She looks behind her, then into the depths of the library and leans over the desk towards me.
I briefly wonder if she is actually about to admit to her husband's murder, before mirroring her so our heads are a foot and a half apart.
"Do you have any of those reverse harem books?" she whispers.
Of course I do. I am a dealer in other worlds.
"Right this way, my lady," I say as I lead her to the curtained off section of the library.
I'm joking. The reverse harem books are in the section with the largeReverse Haremsignage, like in a normal library.
I can't help but have the perverse idea she's planted parts of her husband in the hope of sprouting multiple husbands.
When I get back to the library office, Mistral is, mercifully, nowhere to be seen.
I turn my attention to the obligatory emails and pay them half the attention I should while I wonder how I can behave around Bess in a way that is less noticeable to people with the tiniest skill in observation.
By the time I get to the last email, I've come to the conclusion the safest thing to do is ignore her.
If only that were possible. Bess and her lovely eyes and the loudness of her being will make that a Herculean task.
I have no idea how I'm meant to mask my feelings for her if I, apparently, can't manage it when I thought I'd made a pretty good effort in doing just that.
"Hey, Ed." Mistral rolls in an empty shelving trolley at a quick clip. "I found something in the bin at the far end of the adult non-fiction section." Her words are rapid and a little breathless.
Without looking away from my computer screen, I say, "Let me guess. Sean Connery's oft-debated chest wig."
"No."
Mistral is not as easily amused by me as Bess is.
"You need to see it."
"But do I really need to see it?" Coming from city libraries, I've seen it all. Sex in the stacks, cocaine in the toilet, deals sealed over newspaper broadsheets. Basically, any kind of behaviour you might expect in shadowy corners of a nightclub has been conducted in the shadowy corners of a library. I have no idea why. It's not like knowledge repositories scream "space for conducting illicit activities". Or maybe libraries have a much edgier reputation than the librarian fraternity realise.
Naturally, the bins can get a little unsavoury.
"You really do, actually." She places a piece of folded paper on my desk beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder, which is...ominous.
The paper is old and thin, almost translucent. The ink of the writing on the other side is clearly visible, like blue veins through pale skin. I pick it up and turn it over. "Have you read it?"
"Yes, and I don't think it should be in a bin. It's a wartime love letter."
As I open it, the mustiness of it, of time and of being kept among other, hidden things, unfurls with the paper. It crinkles and I place it flat on the desk so as not to risk tearing the thin sheet.
My dearest Bit starts. No date, just the number4in the top right-hand corner. There's two holes cut into the middle of sentences where the military censor has removed information.
I read it. Then reread it.
Then I have to sit and process what I've read. Eventually I say, "Wow. That is one hell of a letter."
"I know, right? Whoever he was, he could write."
I look up at her. "And someone just...threw this out?"
Mistral shrugs. "It makes no sense.” Her expression turns to the shiny-eyed side of gleeful. “But do you know what does?"
"Whatever you're about to say I'm not going to like. Therefore, you might as well not say it."
