“You’ve never said that you have a feeling something is off before, so there is no way I’m not going to accompany you.”
Mungo grunted and then moved to the entrance of Nicholson’s Book Shop. “I’m going inside.”
“I’ll just check Appleblossoms Bakers, then.”
Mungo shot Alex a look.
“What? There might be trouble in there.”
They both knew it was the food that drew Alex, not possible trouble.
Mungo entered the bookshop through the narrow wood-framed door painted a respectable navy blue. A tiny brass bell chimed above it—a familiar delicate sound utterly at odds with the tightness sitting in the center of his chest.
Why am I feeling like this?
Something was tugging at him, sharp and insistent, but what?
The familiar scent hit him first—ink, paper, and something slightly musty that spoke of worn pages and well-loved volumes. It mingled with whatever polish had been rubbed onto the shelves. Mungo had always noted that the air feltstill in a bookshop, as if people didn’t dare move or speak too loudly in such a place and upset the order of it.
He nodded to George Nicholson’s sister, who was behind the counter. She was a quiet woman, always dressed in pale colors, who constantly had a calm smile on her face. She’d taken over running the place after her brother had died.
“Afternoon, Mr. Fraser,” she said softly.
He nodded before moving deeper inside.
The room stretched long and narrow, warmed by a small iron stove positioned in the corner. Its heat did little to cut through the rest of the shop’s persistent chill. Books climbed the walls—some crooked, some straight, some so ancient they looked as though they might crumble if touched. A few patrons wandered between the aisles, murmuring, turning pages, and then moving on.
It had changed a great deal since George’s death. The vase of tiny dried flowers on the counter, for one, and the sweep of white curtain tied with a rose sash in the window, for another.
Mungo wasn’t a man given to superstition, but it felt as though something was about to happen. Was one of the Nightingales in danger?
What the hell is wrong with me?
He scanned the shop, wondering if his unease came from something or someone in here. Mungo saw the top of a pale gray bonnet and knew immediately whom it belonged to.
His stomach tightened. Had he come here because of her, or was it something else?
Miss Downing had her head bowed, all her focus on the open book in her hands.
A governess in her sensible uniform, doing something perfectly respectable in a perfectly respectable place shouldn’t unsettle him, and yet this woman just had to benear, and he was exactly that. Eliza Downing was becoming a problem, and he had no idea what to do about her.
He told himself to turn around.
I should leave.
But his damned boots kept carrying him forward.
The scent of old paper deepened as he neared her aisle, where it mixed with something faintly floral from her—lavender water, perhaps, or rose. Something delicate that was always in the air when Eliza Downing was near.
He watched one of her hands rise, and then her gloved fingers ran across her cheek.
She was weeping.
A jolt of fear shot through him. Was she sick? Had someone hurt her?
Walk out of here now. Turn around. You don’t deal with tears, you idiot.
But instead he stepped to her side.
