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For my sweet dad
ONE
I must really love my job. There was no other explanation for my happy, hurried footsteps. I couldn’t wait to get to work.
I hadn’t been inside the most wonderful bookshop in the entire world for the last two weeks. Instead, I’d been with the most perfect man on the most perfect honeymoon. We’d seen more of Europe than I ever thought I’d see when I first moved to Scotland just over a year ago. Of course, I also hadn’t planned to meet Tom Shannon, Scottish pub owner, and then marry him. Sometimes, it’s all about the surprises. Maybe it’s always about surprises, but it takes a few big ones for us to notice. And, boy have there been some big surprises along the way. It’s been better than I could have ever anticipated.
I leapt off the bus and set out in a quick pace. But then I skidded to a stop and took a deep breath. I’d quit having moments of staggering awe, moments when I wondered if it was all really … well, real, a while ago. I had accepted that it was okay to be so happy, to be grateful for all the amazing moments that had happened since I’d answered an online ad about a job in an Edinburgh bookshop. Was I up for an adventure? A secretive sort of job in a bookshop with a coveted place behind a desk that had seen the likes of kings and queens? Oh, yes, it seemed I had been. And here I was.
As I stood there in Grassmarket, I looked toward the shop, The Cracked Spine. Nothing about its façade had changed since Tom and I had had our wedding inside. The awning above was still there, and I could see a couple stacks of books on the other side of the window. I’d put those stacks there, and I’d been the one to organize them. I always did the window displays, and this one had been about a color. None of the books in the window were part of our rare or valuable collections. They were used books, some of them I’d read, some I’d never heard of; only a few of them spoke to me. I’d used books with blue covers, and from this vantage point I thought the stacks were still exactly as I’d arranged. If that was the case, none of the books had sold, and though the shop seemed never to have any financial challenges, I decided I needed to redo the display, create something that would better sell a book or two. I could do that.
The owner of the shop and my boss, Edwin MacAlister, had plenty of money. There really was no need to worry about the financial future of the Cracked Spine, but, still, we were there to sell things.
The Tudors hated to be wrong, and therefore never were.
I blinked at the bookish voice. I looked around. It was a strange comment, coming to me from some place I didn’t understand.
The Tudors? The royals?
Had that really been my intuition speaking to me as it did sometimes, through the books I’d read? If so, I didn’t remember the book, and I didn’t have a sense that I needed to be listening to my intuition. All was well, or so I thought. Maybe someone had actually spoken to me, or I’d overheard the words.
I looked around. Nope, that didn’t seem likely.
I plunked my hands on my hips and looked toward the bookshop again. I didn’t know what exactly had just happened, but I didn’t dwell on it long.
My eyes scanned over to the bakery, its front window fogged around the perimeter from the early morning baking. I could imagine the delicious smells, and I decided to pick up breakfast. I didn’t know if everyone would be in this morning, but Rosie would be there, with Hector, the miniature Yorkie she cared for but was worshiped and waited on by all of us. A thrill zipped through me at the prospect of seeing them both.
Hamlet might have class, but he’d be in at some point, even if only for a little while. A student at the University of Edinburgh, he was a young man, and had become much like a younger brother to me now. He’d been gifted with an old soul and named appropriately. If reincarnation was a real thing, there was no doubt in my mind that Hamlet had hung out with Shakespeare himself, had probably given the old bard a run for his money, maybe even did some editing.
It was doubtful Edwin would be there. He didn’t come in as much as the rest of us, and since he’d started dating a restaurant owner from Ireland, Vanessa Morgan, he’d been around even less.
I decide to see who was inside the bookshop first, and then get breakfast accordingly.
I set out again, forgetting about the strange bookish voice and enjoying the temporarily clear skies above the lively morning crowd. Old Town Edinburgh and Grassmarket drew tourists from all over the world, and this morning the square seemed busier than usual. I was back to doing fine in my fog of happy. Until I ran into someone else who’d probably been enjoying her own version of a beautiful morning.
“Lass, watch where you’re goin’,” she said.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
The woman had dropped the books she’d been carrying. We both got to work picking them up.
Books, lots of books. I was curious about the titles, but we had too many to retrieve to take the time to look closely. There were no dustcovers, no protection on any of them, and the old, hard bindings all seemed to have damaged spines and worn corners. In all, we gathered thirteen well-worn books. It was quite a load.
“Can I help you carry these somewhere?” I said as I balanced five of the books on my hip.
My voice fell off as I looked at her. It couldn’t be possible. For an instant I wondered if I was looking at an older version of myself; had this person I was looking at traveled back through time just to give her younger self a stack of old books?
The woman might have been twenty years older than my thirty-one, but her hair was identical to mine, both the bright red color and the frizzy texture; it rained far too much in Scotland to worry about trying to tame it.
But the similarities went even further. Our blue eyes were the same tint of diluted sky, and we both had too many freckles.
