Page 54 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

From her experience in buying books from the Temple of the Muses—“The Cheapest Bookseller in the World”—Iris knew how their books were categorized by subject. From the way Stella had set up her bookshelves, Iris had easily realized she had done much the same, but taking it one step further by alphabetizing the books within a subject category by the author’s last name. She had followed that guide whilst filling the bookshelves that afternoon.

How did one go about finding a book on the British aristocracy, though? Perusing the various book subjects, she began to wonder if there was such a book, until a mention of French royalty caught her eye. She examined the titles of all the books around it to discover they each had to do with a country’s royal lineage or aristocracy. Not a single one had the word “British” or “Great Britain” in its title, however.

When she noticed the word “peerage,” she inhaled softly. Pulling a rather-new leather-bound volume entitled A General and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the United Kingdom for MDCCCXXVI from the shelf, she said out loud, “There you are.” She opened the first few pages to discover it had been published by genealogist John Burke of Ireland.

“Yes, here I am.”

The male voice startled her, and she nearly dropped the book. The man in question stood inside the front door, his gaze taking in the shop as if he was searching for someone. Dressed in the clothes of the lower-middle class, he didn’t seem like the typical client of a bookshop such as this.

How had she not heard the bell when he came in? A quick glance up showed it was still there. She swallowed and made herself stand tall. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you find a book?” she asked.

He chuckled softly, his gaze still sweeping the interior. “That carroty-pated lady about?” he asked.

Iris gave a start at hearing the derogatory nickname. “If you are referring to Mrs. Agremon, then no. But I can leave a message for her if you’d like. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“Huh,” he responded, his gaze finally landing on her.

Iris felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. She had only experienced the sensation when certain men made a habit of hanging about the stalls at the market, loitering as they leered at the flower girls. If one of the workers hurried off to tell the manager of the market, he was always quick to send the vagrants on their way with threats of bodily harm should they return.

She didn’t have anyone of that sort to help her on this day, though, but she tried to remain calm. “May I help you find a book?” she offered again.

“Not after a book, actually,” he said, making his way slowly in her direction. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought there was a limp in the way he sauntered.

“A folio, perhaps?” she asked.

“Nah,” he responded, his gaze once again going to the back of the shop.

Iris knew he could see the office from where he was. “May I ask why you’ve come?”

“You could,” he replied, finally turning his attention entirely on her.

“So… if you’re not here for a book or a folio… why are you here?” she demanded, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice and mostly succeeding.

“Got any blunt?”

Iris gave a start. “Um, I do not. I haven’t made any sales today,” she replied, realizing he was there to rob the shop.

“Got any money in your pockets?”

She shook her head. “No, sir.”

He made a tsk-tsking sound with his tongue. “Well, then, I guess you’ll have to do.”

Iris knew there was no escape from where she stood—no escape unless she made it up the stairs. In an act of desperation, she threw the huge book at him and raced for the stairs.

The volume hit him on the shin, and he howled in pain. A string of curses followed when he was finally in motion.

She managed to make it halfway up the stairs before he caught one of her ankles with a hand. Stumbling, she fell hard on the top step, her shoulder impacting the edge. Screaming in agony, she attempted to kick his hand away, but by then, he had her other foot and was trying to pull her down the steps. “Stop it!” she cried out, tears blurring her vision as she reached with her other hand in an attempt to slip it under the door and grip the edge for leverage. The sliver of light beneath that door promised a haven. Safety from him. But there was nothing else she could hold onto to keep from being dragged back down the stairs. “Help!” she called out, even though she knew it was unlikely anyone in the neighboring shop could hear her. The tight confines of the dark stairwell seemed to swallow her cries.

Kicking with all her might, she managed to impact something—probably a leg—with one of her shoes, but still she couldn’t free herself from his hold.

A grunt of pain erupted from the man, though.

Good, she thought, repeating the same kick.

“Dammit, stay still, you little hussy,” he shouted. The menace in his voice truly frightened her. “Or I’ll make this hurt worse than it already will and really give you something to cry about.”

“Please, no,” she begged, finally catching the underside of the door with her fingertips. The fragile anchor did little good when he stopped pulling, though.