“Only a few more hours,” I say, setting my cup aside. Well, trying to. The only surfaces available are teetering piles of books. I eventually opt to balance it on my knee. “Which is why I’m here at this hour—I wanted to be sure I had a little while to look around properly. I travel quite a bit, you see, and bookstores are such a wonderful respite from the road.”
“A home away from home,” she agrees. “Do finish your tea and then I won’t keep you. But tell me, what brings you to Little Pepperidge?”
I think back; I hadn’t seen her at the ribbon-cutting ceremony yesterday, and who knows how up she is on the local events calendar. She truly might not know who I am. What a delight! “I was here for the ceremony yesterday,” I say, vaguely.
“Ah, of course,” she says. “Such a to-do. I tend to give those a miss these days; it’s so much nicer to sit inside and let the noise and the fuss go on without one, don’t you agree?”
“There are days where I wish I’d never have to attend another,” I admit, with complete honesty. I take another little sip of my tea. It has cooled down a bit, which hasn’t improved its flavor any.
“May I ask,” I say, wondering how much of the tea I can get away with not drinking, “are youtheBeulah Bonecrusher?”
“Oh, my dear child, no!” She laughs. “Beulah was long before my time. But I believe she was very happy here, as I have been.” The old lady leans forward and puts a hand on my knee. “Tell me, child, would such a place make you happy? Could you live here, content among the books?”
I sigh. “I’m sure I could. But it’s impossible, just a dream. I have duties I can’t neglect.”
Just then the bell over the door chimes. We both turn to see someone entering—thankfully not Honeyrose, come to collect me already—and the old lady smiles.
“I must see to my customer,” she says. She stands, slowly and creakily, and I get to my feet. “Don’t let me keep you from your precious time among the stacks,” she says, gesturing broadly to the bookstore. “I feel confident you’ll find what you seek, in the end. Folks usually do.”
I hand her my cup and thank her, and turn toward the stairs. There are at least three stories’ worth of books to look at above us, and I’m a thorough person. I’ll start at the top and work down.
I spend a happy hour browsing, adding to my growing pile of books, when I hear the temple bells ring and know, with a sinking heart, that I’m going to have to finish up and head back to the inn. Honeyrose wants to be on the road by ten, and it’s just nine thirty. Distantly, I hear the chimes over the door tinkle, and suspect that that might be Honeyrose. She’s terribly prompt.
I pick up my armload of books—with some difficulty—and make my way down the stairs. I managed to visit only a floor and a half in the end, alas. It was hard to find anything, as the bookcases were completely disorganized, but it was wonderful to search, and I managed to tear myself away only reluctantly. The stairs are ancient, creaking, and the path down them is narrow, as the proprietress has used them as storage for, yes, more books. I’m grateful that I dressed sensibly, as I can’t hold my skirts up while I’m descending, and I don’t knock over too many books on my way down.
Sure enough, Honeyrose is waiting by the desk, with her usual expression of pained tolerance stretched across her features. I occasionally tease her about how structured and dour she is for a halfling, which usually gets me a lecture about how one can’t and shouldn’t make generalizations based on a person’s ancestry. I wouldn’t ordinarily, of course; I just like to poke Honey a bit now and then. She’s very serious.
She glances at my stack of books, heaves a very loud sigh, and turns to the old woman.
“How much for the books, madam?” she asks, pulling her purse out of her pocket.
“Dear child,” the old lady says, “the prices are marked inside. I’ll have to tot them up.”
Honey bristles a little at the “child” business, and I wonder how I can communicate to her that the old woman appears to call everyone “child.” Honey is, for very good reason, a little sensitive about her height. She’s only half a halfling, really, and taller than most, but still just a little shorter than the average human adult woman, and often taken for being younger than she is. I make eye contact with Honey, willing her to be understanding, and she sighs again.
I hand the stack of books to the old woman, who starts going through them—slowly—and marking down prices on one of the thousand loose scraps of paper scattered about. Honey looks up at me with an expression that clearly conveys:This is the last time we do this. I ignore her and try to pat the cat.
Eventually the old lady looks up, smiles, and says, “One sovereign, four crowns. But as you paid ten crowns yesterday for a book that you only owed me two for…”
“Nine,” Honeyrose answers, digging around in her purse.
“I beg your pardon?” the old woman says.
“Nine crowns. Seventeen minus ten plus two. I’ll give you half a sovereign for the lot.”
“Ah yes,” the old woman says, consulting her scrap of paper. “Nine.”
Honey presses the half sovereign into her hand and grabs a few books off my stack. “The carriage is waiting,” she says, not bothering to look back at me.
I scoop up the rest of the books, but the old woman stands.
“My dears, do allow me to get the door for you; your hands are full.”
Honey stops, heaves an exasperated sigh, and waits. I stand aside, and the old woman makes her way out from behind the desk and begins threading a path to the door through the piles of books. She moves at a snail’s pace, bent almost double with age and osteoporosis, and I wonder briefly how she could possibly run this bookstore by herself. Perhaps she doesn’t, really. The upstairs rooms didn’t seem like they’d been tidied or organized in months. Maybe longer.
She makes it to the door and then, breathing hard, seats herself on a stack of books. I hear Honey swallow another exasperated sigh and then move past us to open the door herself. She shoots me a look—I am very good at interpreting her looks—that says very clearly that it’s time for us to leave. But the old woman is looking extremely frail and tired. I set my books down and kneel beside her.
“Are you well? Is there someone I can call?”
