« Chapter 2: A Bookseller Is Never Late
An older gentleman with a long crooked nose stood staring back at me from the other side of the door. His cold, sharp eyes swept over me, and I could feel the weight of his impatience even through the pane of glass between us. A chill crept down my spine as his gaze lingered too long, making me feel exposed and vulnerable, like a deer caught in headlights. I froze, rooted in place, as if the very air had thickened, trapping me in its grip. His lips curled into a frown, and he raised a hand, gesturing pointedly at the door lock.
Startled, I fumbled for the latch, my fingers slipping on the metal before I managed to twist it open. I forced a polite smile, my heart still thudding in my chest. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fairweather. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” My voice wavered as I stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter the shop.
Mr. Fairweather’s presence filled the small space almost immediately. He carried the air of someone used to being obeyed, his back rigid as he crossed the threshold. He glanced around, taking in the cozy disarray of books and the worn wooden shelves of Hawthorne’s with the same mild disdain that always seemed to linger in his gaze.
Most of the businesses in town rested on land he owned, save for this small strip of brick storefronts, where three shops stood. Hawthorne’s occupied the corner, with two other storefronts to its right. The land had belonged to Mr. Hawthorne’s family for generations, an island of independence in a town otherwise controlled by Fairweather’s reach.
My heart raced as I closed the door behind him, the soft chime of the bell above doing little to ease the tensions in the air.
“I trust Mr. Hawthorne’s expecting you?” I asked quietly, my voice tentative as I tried to steady myself.
He turned sharply, disdain flickering in his eyes. “In fact, he is, girl. Business you wouldn’t understand. Now, why don—”
Just then, the door chimes rang again, and a short elderly man shuffled through the threshold, balancing a stack of books in both hands, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and an old leather satchel swinging at his side. He peeked around the tower of books at the two of us. His large round glasses perched atop his rosy button nose, magnifying his twinkling gray eyes, full of kindness and wisdom. He was clean-shaven with short, untamed silver locks and dressed in warm colors—a cozy sweater layered over a collared shirt—adding to his inviting demeanor.
“Ah, Abner! Nice to see you. Nice to see you! Here, Elswyth, dear. Take these books to be inventoried.” He almost could not reach the counter as he leaned over and set the stack down with a gentle thud.
My stomach lurched at Mr. Hawthorne’s greeting. Only he and my grandmother ever dared to call Mr. Fairweather by his first name. It was one of those things I’d overheard in hushed tones, an old story from their younger days, back when men like him were still just men.
Mr. Fairweather pursed his lips, his gaze shifting between me and Mr. Hawthorne. “Indeed. Shall we go somewhere more... private”—he paused, letting his eyes rest on me for a moment too long—“to discuss business?”
“Yes, of course. Of course! Let’s discuss our arrangement in my office,” Mr. Hawthorne replied quickly, his voice carrying a nervous warmth. He gestured toward the small door tucked behind the sci-fi section.
Mr. Fairweather’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he followed Mr. Hawthorne, his presence lingering in the air long after they had disappeared through the small door. The soft click of its closing echoed in the silence that followed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over the shop. Something about Mr. Fairweather felt… wrong. He hadn’t done anything overtly rude, yet his presence carried an unspoken heaviness, as though he brought a storm with him, just waiting to break.
Turning back to the counter, I busied myself with tidying up the front, though my mind kept drifting to the quiet conversation now happening behind that door. What business could Mr. Fairweather have with Mr. Hawthorne? I glanced around the shop, letting the familiar comfort of the worn wooden shelves and the scent of old paper calm my nerves. But even that wasn’t enough to shake the nagging worry at the back of my mind.
Deciding to check the stock, I kept an ear out, listening for any raised voices or signs of disagreement. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching longer than the last.
As I wiped down the shelves in the biography section, the voices from the back office began to rise, the once-muted conversation becoming sharper. My hands trembled slightly as I wiped, each stroke feeling more frantic as their discussion grew heated. Should I return to the front or inch closer?
Curiosity got the better of me. I slowly moved, still pretending to dust, my ears straining to catch their words. By the time I reached the next row of shelves, their conversation became clearer.
“Silas, you can’t be serious,” Mr. Fairweather said, his tone thick with exasperation. “They’ve been extinct for millennia. We’ve had no indication of their return—nor anything remotely like them.”
There was a sharp edge of disbelief in his voice, and I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. Extinct? What could they possibly be talking about?
“I know that, Abner, I know!” Mr. Hawthorne replied in a hushed tone. I edged closer to the door, straining to catch his words as they became harder to make out. “… she said it clear as day. ‘Kill the a’mun sul.’”
My breath caught, and I stumbled backward, tripping over my own feet and landing with a thud. The sudden silence from the office sent a jolt of panic through me. I had to move fast. They couldn’t know I’d been listening. Scrambling to my feet, I hurried down several rows, grabbing a few books and placing them on the floor as if I’d been organizing them all along. Just then, Mr. Hawthorne’s head appeared at the end of the aisle.
“Everything alright, dear?” His voice was calm, but the look of concern on his face sent a ripple of unease through me.
“Oh, yes sir, sorry! I, uh, dropped a few books while I was wiping down the shelf.” I tried to keep my breathing steady, forcing a polite smile, though my heart was racing. A’mun sul? That word again. It was what she—or it—called me in my dream. Kill? Mr. Hawthorne couldn’t hurt a fly. He literally caught and released every spider, centipede, or moth that wandered into the shop. Mr. Fairweather, on the other hand…
“Do be careful, Elswyth,” Mr. Hawthorne said with a gentle sigh. “Books are sturdy companions, but they still deserve our care.” His voice was kind, though the hint of a scold was unmistakable.
I nodded, pretending to busy myself with the books at my feet. He turned to return to his office, and I quietly followed behind him, peeking around the corner. Mr. Fairweather lingered in the office doorway, a thinly veiled look of annoyance crossing his face.
“Silas, we’ll discuss this further another day,” he said, his tone clipped. “Perhaps when your mind isn’t clouded by fairy tales and legend.” He cast one final glance at me before turning and stepping away.
“Now see here, Abner, my mind is clear as day,” Mr. Hawthorne insisted, following him toward the front of the store. “We must take this seriously.”
Suddenly, Mr. Fairweather spun on his heels, hissing in a hushed tone, “If this were true, and there were real signs beyond your little daydreams, I would, Silas.” He paused, straightening his posture and adjusting his jacket. “As it stands, I have more important matters to attend to. Good day.” Without another word, he turned and strode out of the store.
Mr. Hawthorne let out a long sigh and turned back toward his office. I quickly busied myself with my pretend work, placing the books back on their shelves. Without a word, he stepped inside and shut the door with a gentle click.
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