“Goodness, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked, her accent as light at Edwin’s—or I’d just become so used to the range of accents that I no longer really noticed the lighter ones anymore. “If I’d had a daughter, I’d wonder if you were her.”
I smiled. “The resemblance is … uncanny. I’m Delaney Nichols.”
We both held too many books to shake hands.
“Mary Stewart,” the woman said with a nod. “At least we don’t have the same name. That would have been quite the conundrum.”
“I agree.”
For a few seconds, we just looked at each other. There was no denying the resemblance, but we stared long enough that it was almost weird.
“Can I help you get these somewhere?” I said.
“I’m looking for a bookshop. I was on my way to it.” She looked behind her, down the longer part of the Grassmarket square, the area toward Tom’s pub. The Cracked Spine was at the other end, along a shorter street.
“The Cracked Spine?” I said.
“Aye, that’s the one.” She smiled. “Do you know it?”
“In fact, I do. Come with me.”
Mary walked next
to me, and I wondered if we looked odd, the two of us, with matching flaming hair and freckled skin, both carrying books as we made our way toward the bookshop. At least I was in slacks and she was in a dress. Chances were that everyone was in their own world, but I couldn’t stop glancing over at her. She kept glancing at me too. We smiled curiously at each other.
The sign on the bookshop’s door had been turned to Open. I peered in through the window as I balanced the books and reached for the door handle. Rosie was at the front desk, and I was suddenly struck by two things: I was once again infused with excitement to be back, but even with only that brief look at my grandmotherly coworker, I knew something was wrong. Maybe something just wasn’t as right as it needed to be, but the pinch at the corners of Rosie’s eyes and mouth told me that at least something wasn’t normal. She was upset, but I’d have to wait until we were alone to ask for details. I pulled the door and the bell above jingled.
“Lass!” Rosie said as she smiled big and came around the desk. “Ye’re back!”
“Rosie, Hector.” I placed my stack of books on the table that held the blue-book window display. I wasn’t going to ignore Hector’s quick approach, no matter what else was going on. I picked up the small dog and let him whine happily at me as he licked my cheek. It was so good to see them that, momentarily, tears burned behind my eyes. As I still held onto Hector, Rosie and I hugged tightly.
“Hello there,” Rosie said to Mary when we disengaged. “Are ye a relative of our dear Delaney?”
“No,” Mary said.
“Rosie, this is Mary Stewart,” I said. “We ran into each other out in Grassmarket. She was looking for the bookshop. Mary, this is Rosie.”
“Aye?” Rosie said. “Nice tae meet ye. And the two of ye ken ye look alike?”
“Aye,” Mary said.
“Yes, we noticed.”
“Well, that’s … interesting.” She stared at Mary a moment and then turned back to me. “How was the honeymoon? Was it … romantic?”
“The most romantic,” I said with an exaggerated dreamy tone. But then I remembered we had a guest and cleared my throat.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Rosie said.
“Congratulations!” Mary said, still holding books and smiling at the happy reunion she witnessed.
“Thank you.” Reluctantly, I handed Hector back to Rosie and turned to Mary. “Here, let me take those. You were on your way here to see if we want to purchase the books?”
“I was.” She handed over her stack.
I carried the books to Rosie’s front desk and then retrieved the ones I’d brought in.
“You work here, and you just got married?” Mary said as she followed me.
“Yes, and yes.”
“You’re from America though? That’s what I’m hearing in your voice.”
“I am. I moved here a year ago for this job, and it looks like it all … stuck, I guess.” I smiled as I placed the second stack next to the first one on Rosie’s desk and put a hand on top. “Are you from around here?”
She hesitated a long beat before she answered. “Aye, in a way.”
“Born somewhere else?”
Mary smiled and lifted her eyebrows. “Many times.”
In matching perplexed, and frozen poses, Rosie and I looked at her and blinked.
Mary waved off her comment and laughed. “I was born in Scotland, but spent a lot of time in France.”
“Aye,” Rosie said doubtfully, still probably caught back at Mary’s strange comment.
I jumped in. “Is Hamlet here?”
“No, he’ll be in later today though,” Rosie said.
“Okay.” I turned back to Mary. “Well, tell me about the books. I’d love for Hamlet to see them too, but Rosie and I can take a look.”
“That’s lovely. Thank you,” Mary said. She glanced at the book on the top of the stack. “They’re not overly valuable, but I think they’re worth a little something. And they’re all about Elizabeth I.”
“Elizabeth I of England? Elizabeth Tudor?” I said.
“Aye,” Mary replied.
I listened for the bookish voice again. It didn’t speak, but I looked at the book under my hand. It was titled His Last Letter: Elizabeth I and the Earl of Leicester.
I would bet that the words I’d heard were inside this book. I must have read it at some point. I must have somehow seen Mary before I ran into her. My eyes could have skimmed over her and maybe even the spine of the book, so my subconscious could push it all to the surface. I had been in a haze of excitement and happiness, post-honeymoon bliss.
