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"If you please . . . ," I begin.
Mr. Day wags a finger."No, no, no, don't spoil it. I shall find what you're after." We trail Mr. Day as he examines each shelf, running his knobby finger over leather spines, muttering to himself in book titles. "Wuthering Heights . . . Jane Eyre . . . Castle of Otronto--oh, that's a splendid book, I say."
"If you please, sir," I say, raising my voice slightly. "We were rather hoping to find a book about the Order. Have you any such books?"
I've perplexed Mr. Day. The caterpillar eyebrows collide at the bridge of his nose. "Dear, dear ... I can't say as I've heard . . . What was that title again?" "It isn't a title," Felicity says in such an impatient way I can practically hear the unspoken you doddering old fool that follows.
"It is a subject," Ann says kindly, salvaging us. "The Order. They were a group of women who ruled the realms with magic--"
"Not real women, of course!" I break in. "It is but a story, after all."
"It's fiction you're after, then?" Mr. Day says, scratching at the bald spots between unruly white tufts of hair.
This is proving impossible. "Myths," I say after a moment's thought.
Mr. Day's face brightens. "Ah! I've some lovely books of myths. Right this way, if you please."
He leads us to a case in the back."Greek, Roman, Celtic, the Norse--oh, I do love the Norse. Here they are."
Felicity gives me a forlorn look. This is not what we're after, but what can we do but say thank you and at least pretend to look before leaving? The bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer and Mr. Day leaves us. His cheery voice asks if he can be of assistance. The customer, a woman, answers. I know that strange brogue. It belongs to Miss McCleethy.
Peering around the case, I see her at the front.
"Look there," I whisper urgently.
"Where?" Stupidly, Ann steps out from behind the cover of the bookcase. A strong yank and she's back beside me.
"Look through here," I say, pulling two books from their places on the shelf, giving us a peephole to the other side.
"It's Miss McCleethy!" Ann says.
"What is she doing here?" Felicity whispers.
"I don't know," I whisper back."I can't hear."
"Ah, yes. It's only just arrived," Mr. Day says, in answer to some unheard question on Miss McCleethy's part. "What's only just arrived?" Ann asks. Felicity and I shush her with our hands over her mouth.
"I won't be a moment. Have a look about, if you wish." Mr. Day disappears behind a velvet curtain. Daylight streams through the sooty windows, bathing Miss McCleethy in a haze of dust. She removes her right-hand glove in order to better thumb through the pages of some novels stacked upon a table. The snake ring catches the light, blinding me with its brilliance. Miss McCleethy leaves the table and moves ever closer to our hiding spot.
Panicked, we crouch low on the floor as books above our heads are slid from their perches. If she should look on the lower shelves . . .
"Here we are," Mr. Day declares, pushing through the velvet curtain again. The mysterious book is wrapped, tied with ribbon, and
given to Miss McCleethy. In a moment, the tinkle of the bell announces her departure. We peek through the hole we've made to ensure that she is gone and then we are scurrying to Mr. Day.
"Mr. Day, I believe that was my mother's dear friend who was just here. Would you be so kind as to tell me what book she purchased? I do so admire her taste in such matters," I say as sweetly as possible.
From the corner of my eye, I see Felicity's mouth hanging open in surprise and admiration. She is not the only one who can lie.
"Yes, it was Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt's A History of Secret Societies. I haven't read it myself."
"Have you another copy?" I ask.
"Certainly." Mr. Day limps to the back of the shop and returns carrying the book. "Ah, here we are. Isn't it curious? I've had no interest in this book, yet today I've sold two. Pity about the author."
"What do you mean by that?" Felicity asks.
"They say she died shortly after publication." He leans in, whispers. "They say she was involved in the occult. Wicked things. Now, we'll give it a nice ribbon and . . ." "No thank you, Mr. Day," I say, reaching for it before he can wrap it."We're in a dreadful rush, I'm afraid."
