Tatiana scurried back out of the cave of boxes. When the first orders had begun to arrive, she’d scarcely believed that the idea Valdi had run by her back in the summer was actually coming to fruition. She’d been the one to suggest the method of fulfillment all the companies had decided on, so she’d taken responsibility for the logistics of it as well. Each Book Bulletin had order forms for each of the companies represented inside it, so they were each responsible for filling only their owntitles. She knew that Valdi and the other publishers had considered shipping books to a central warehouse and hiring someone to fillallthe orders, but without knowing what the response would be, it had seemed an unnecessary risk and expense. Easier by far was to create multiple forms for inclusion.
And to see their dream working? Orders coming in daily? That was enough to make her push aside how far behind she already was today and hurry to see how many more forms she’d need to process this afternoon.
But she paused when she caught the look on the postman’s face. He held a large canvas sack, which was nothing out of the ordinary—he usually gave her a smile and reached inside for the portion of it that was for the Story Society. Today, however, he lifted his brows and set the whole bag down.
Tatiana followed its descent with her gaze. “It’s not... all of that, is it?”
The postman huffed. “And more besides. I’ll bring the other one in next.”
No. He must be joking.Or perhaps someone had made a mistake and put some of the other publishers’ forms into the bag for them. She darted forward andunzipped the bag, fully expecting to pull out a handful of envelopes addressed to another company.
But no. All the same, and all correct. All tothem. Dozens... scores... hundreds of forms. For a moment, just one, excitement still surged through her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the Bulletin would be such a success!
Then reality crashed in. Christmas was thirteen days away, and not all of those could be used for mailing out orders, which of course had to arrivebeforethat holy day. That meant that she had, what, a week? A week to get all of these orders sorted, filled, boxed, weighed, and put back into the hands of the postal service?
She lifted her head, her gaze clashing with Bjarni’s. He stood there on the other side of the little table she’d been using for her work, mouth agape and panic in his eyes that surely matched hers. “There’s...”No way.There was no way they could get through all of these orders in such a short amount of time, just the four of them. Especially since Jon would no doubt be constantly driving between here and the warehouse to try to keep their books in stock. There just wasn’t enough room here to store all the ones they’d need.
Bjarni scrubbed a hand over his face. “Never onceoccurred to me that this could betoosuccessful. What do we do, Tatta?”
The postman brought in the second bag, but rather than set this one down, he unzipped it. Tatiana drew in a breath, hoping that meant he’d just take out a twine-wrapped section, like he usually did.
But no. He poured them all out onto the table, shaking the stragglers loose. Then reached for the first bag and did the same, mumbling something about needing the canvas sacks back.
The mountain of envelopes turned into an avalanche, spilling off the table and into Tatiana’s lap as the postman pivoted and left again with a call of “Good luck.”
Her eyes stung. Her nose clogged. Her throat went tight.
She’d have to spend every waking hour in this mail room, and still she wouldn’t get finished in time. And Elea! Her niece was here so that she could have agoodholiday, so that she could receive the attention she deserved. Not so that she could be ignored while her guardian feverishly shoved books into boxes.
Elea would never want to visit her again. Ari would scream at Tatiana for neglecting the child so desperatefor the attention of an adult who loved her. And when she failed to get all these orders out on time—which she would—Valdi would sack her. Maybe all of them.
No. No, she had to protect the regular mail room workers. This wasn’t their fault. She was the one who’d promised her uncle she could take care of the extra load. She’d been the one to suggest to him that each company should fill its own orders rather than renting a warehouse and hiring all new staff. This was her problem. Her mess. Her doing.
Herundoing.
Try as she might to hold it all together, the tears overcame her resolve and leaked out onto her cheeks. She dashed them away, tried to regulate her breathing, tried to tilt her face down so no one else would see how ridiculous she was being, but it was all too much.
This was supposed to be a celebration, this entire enterprise. A celebration of Iceland, newly independent. Of a nation somehow flourishing despite this horrible war. Of the stories they were known for, that they were producing in record numbers.
This was supposed to be a visit that her niece would remember with joy and laughter.
This was supposed to be a happy secret Tatiana couldsmile over to herself, as she packed up hundreds of copies of her own books and prayed over each one, that its recipient would find what they needed in the pages, something to touch their hearts and inspire them.
She heard Jon return and caught Bjarni mumbling something to him about fetching Valdi. That was enough to convince her to shove the envelopes off her legs, to push herself to her feet.
The situation didn’t look any better from the added height. Worse, if anything. Now she could see the full chaos on the table.
She wiped her cheeks again, though more tears took the place of the ones she dashed away.
Bjarni, who’d been working at the Story Society longer even than Uncle Valdi, patted her shoulder. “I don’t blame you for the tears, Tatta. Frankly, I agree. This is too much. It’s hopeless, unless your uncle hires an army to help us. We’ll never get through them all.”
“And more could still come tomorrow.” Her shoulders sagged, and she couldn’t blame it on the added weight of Bjarni’s hand. “What happens to the ones we can’t fill in time? Do we send them out late? Refund them?”
Usually the old-timer was full of smiles andoptimism. Usually, he’d have said,Don’t you worry, Tatta, we’ll get them all out.Today, he just sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Though she knew she ought to get started—open all the envelopes, set the checks in a pile to be taken to the bank, make a list of all the books in the orders so they could try to get enough here from the warehouse—she couldn’t bring herself to slit open even one. Once she started, she’d be chained to this table for the foreseeable future.
More of the stupid tears welled.