“Delaney?” Rosie said.
I looked at her and then at Mary. “Yes. Well, let’s have a look.”
All thirteen of the books had been published since 2000 and they were all in less than ideal shape. But there were people who might be interested in them. I had reshelved all the books in the shop, making specific sections. There were some Tudor shelves. I could easily make a subsection, a sub-shelf of books specifically about Elizabeth I. In fact, as I looked at the books Mary brought in, I wondered if I already had and just didn’t remember doing it. Surely, I had seen and read at least one of these at some point—I couldn’t let go of the voice. But things had been busy. The wedding … everything.
“I think we’d be interested,” I said. “I’d like Hamlet to price them. Would you like to leave them here or bring them back when he’s here?”
“No, no, I’ll leave them. Just let me know. I’m not selling them for the money. I just needed to clean off some shelves, make room for more, pass them onto other interested readers.” Mary smiled. “Anything will be fine.”
Even our smiles were similar.
“Do ye have time for a cuppa, some coffee?” Rosie asked.
She was curious about Mary. Though Rosie was generally welcoming to all our customers, it took someone special for her to offer refreshments.
“I would love some coffee,” Mary said.
“I’ll go,” I said, meaning I would step over to the other side, the dark side, where the attached building held our dingy kitchenette, a few offices, and the warehouse. It had been Edwin’s warehouse, the place he kept his assortment of collections, but it was mine now too. We shared equally when he was around, but when it was just me, it was all mine. It was the place that also held the desk that had been mentioned in the ad, the desk that had seen the likes of the kings and queens. Even on my honeymoon with the most amazing man, I’d missed that desk. I’d missed my job, my coworkers. I’d missed the warehouse.
“All right. Ta, lass,” Rosie said. She eyed Mary as if she was glad she was going to have her to herself for a few minutes.
I set off up this side of the stairs, and moved through the door separating the sides, opening it and then closing it behind me. We never left it open. The warehouse was no longer the secret it had been for decades, but we didn’t advertise its existence. The dark side wasn’t as cared for as the light side, and we didn’t want curious customers exploring on their own. It wasn’t well lit, and the stairs on this side weren’t swept often. The police knew about the warehouse, and my family had been given a tour. Tom and my landlords, Elias and Aggie, had seen it, but we didn’t broadcast the fact that there was a big room at the back of the building containing lots of stuff, at least a smattering of which were priceless items.
I’d become so accustomed to the cooler air on the dark side, the dusty smells, that I didn’t always notice them. But, today, after being gone for two weeks, they seemed obvious. I rubbed my hands over my arms and shivered once.
The bare lightbulb didn’t illuminate when I flipped the switch. I stood on the landing a long moment, flipping it up and down and looking perplexed up at the bulb. It hung from the high ceiling at the bottom of the stairs. A tall ladder would be needed to change it, and I wondered how long it had been out.
With only a few lines of natural light coming in through the dirty windows in the front and the one on the back wall, my eyes took a few seconds t
o adjust as I made my way down the stairs.
I bypassed the kitchenette and grabbed the keyring holding the oversize blue key from my pocket. With three adept turns to the left I unlocked the heavy, ornate, red door and pushed through.
Home. The warehouse. These lights came on when I flipped the switch. My desk and a worktable took up most of the middle of the space, shelves extended up all the way to short, wide windows at the top. These windows weren’t grimy and gave me great sunlight and moonlight when the clouds weren’t thick, and kept me semi-aware of the time of day.
Mostly, I did research, cleaning, archiving. But strange things had happened inside the warehouse too—not often enough to worry about, but I’d lived moments of confusion and wonder inside the small, jam-packed space. And, today, I sensed … something wasn’t right. Something was off about the whole day so far, Maybe this was just normal back-at-it anxiety.
I looked around more slowly and with some extra focus. It appeared that nothing had been disturbed in the last two weeks. The shelves were still loaded with books as well as all the items Edwin had collected over the years. My life and work had been interrupted by Nessie herself before the wedding and the two weeks away, but before all that had happened, I’d been researching the origin of three small tapestries. Edwin had thought they’d been in Queen Elizabeth I of England’s bedchambers.
The theme of the day was only continuing. I paid close attention, in case any of the bookish voices wanted to pipe up. They remained quiet.
The tapestries were on one of the shelves—I’d cleared off the shelf and placed each individual tapestry inside its own protective and chemical-free archive folder. I squinted toward them. They looked to still be there, undisturbed.
A cursory glance told me the desk and worktable were fine, and my chair seemed to be tucked in exactly as I’d left it. It took a second, slower inspection to notice what was different.
My desk wasn’t ever messy, but it usually had a few books or folders atop it. I’d left two books on a corner so I would remember to show them to Edwin when I returned. They weren’t valuable but were both written in the old Scottish language, Gaelic. I knew Vanessa was intrigued by everything Gaelic, and I thought she might enjoy them. A note had been placed on top of the books.
The Stolen Letter Page 1
