gently dusted the tops of books with a flat paintbrush as she slowly made her way down the nearest shelf toward Kat. It was a sight Kat was used to in old bookstores. Paintbrushes were an ideal dusting tool for books.
“Actually—” Kat shifted her backpack and took a step into the rare book room. “I heard you have a buyer for the first edition of The Mysterious Island by Jules
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