"I'm your only assistant," I manage, and I'm grateful my voice sounds almost normal.
Mr. Bolinger looks up from the front desk where he's been cataloging a new acquisition. It looks like an 18th-century botanical encyclopedia, probably came from the estate sale in Connecticut he mentioned last week. His face is deeply lined, weathered from years of squinting at tiny print and authenticating signatures. Wiry gray eyebrows that could use a trim, liver spots on his hands, but his eyes are sharp and kind behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
Those kind eyes narrow as he takes me in. I see the moment he notices something's wrong—the slight redness around my eyes, maybe, or the way I'm holding myself too carefully, like if I relax, I'll shatter.
"You alright, kiddo?"
"Just a family thing." I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm sorry I'm late. It won't happen again."
"Seraphina." He says my name gently, the way my father used to. "You know you can talk to me."
And God, I want to. I want to tell him everything, aboutGabe, about the fifty thousand dollars, about the choice I just made that might cost my brother his life. But Mr. Bolinger has done enough for me already. He gave me this job fresh out of college. He lets me live in the rent-controlled apartment above the shop for half what he could get from anyone else. He and his wife Zola have me over for dinner every Friday, making sure I eat at least one real meal a week.
I can't burden him with this too.
"I'm okay," I lie. "Really. What do you need me to work on?"
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him making the decision to let it go. "Well," he says finally, reaching for an envelope on the desk. "I have some good news that might cheer you up. This came for you."
My heart stops. I recognize the return address—thick cream paper, embossed seal. The New York Public Library.
"I can't look." I push it back toward him, my hands trembling. "Open it. Please."
"Seraphina—"
"Please."
He sighs but takes the letter opener and slits the envelope with practiced precision. I watch his face as he reads, trying to divine my future from his expression. His bushy eyebrows knit together.
"I didn't get it." The words come out flat. Of course I didn't. Why would I? I have a BA but no master's degree. I live above a bookshop and can barely pay my bills. I'm competing against people with PhDs and decades of experience. What was I thinking, applying for a curator position at the most prestigious library in New York?
"You didn't get it," he confirms, and something inside me crumbles.
"Right. Well." I force another smile. "It was a long shot anyway. I love it here. I wasn't even sure I wanted?—"
"But you are a finalist."
The world stops.
"What?"
He's grinning now, holding out the letter. "You're one of three finalists for the position. They want you to come in for a final interview next month."
I snatch the letter from his hands, my eyes scanning the words frantically. ...impressed by your qualifications...extensive knowledge of rare manuscripts...pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a finalist for the position of Associate Curator of Special Collections...
"Oh my God." My voice comes out as barely a whisper. "Oh my God."
"Looks like you've got a real shot, kiddo."
I read the letter again. And again. My eyes are burning but this time it's not from trying not to cry, it's because I can't stop smiling.
"There's an event next month," I read aloud. "A private reception for the finalists to meet the selection committee and..." I look up at him. "Mr. Bolinger, this is real. This is actually real."
"Of course it's real. You're brilliant." But there's something in his voice, a sadness that dulls his enthusiasm.
My own excitement deflates immediately. "I meant what I said before. I love working here. If I got this position, and that's a huge if, I wouldn't just abandon you. We could work something out, maybe part-time?—"
"Seraphina Romano, you stop that right now." His voice is stern, but his eyes are wet. "You are not giving up your dream to stay in this dusty bookshop."
