“It’s the same,” Beatrix heard the woman whisper to herself. “Just the same.”
A book that Beatrix hadn’t realized was resting on the arm of the chair toppled to the floor as she shifted, the slight thump instantly drawing her visitor’s attention.
“Oh,” the stranger gasped, her eyes widening in surprise. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
The woman turned her back to Beatrix then, her hand reaching for the doorknob, the hasty movement conveying a deep sense of embarrassment.
“Please, don’t go,” Beatrix said as she rose from her chair and pushed her spectacles higher up her nose. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
The question took Beatrix herself by surprise. She hadn’t ever considered opening the front door and selling the books that rested along the shelves. Her thoughts only went so far as the next chapter of the story she was reading, but the words had come before she knew what was being said.
The woman shook her head, and her mouth was already forming the telltale shape of a “no.” But then her gaze landed on the book that had fallen beside the chair, the one that Beatrix hadn’t remembered putting there, and her eyes widened in recognition.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice softening as she took the smallest step away from the door.
Beatrix turned to where she was looking and leaned down to grab the book. The light pouring in from the windows was fainter now, but she could just make out the blue cover.
“It’s a fairytale collection,” Beatrix replied with a grin. “One that’s been well loved, by the look of the pages.”
The woman drew closer still then, as if she wanted to reach out and touch the cover but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so.
“Would you like to see it?” Beatrix asked as she extended the book toward her guest.
The woman glanced back at the cover, clearly warring with herself. But eventually, she nodded and shifted forward, grasping the spine with a shaking hand.
Beatrix watched as she ran the tips of her fingers over the book, obviously enjoying what it felt like to touch the cloth binding and smooth gilded letters of the title.
But instead of turning to the first page, as most readers would, the woman reached for a spot in the very center of the book and flipped it open, as one does when they’ve read a story so many times that their hands remember where to find the best part.
“You’ve read it before,” Beatrix murmured in wonder. “This book was yours.”
The woman’s gaze was still locked on the page that she’d turned to, but she nodded silently.
“You must be May,” Beatrix murmured gently, finally drawing the pieces together.
“I had forgotten this,” May replied in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard Beatrix at all. She was entirely absorbed in the book now, the feel of the pages against her thumbs and scent of aged paper drawing her away from the present and into the past. “My brother used to make me tell him the stories aloud when he was teaching me how to read. He said that everything I needed to learn could be found in fairy tales.”
“Is he the one who left the note?” Beatrix asked, gesturing toward the very back of the book where the text had been crossed through.
“Yes,” May murmured, her gaze still fixed on the words beneath her fingertips. “He was always saying that . . .a good story has no end.”
Beatrix knew that she should have pressed May then, begged her to help them so that everyone could meet a happy fate.
But in that moment, all she saw was a reader slipping into the familiar comfort of a beloved story, and she didn’t have it in her to disturb that kind of magic.
“Was this your favorite?” Beatrix asked with a smile as she stepped beside May and looked down at the page.
As she expected, it was the tale that had been dogeared so many times that the corner at the top was nearly falling away, the one about the sister whose brothers turned into ravens.
“It was,” May whispered. “I haven’t given it a thought since I was a child, but now it seems as if I could recite it word for word.” “The stories closest to our hearts have that effect,”Beatrix agreed with a nod of understanding. “We may forget them, but they always find their way back to us.”
“Whenever I read it to Philip, I’d tell him that I was going to be like the girl in the tale one day,” May said, her voice rough with the tears that she was holding at bay. “That if he ever needed me to, I would walk across the whole world to save him.”
Beatrix remained silent, sensing somehow that she needed to let May wander down the path she’d stumbled onto instead of pushing her in a particular direction.
“This was Philip’s shop, you know,” May said as she looked about the shelves. “He opened it after our parents passed the mercantile store on to him. Said he wanted to fill it with what people really needed: stories that would help them discover what was worth living for.”
She took in a deep breath then, the barest start of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips as she sank into the scent of polished wood shelves, aged paper, and leatherbound books and let the aroma carry her back.
