"It's not that dusty?—"
"It's very dusty. And you are too brilliant to spend your life here." He comes around the desk and puts both hands on my shoulders, looking me directly in the eye. "Your parents would be so proud of you. I'm proud of you. And if the NewYork Public Library has any sense at all, they'll snap you up and I'll lose the best assistant I've ever had."
"Mr. Bolinger?—"
"Ah!" He holds up a hand. "No arguments. Now, about that event. It says here it's a benefit gala at The Palazzo Hotel. Very fancy."
I scan the letter again and my stomach sinks. "Next week. Oh God, it's black tie."
"You'll need something to wear."
I look down at my thrift-store jeans and vintage cardigan, the ink stains on my fingers that never quite wash off. "I don't... I can't afford..."
He waves a hand dismissively. "Zola already thought of that. She left something upstairs for you. Had it dry cleaned and everything."
"Mr. Bolinger, I can't?—"
"You can and you will. This is important, Seraphina. These are the people who will decide your future. You need to show them you belong in their world." His expression softens. "Even if you don't quite feel like you do yet."
My throat tightens. "Thank you. For everything. I don't know how I'll ever?—"
"Bah." He turns back to his desk, suddenly gruff in that way men get when they're feeling emotional. "You can thank me by restoring these books. I need them done by tomorrow morning, I have a buyer coming in."
He gestures to two volumes on the restoration table, and I'm grateful for the change of subject. Work. This I can do. This I understand.
I move to the table, setting my bag down and tying my hair back. The restoration room is in the back of the shop, separated from the main floor by a heavy velvet curtain. It's my space. My tools arranged exactly how I like them, the familiar bottles of adhesives and solutions and leathertreatments, the special brushes I've collected over the years, the work lamp that casts everything in warm, focused light.
This is where I disappear. Where the world and its problems can't touch me.
I pull on my cotton gloves and carefully examine the first volume.
Jane Eyre. First edition, third printing, 1847. Smith, Elder & Co.
My breath catches. I've worked with first editions before, but never a Brontë. Never something this significant.
The Moroccan leather binding is cracked along the spine, the gilt lettering nearly worn away. The boards are separating from the text block. Someone, and I wince thinking about it, tried to repair it with scotch tape at some point, which has yellowed and left adhesive residue.
But underneath all the damage, I can see the contours of something beautiful. The original binding structure is intact. The pages, though foxed and brittle, are complete. The frontispiece is still there, slightly faded but salvageable.
This is what I love. Not just preserving words on a page but preserving someone's history. In 1847, someone bought this book fresh from the printer. Maybe they read it by candlelight. Maybe they argued about whether Jane should have married Rochester. Maybe they pressed flowers between the pages or made notes in the margins or cried at the ending.
And now, 178 years later, I get to make sure someone in 2025 can hold this same book and connect with that same story.
My hands are steady as I examine the damage, making mental notes. The spine will need to be carefully removed and the gatherings re-sewn. I'll have to mix a custom wheat paste for the adhesive—nothing commercial, it needs to be archival quality. The leather will need treatment, maybe something to stabilize it before I try any repairs. The giltlettering might be possible to restore, but that's delicate work that will take time.
This is going to take days. Beautiful, meditative days where I can lose myself in the work.
I reach for my restoration journal, a beat-up notebook where I document every project, and start making notes. Measurements. Observations about the binding structure. Ideas for treatment approaches.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. When I'm working, nothing else exists. Not Gabe. Not the money I don't have. Not the impossible choice I made today.
Just me and the book and the gentle, precise work of restoration.
I'm mixing the wheat paste, the ratios have to be exact, the consistency has to be just right, when Mr. Bolinger pokes his head through the curtain.
"I'm heading home to Zola," he says. "Don't stay too late."
I glance at my watch. It's already past six. "Just another hour. I want to get the spine work done tonight."
