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“Great news!” he boomed. “The sale has been funded, and our investors are ready to launch the rebrand!”

Tempest’s ears were ringing. She could barely hear Clement through the high-pitched sound. It was as if an alarm was going off inside her head. This couldn’t be real.

“The new ownership group is… seventeen locations… expansion plans. They’ll be taking over operations… first of the month… new titles, bestsellers… gifts and stationery.”

“Well done, Clemmy!” One of their reps from the gift market raised a glass. “I just hope the cafe will stay open.”

“A coffee partnership is still being ironed out,” Clement said. “But this truly is an extraordinary opportunity. I’m so proud to have built something worth acquiring, and I’m honored that they’ve chosen to keep our family name on the store.”

Clement fielded questions then. He spoke for almost six minutes, during which time he did not look at Tempest once. Most of the questions were trivial. Employees wanted to be reassured that their jobs were safe. Then they wanted to know whether the hours would change, and whether they would still be hosting signings.

As Clement was preparing to step away, Tempest set her drink down and cleared her throat.

“What’s going to happen to all the used books that you’ve removed from the shelves?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Clement squinted in her direction. “What was that, Pestie?”

Tempest flinched at the use of the insulting nickname in front of so many people. She was used to Archibald and Barnabas calling her that, but Clement was usually more careful not to be so overtly rude to her. She clenched her fists.

“What’s happening to all the secondhand inventory? Tell me where the books are.” She was done being polite. She wasn’t a mother, but those books were like her children. The ABCs had gone too far this time. She glowered at her stepfather.

Something flickered in Clement’s expression. A worried look. Not guilt. It was more like fear. But it passed and dissipated quickly. “They’re all out back in the alley with the trash,” he said. “They’ll be collected Monday.”

He waved a hand as if he were shooing away a fly and turned to grab his drink. He was already waving at someone else who wanted to deliver personal congratulations.

“Collected for what?” Tempest held steady, stepping into his path to block him. She plucked his drink out of his hand. Against her chest, her mother’s locket felt as cold as the ice cubes clinking in the glass.

Clement swallowed. “Pulping. The investors did an assessment, and they’ve confirmed there’s no viable market for most of them.”

Tempest threw the drink at him and headed for the exit.

The bricked-in back alley was dark, damp and eerily quiet. She smelled the rot and slime of the dumpster. Shadows clung to every crevice. Tempest crept along beside the wall, stepping over bits of broken glass. She reached an unmarked, locked metal door. It was one of the shop’s emergency exits, and the door they used to take out the trash.

She could see better now, partly because her eyes had adjusted and partly because the books had a faint, almost phosphorescent glow to them. So many boxes had been dumped unceremoniously into the alley. They appeared to have been packed in a hurry. No labels, no sorting, no system whatsoever. Precariously stacked, poorly packed cardboard boxes full of haphazardly dumped books. It wounded her to see spines scraping against spines. So many pages were unnecessarily crushed and torn.

But why take even this care when the plan was the pulper?

The elderly couple’s books were visible in one of the boxes. Another held a full set of antique children’s books—illustrated fairy tales from the 1920s.

She pulled on her gloves. She couldn’t resist having one last look. A tear rolled down her face as she recognized so many classics. Pretty soon she was making a pile of books to save. The problem was, she wanted to save them all.

Old cookbooks.

A set of encyclopedias missing its Q through S.

Local histories.

Paperbacks with their covers worn away from being read so many times.

She was three stacks along when the clouds pulled away, and the moon broke through, bathing the alley in a cold pale light. She caught sight of something familiar. Something that didn’t belong there. Tempest gasped.

The cover was an unusual blue material. Glossy like patent leather, but also slightly translucent, like glass. It caught the pale moonlight in slow undulating ripples like the surface of water. She knew this book. It wasn’t Ordinary. This book was enchanted, unforgettable, and it was hers. It had been left to her by her mother.

She reached out and flipped it over.

The Glass Atlas.

But she already knew that. It couldn’t have been anything else. This book was singular. She’d never seen anything else like it. The last time she had seen it was one of her clearest memories of her mother.