I expected thick, colorful paperbacks, but it seemed I was bleeding genres again. These were all hardcovers now. My mind went to rare books, but I didn’t think they put those kinds of things out where just anyone could handle them. They were gorgeous though. Then it hit me—the lack of windows. They were probably placed where it was dimmer to better preserve them. It was quiet too—no senior citizens asking how to connect to the Wi-Fi. I imagined academics setting up shop here, gathering stacks of old books on a table for their research.
Many of the books were leather bound, with the title stamped in gold lettering on the spine. The scent of almond and vanilla hung in the air. I passed a great shelf of matching half-binds, the spines green, the pale front threaded with white. I didn’t realize the Mayfair Public Library had such a prestigious collection. It made me feel small and ill-educated with my worn favorites and bookmarked listicles recommending the same basic story with different characters.
I could be that kind of reader though—the kind who wandered the library and spent the morning reading feminist philosophy or Hellenistic art history. The kind that didn’t shirk work to read in the bathroom or spend her evenings at home with imaginary characters. A literary lady.
When Ed called me later that day as I assumed he had to, I’d reassure him nothing odd had happened on the phone—I was just reading aloud!—and my academic morning in the library would be proof I was a stable hire.
I just had to pick a likely candidate.
I turned in place. Even among all the beauties, one book stuck out more than the others. The gold page ends made it glow. I reached for it, surprised to find it warm under my hand when, in fact, the room felt quite cool.
The title didn’t matter. The topic didn’t matter. I just had to choose a book, a literary book, and read something other than the story that had overtaken the last decade of my life. Prove to myself that I was the reader I thought I was.
The book slid out thickly, as if caught on the shelf. It was heavier than I expected. A floral musk bloomed in the air. I ran my hand over the front of the book. It was covered in beautiful Celtic knots, hand-painted on the leather. With details like that, I couldn’t imagine how valuable the text was. There was no title to tell me what I’d chosen.
I opened to page one—
And suddenly there was a woman, shorter than me by a good measure, holding both of my hands. I took in her straw-colored hair, the eager smile on her face, and yelped. I slipped from her grasp, but she only took my elbows as if we were old friends.
“Dottie,” the woman sang with joy.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered though I didn’t exactly know why I was apologizing. My eyes flashed around the room.Where was the book I was holding?“I didn’t see anyone else back here. Do we know each other?”
“Yes, yes, we do,” the woman said confidently. “We both love reading, remember?”
“Right,” I said quickly, trying to keep up. “Have you, um, have you read anything good recently?” It was the only question I could think of that didn’t expose my ignorance. I must have met the woman at a book event but forgot her face. Drat, was she on the local book festival board?
The woman dropped my elbows, folded an arm across her waist, and tapped a finger from her free hand on her chin. She was older than I was, perhaps her late thirties. I noticed for the first time she was wearing what had to beveryexpensive khaki-colored separates: a cropped top, drapey pants, and an oversize blazer with a stylish lapel. It was formfitting where needed and flowy everywhere else. No, she wasn’t on the book festival board and I had never joined a book club. I didn’t know where I could have met such an elegant woman. Unless she was the friend of a friend, someone I had been introduced to at a bridal shower years ago?
“I have, in fact,” the woman said. “I just finishedLandsome Roads. Book five was such an odd ending to the series, don’t you think?”
It was as ifLandsome Roadswas personally designed to haunt me. I smiled weakly as I tried not to think about the previous night’s phone call of doom.
Regardless, I agreed. The series ended in a weird way, especially for a book that otherwise targeted women looking for moderate drama, a hunky male lead, and a happily-ever-after ending. Instead, book five read like every other military fantasy written for men.
The woman continued, “I mean, where was all the romance? It was as if those scenes were completely stripped from book five and replaced with gory battle ones. And for the queen to desert Ironclaw like that... That was quite the vibe shift.”
I nodded, becoming interested despite myself. I had given this a lot of thought. In book three, Ironclaw was presented to the queen for the first time and they quickly fell for each other and got engaged in book four, only to break up in book five. “Many people”—read online forums—“thought Sherry Whitehorse was responding to criticism, trying to make the series more unpredictable.”
“Well,” the woman said conspiratorially, “you know Sherry Whitehorse is a pen name, right?”
My literary antenna tingled. “What! No, I haven’t read that anywhere else.”
“It’s a very well-guarded secret. The publisher has certainly kept it under wraps. Why do you think she did so few signings?”
It was true. I’d tried to find a signing to attend—I’d even been willing to travel—but they were few and far between, held only in select cities and sold out as quickly as they launched. Even on the forums or social media, it was impossible to track down someone who’d met Whitehorse in person.
“Wait, you said ‘did?’”
The lovely blonde in front of me licked her lips, fuchsia lipstick undisturbed. She leaned forward. “Honey, I’m sorry to tell you, the woman who wrote as Sherry Whitehorse died after book four.”
My heart dropped. I always thought...some way or another, I thought I’d meet the author who created the world that meant so much to me. Tell her how she changed my life. Guilt washed over me—I’d spent the morning resenting my fascination with the series, her art.
“That’s awful.”
“And you know what that means for book five, right?”
Pages fluttered in my mind. “It was a different writer.”
