“I left my charcoals in Seb’s apartment. I need them for class tomorrow.”
A tiny ping of worry shivered down the back of Martin’s neck.
“I don’t think he’s home.” Despite the silent certainty that Seb, with his sly winks and his dominant stride through the stacks, might appear at any time, Martin hadn’t heard him at all that day. No muffled music. No creaking footsteps.
“It’s okay.” Cassidy fished around in the pockets of her coat. “I have a key.”
Now the worry ratcheted up another notch. Remembered voices hurled accusations at him. They said he should have done more, said more. Instead, he’d done nothing until it was too late. Panic was a vice that tightened at the bottom of his skull and forced him to think over what he really knew about Cassidy. She was seventeen, he was pretty sure, and she had the key to Seb’s apartment.
He followed helplessly as she made her way toward the back of the store.
“Maybe you should wait until he’s back?”
“It’s fine! I can’t stay long. I borrowed the car, but I have to pick my mom up from work at six.” Cassidy put the key in the lock and gave the door a push with her hip, like she knew exactly where it would stick, before she turned the key and the door popped open. Martin’s breath went shallow as he looked up the narrow, dimly lit staircase.
“Come see my work!” Cassidy set her foot on the bottom step, which popped as something shifted under her weight. She didn’t look back. Martin was left to watch as she turned at the narrow landing and disappeared. He hesitated. She was probably telling the truth. He was catastrophizing for no good reason. But the idea that she was there alone propelled him forward, up the enclosed space of the staircase.
As he reached the top, new scents replaced the bookshop’s overwhelming smell of dust and old wood. There was coffee and something faintly chemical. Dusty windows facing out over Seacroft’s main street let in thin rainy light.
A flash of color caught his eye. A hardcover book sat on a table below one window. The spine saidSongbirds of North America, but the cover had been carved away, revealing the menagerie underneath. Layer upon layer of birds took flight from the pages. Someone had painstakingly cut out the space around bird after bird, going down and down, page by page, so tiny beaks and bright feathers peeked out at him, one beneath the other. An entire flock, contained in a book that couldn’t be more than a few inches thick.
He was about to trail his finger over the bright crest of a cardinal, partially obscured by a dull brown bird, when Cassidy’s voice broke into his silent awe.
“Do you want to see?” She was at the far end of the room, holding a large tube of heavy paper. Her smile went a little shy, and his throat tightened at the reminder of how young she was.
Cassidy knelt to roll the paper out. It was long, and stiff and tried to curl up on itself.
“Can you pass me one of those?” She gestured to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf against the wall, and Martin obligingly pulled out a couple books. Like the book on the table, these were old and hardcover. He dropped them as he pulled them off the shelf, because they were significantly lighter than he’d expected.
“Cass?” a voice called, and Martin’s mouth went dry.
“Hi Seb! We’re upstairs!” Cassidy answered without any hesitation. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, like listening to Jack’s giant climb the beanstalk.
One of the books had flopped open when Martin dropped it, and he was momentarily distracted as the words on the page shifted. But the words weren’t moving; he was seeing several pages at once. He bent to lift the book, and the pages rolled as the spine shifted in his hands. Once again, he was struck by the sense that the book was lighter than it should be. The pages had been cut, but unlike the bird book on the table, this one had no images. Instead, small rectangular-shaped perforations dotted the lines of text so words on subsequent pages were visible. He turned the page, delicate as lace.
He flipped the cover shut. The title had been carved away, but the author’s name was left. Calvin Forrester.Martin turned through the first few pages again. The original book’s topic was nearly unintelligible with so few of the words remaining. How would Mr. Forrester feel?
“What are you doing?” Seb was standing surprisingly close.
“I was just—”
“How did you get in?”
“I was showing him my project.” Cassidy was still crouched on the floor.
“That’s not your project.” Seb’s cool eyes were on the book in Martin’s hand.
“She asked for something to weigh it down.”
“It’s not a paperweight.”
“No, I can see that,” Martin said as he bounced his hand up and down with the open book in it. The spiderwebbing of pages fluttered in the breeze. Seb’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared.
“Stop that!” He pulled the book out of Martin’s hands. “It’s not a toy.”
Martin’s face flushed, and his insides squeezed. He hated how he couldn’t control the reaction. Who was Seb to make him feel like this?
“It’s art.” Cassidy interjected from her spot on the floor.
