I take a few steps back outside. The exterior of the building is a perfectly normal shop size. About twenty-five feet wide and one standard story high. Some of the silver paint is peeling off the sign.There's nothing extraordinary about the store from the street except that it could use a little TLC.
I step back inside, absolutely positive that this time, the interior will make sense.
It. Does. Not.
The inside of the Book Nook is massive. It's not something simple like ten-foot ceilings explained away by creative pipework or a store that runs deeper than you’d expect. The floors are marble. Pillars reach at least three full stories to a ceiling painted like something out of the Vatican. Old parchment, burning candles, and sand linger in the air. The shelves span floor to ceiling along the walls and down the center of the hall, because that’s what it is—a hall. Gilded staircases twist up to the higher stacks.
I step forward cautiously, half-expecting the whole illusion to fall away and leave me concussed somewhere.
A melodic but fierce voice drifts out from the stacks. Someone is talking, though I can’t hear what’s being said.
“Hello,” I call.
The words stop, and the whole place goes so silent it feels like it’s closing in on me.
The woman I saw sweeping out front this morning peers around a bookshelf. Brown, almond-shaped eyes lock onto me and glare. Her thick black hair is pulled into a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones and long, straight nose.
“How did you get in here?” she demands, striding forward and stopping directly in front of me.
I take a small step back. “Through the front door.”
Her eyes fly to the front just behind me.
“It’s locked,” she says.
I open my mouth to argue, but when I glance over, I find the deadbolt pulled across from the inside. Something that should have kept me out, but didn’t. I hadn’t fastened it, and I hadn’t heard anyone behind me.
“I don’t—” I stumble.
This is ridiculous.
Instead of dwelling on it, I move past it. A technique I learned whenever my ex-husband would say something I knew was false but couldn’t prove in the moment.
“I’m Ivy Smith. I’m new to the island,” I say, holding out my hand. She eyes it before taking it.
“Layla. This is my archive.” She gestures around at the books.
“You mean your store?”
She lets go of my hand and swipes some lint from her shoulder. “That’s what I said.”
A knock at the door pulls Layla away. She flips the lock that didn’t keep me out and pulls the door open. A mess of light pink hair and a bold pink dress sweeps through.
“Did you see the—” Dolly starts in her sing-song voice, then snaps her mouth shut when she spots me.
“Dolly, you’ve met Ivy, yeah? She’s new in town.” Layla says “new” in a way that, on paper, would be underlined and highlighted.
Dolly nods, her big eyes fixed on my face, not blinking. Of everything I’ve seen on this island, she is the one who unnerves me most.
“You made it through your first day! Hooray!” Dolly pulls me into an unexpected hug.
“Oh, well, okay,” I say, patting her on the back.
Layla rolls her eyes. “Dolly, we’ve talked about personal space, remember?” Layla pulls her back.
“Oh, right.” Dolly says it like someone does when they have absolutely no intention of letting the information sink in.
“Were you looking for something in particular?” Layla asks me.
