That crushing sensation receded, mostly.
“It was you, more than anybody. You saved my life in a way I can’t properly put into words. I found . . .” Viv stared away and through the walls. Fern knew that if all the stones were peeled away, she’d find Tandri at the end of that gaze. “I found things I didn’t think were even possible.”
They looked at each other with the red book held like a remembrance between them.
“Well,” said Fern, with a comic shrug, “now I guess you have a chance to return the favor.”
“If you need saving, then that’s what we’re going to do,” said Viv. She shelvedTen Links in the Chaindecisively.
She hadn’t meant to, but after discovering Viv’s change of fate, Fern had buried a call for help in that first letter she’d sent, and not particularly deep.
The lines still burned in her memory.
I’d love to say that my life has been perfect, that I’ve seized every moment, that after you left there were no struggles or doubts, but that wouldn’t be true. It has been satisfactory, though. There have been many good days.
Doing her best to chase any bitterness out of her laughter, Fern said, “You already did that once. Twice in a lifetime is asking too much.”
“I don’t see any reason to keep a tally if you don’t.” Viv regarded Fern with a gaze much more perceptive than it had been a few decades prior. Then she sniffed and scrubbed a forearm across her eyes. “Hells. Lot of dust in these crates. Let’s shelve some fuckingbooks.”
“Let’s shelve some fucking books,” replied Fern, relieved.
Hours later, with the shelves stocked, and the crates hauled to the alley, they leaned side by side against the gleaming counter that Cal had built.
Fern felt . . . fine. Maybe even good.
Viv looked down at her from a familiar great height. “So, whatever happened to Satchel?”
Fern smiled wistfully at the thought of the surpassingly polite homunculus made of bone and blue fire.
“Gods, I wish I knew. But I like to think he saw all the things he wanted to.”
In the end, Fern named the shop Thistleburr Booksellers in honor of the place her father had built and raised her in, what seemed a thousand leagues to the west and as many years ago. Besides, she couldn’t think of a better name that fit, and it was . . . comfortable.
As Viv pointed out, there wasn’t likely to be any confusion.
Cal had chiseled the letters deep in a broad oak plank and carved the edges into fancy scallops. Fern had painted the name white with a small brush and a careful hand. Viv had barely stretched to peg it above the freshly scrubbed entryway.
It was the last thing slotted into place before opening day arrived.
Fern stood just inside the door with a single paw resting on the handle. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and held it.
The shelves were stocked. The appointments sparkled. The spice of ink and paper enticed.
A veritable tower of Thimble’s baked treats steamed and gleamed atop a round table in the center of the shop, beside carafes of coffee and tea and clusters of mugs.
Tandri’s chalk artwork proclaimed Opening Day Sale, 5 bits off! from a sandwich board. Fern was reminded of a similar effort by Satchel many years past, rendered in his precise, mathematical hand.
The echoes of that event swelled inside her, painting the inside of her lids until she half believed she’d open them to find herself twenty summers younger and staring into the homunculus’s blazing blue eyes.
Then a warm hand fell on Fern’s shoulder, heavy and strong, to deliver a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be fine,” said Viv. “Better than.”
Breathing out, Fern glanced up with a smile. “I’ve owned a bookstore for twenty-five years. I should be used to a feeling of impending disaster by now, right?”
“Twenty-five years, and no disaster yet. Doesn’t seem like a real reliable feeling, does it?” Viv returned the smile.
Fern blinked. “That’s an annoyingly logical observation.”
They both started at a sudden rap on the door, and after an embarrassing series of fumbles with the latch, Fern pushed it open a few inches.
