As she moved away to reposition her camera, Tommy dutifully gazed through the window. The storm had passed; only a few flakes still fell upon the dense mantle of snow outside the door.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” she said. “You told me you’re going to sell this edition of Moby Dick for as much money as possible. What do you need the money for? Are you in trouble?”
“Nothing like that.” He paused and realized he did want to tell her. They’d talked about everything else under the sun, why not the dream that lit up his soul? It might be a relief to share it with someone else, and there was no better person to do that with than Imogen. “Though I do have aspirations beyond my work at the bookshop. I love being surrounded by books all day, but I don’t like that we only serve a small portion of the populace. Too many people cannot afford to purchase books, so something needs to change.”
“Isn’t that the role of libraries? The new Central Library has become quite popular.”
“Yes, it is. Carnegie’s generous grants for public libraries have been transformative, but I don’t think his model is enough.”
“Why not?”
“Large branches serve the masses, but too many communities are overlooked. I grew up surrounded by hardworking immigrants who rarely had time to rest, let alone travel downtown to visit the library. Don’t they also deserve the comfort of a good book? And what if they could read stories in their own language in addition to English?”
“The library has some translations in French and Spanish, if I’m not mistaken.”
“A good starting point, but what about my Norwegian family members? Our Italian, Japanese, Chinese neighbors? The poor communities—so often our immigrant communities—are always served last. I want to change that.”
“But how?”
“By opening a series of reading rooms and book deposits across the city. The more underserved the area, the better.”
“That’s a splendid idea.” Her voice rose with excitement. “You should request a meeting with Mr. Jennings. He’s the head librarian at the Central Library and a friend of my father’s. I’ve heard him speak of his expansion plans, so perhaps you’d work well together.”
His palms itched at the thought of working with anyone else. He worked alone. Always had, always would. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
“Tommy, you are capable of many things, but there’s a lot of training and money needed to do that on your own.”
“Precisely. That’s why I took the University of Washington’s summer library training course.”
There was a shuffle behind him, and then her hand was on his elbow. “And the funds?”
He met her gaze unflinchingly. “I think you know.”
She let out a breath. “How can you reconcile being both a bookseller and a book thief?”
He shrugged. “Stealing books is a means to an end. I’d steal diamonds, but I know nothing about them, nor anyone who would buy them. I do, however, know book collectors. My job has introduced me to dozens over the years, many of whom don’t appreciate what they have. There was a particular buyer, Mr. Hughes, who came from London. He ordered a slew of beautiful, rare books to take back to Europe. Each time a book would arrive, he’d give it a cursory check and then cram it in his satchel to take home. It drove me mad. His one redeeming quality was that he always paid in advance.
“One day, he didn’t come to collect. I went looking for him and discovered he had died. To my surprise, the book remained unclaimed a month later. I decided to resell it under the guise that Mr. Hughes needed money to return to England. Not only did offers pour in, but not a single person questioned my ruse. That’s when I realized the opportunity lying beneath my nose. With Mr. Hughes back in England, so to speak, I could continue to sell stolen books in his name. Who would bother to interact with a man an ocean away when his intermediary was right there in Seattle? My ruse has worked time and again, and I’ve saved every penny. The sale of this book—” he jerked his chin toward the oilcloth, “—means I can finally begin. Mr. Hughes might be dead, but he’s very much alive for the purposes of my business.”
Imogen’s nails drove into his forearm. “What if you’re caught? You could be jailed. You could lose everything. And I—” She swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I could bear it.”
“That won’t happen,” he said fiercely. “I’m very, very good.”
“I have no doubt you are the most meticulous thief to ever exist, but I will always worry over you.”
He cupped her cheek and stroked her downy skin with his thumb. “No need to waste your worries on me.”
Her back stiffened and she vigorously shook her head. “Why would you say such?—”
“What about your photograph?” he interrupted pointedly.
She scowled and looked away. “I took it while you were talking.”
“I see.” He tugged her into his arms, determined to soothe the rigidness from her limbs in the only way he knew how. Words had done enough damage for one day. He stroked her back and waited patiently. Soon, her body grew pliant against his. They stood still, and he savored the quietude, the gentle rise and fall of her breath on his neck. They didn’t have many moments like this left. She stirred a moment later, and he reluctantly let her go.
“Thank you for telling me your secret. I know it was difficult.” She drew a breath. “And since you were so forthcoming with me, I’d like to share a secret as well.”
“You can tell me anything.”
