I can't even see most of him. He's working at his computer and looking down at something to his left so I have a view of the back of his head. But my treacherous body reacts anyway.
A tiny fern frond unfurls itself and all its numerous fucking cute little feathery leaves inside my stomach.
I don't like it. I do not like not having control over whatever the fuck is going on between my ovaries and my best friend.
He looks up and over at me and I blurt, "You know it's not you."
He says, "I know."
And then I run away before Mistral can pop up from behind a bookshelf and ask, "What's not him?" and give me the same gleeful look Elly gave me.
Returning to the gallery and packing the day's online orders doesn't provide me with the mental absorption I need to stop asking myself what I'm going to do about it.
I have no idea what I'm going to do about it.
It's strange and new and is diverting energy I need for getting ready for the auction and solving the clues to who the soldier was, and really I just want it to go away.
It doesn't go away. It hovers stubbornly in the back of my mind, like a whiny mosquito after lights out.
It's still there on Thursday, which is extraordinarily unhelpful.
By Friday, out of sheer desperation, and panic because the auction is imminent, I force myself to turn to the one task I've failed spectacularly at for the last couple of weeks. Trying to solve whatever riddle surrounds the letters.
No more letters have come in the last few days. I think, maybe, I've received them all.
I spread the library books on the floor of the gallery in a semi-circle and in the order they were left in the library. Their pages are open to the chapters the letters were placed in, and I write down the Dewey numbers and place the pieces of paper above the books.
It doesn't help. I still have absolutely no bloody clue.
I want to have a bloody clue. The mystery of it all remains lost somewhere in the information in front of me.
I don't know what will happen if I can't solve it. It feels like everyone in the world is watching, waiting for the big reveal, for the story behind the letters to become three-dimensional.
I've got one day to find out who the soldier was or who is sending me the letters before the auction.One day. It feels like I'm grasping at sand and all it's doing is running through my fingers.
"Bess?" calls Lutek. "If you're not busy, we need some help."
I head into the café to assist the crew with the mid-morning rush.
When I return half an hour later, Carlos is sitting on the floor, his back against the counter and his legs stretched out in front of him. Beside him is the pile of books, neatly stacked and in his lap are pen and paper.
"What are you doing down there, Carlos?" I ask, stupidly, because it's pretty bloody obvious what he's been doing.
Then I brace myself to diplomatically deal with whatever rubbish is about to come out of his mouth.
"William Brownly."
"What?"
"William Brownly. That's your soldier."
I cross my arms. "How did you work that out?"
"It's not much of a cipher, dear girl. Primary-school stuff, really. It's the first letter of the book, followed by the second letter of the chapter title. The title of the book is primary, and a chapter is secondary, so that's what I looked for."
I crouch down and pull the first book from the pile.Winged Wondersby Timothy Dale. Sure enough, the second letter of the chapter title,Finding Exotics, is an I.
"Carlos!"
