Page 22 of The Devouring Time

But it’s only Adrian’s handsome face peering at me through a gap where he’s drawn the curtain aside.

“You were moaning,” he says with a sympathetic look. “Dreaming about the war?”

“I don’t think so. Just a nightmare.” Light seeps around the shade covering the window. “Is it morning?”

“Yes. We have just enough time to get a quick breakfast in the dining car.”

As we’re leaving the Pullman car, the porter arrives to put away the upper bunk and convert the lower back to seats. Adrian speaks with him quietly for a few moments, then smiles and slips him some cash. Over a breakfast of ham and eggs, I ask Adrian about it.

“Someone tried to kill you in Widdershins, then followed us out of town to try and finish the job,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for me to hear him above the clink of plates and knives from our fellow diners. “I doubt they’ll figure out we took this train, but it never pays to make assumptions when you can make plans instead. Mr. Collins—the porter—will swear to anyone who asks that he never laid eyes on us.”

The train slows, eventually reaching a platform in Grand Central Terminal where we disembark. Adrian pauses at a newsstand and buys three different papers, which he tucks under his arm. “I suggest we pay a visit to your partner Mr. Olden,” he says as we walk away.

“I thought you said we had a falling out—that I left Forgotten Folios.”

“You did, but I want to question him more closely about Mr. Hart.” Adrian squints up at the nearest clock. “Does he usually go into the store on Sunday?”

“It would depend on how much work we have to catch up on.” Except it’s no longer we. “Unless he’s hired someone to replace me, he’ll likely be there. His mother thinks he goes to church.”

“What about you? Do you go to church?”

Surely he already knows the answer, if he’s been investigating me. “Not since the war.”

He nods, and I catch a glimpse of mutual understanding in his eyes. “Let’s find a payphone, then make our way to Book Row.”

I trail along behind him, feeling at a loss. I’m finally back on familiar ground—I’ve been in Grand Central countless times over the years since moving to the city—but I’m still adrift. We pause at a bank of pay phones so he can put in a call to his office to alert them to the painting, and no doubt warn them about the men and trucks we saw. Whatever is going on at Hart’s Leap, it’s someone else’s problem now.

We take the elevated train to Fourth Street, near Book Row. On the train, I borrow one of the newspapers from Adrian, staring at the date and the headlines. Sunday, October 2, 1927. According to the Daily News, at least eighty-nine people died from a tornado in Saint Louis, an accused murderer is hiding in a swamp, and a woman has stolen one-hundred thousand dollars from her employer. It all seems very far away, no more real than a children’s storybook.

We alight not far from Forgotten Folios, which lies on Fourth just south of Astor Place, in the heart of Book Row. The street is much quieter than usual on Sunday, though a few of the tiny shops tucked into out-of-the-way cubbyholes are operating in defiance of the blue laws.

Not much has changed since last I was here, which is some comfort. Hundreds of booksellers cluster in Book Row, in shops that range from multi-story edifices filled with neat shelves of antiquarian treasures, to dark caves so stuffed with cheap books it’s hard to actually get inside. Every day of the week except for Sunday, the sidewalks are crowded with shoppers: penny-pinchers digging through bins of discounted volumes, eccentric collectors hunting for rare first editions, book runners looking to sell their tomes for a tidy profit, even the random casual sightseer.

Forgotten Folios is an unassuming shop in the midst of the chaos, tucked in between a bookstore run by the owner’s nephew while he serves jail time for shooting an impertinent customer, and another operated by a woman so old she might have lived here since the time of the Dutch colonizers and her store simply grown up around her along with the city.

The storefront itself is narrow, its blue door firmly closed this morning. The sign above swings slightly in the breeze, and my steps slow as I approach. Forgotten Folios, established 1921.

I’d felt such relief the day the sign was installed. As though I’d turned a corner in my life, putting the war behind me, along with the endless arguments with my family. James and I had our picture taken beneath it, and I sent a copy to my father. His return letter gloomily predicted we’d go out of business in six months.

How had I walked away from this? Why?

Adrian peers in the single large window. “There aren’t any lights on.”

“James might be working in the back.” I reach for the doorknob automatically and am surprised when it turns. “Unlocked—he must be here somewhere.”

Adrian frowns slightly. “Would he leave it unlocked even though the store is closed?”

“Probably—a book runner in the city for the weekend might turn up, or even one of our regular customers whom we sometimes indulge.” I arch a brow. “Are you going to turn us in for violating the blue laws?”

“It’s fairly far down on your list of crimes, so probably not.”

His words sober me instantly. And make me wonder if he really trusts me as much as he claims.

I push open the door, and the familiar tinkle of the bell rings through the bookstore. Forgotten Folios is much deeper than it is wide, rows of bookshelves unfurling away from the street. Despite everything, the familiar smell of books soothes my nerves, as though nothing truly bad could happen in their presence.

“Mr. Olden?” Adrian calls. “Are you here?”

No answer. Still, if he’d closed the door to the small room in the back where we made coffee and stored our safe, he might not have heard.