She thought again of those voices.They weren’t exactly the hum and creak of an old building, but she was determined to move past it.
“I’ll bet after another week or two I won’t even notice.”
“How are you managing?I mean, it’s a great flat and all, but everything in there must remind you of her.”
“It does,” Aurelia admitted, looking around at the mess of her moving boxes mixed in with her aunt’s things.“But it’s free.My old lease was up anyway, and it doesn’t make sense to pay rent somewhere else when I’m here running the shop every day.”
There was an awkward silence.The shop had been in their family for generations, passed down from aunt to niece since the early 1900s.With Antonia’s life firmly rooted in Paris, Marigold had left the shop to Aurelia—giving her no choice but to keep the family business going.
“I know I’ve said it before,” Antonia said sincerely, “but I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to sell the place.”
“I can’t let it go.And what if Julia wants to run it one day?I’ll make it work.”Aurelia tried her best to sound convincing.
“Are you at least keeping up with your writing?”
“No.”Quickly cutting her sister off, she added, “Not right now anyway.I’m not in a good place these days.”
“Exactly.You’re tucked away with all of Aunt Marigold’s old things.”
The children’s voices reached fever pitch; Antonia’s teasing tone was gone when she spoke again.
“I’d better go.Try to think happy thoughts, Relia.Know I love you.”
Aurelia held her breath, trying not to let loose her tears.
“I do.You too.”
She hung up and rested her head on the back of the chair as she closed her eyes.She and her sister had started saying ‘know I love you’ whenever they spoke.It had been their mother’s way of saying goodbye ever since they were little, her way of sending them off into the world safe in the knowledge that they were loved.A tear slid down her cheek and Aurelia swept it away before opening her eyes and sitting up in her chair.
“Right, then.”
Nodding decisively, she stood and walked toward the kitchen.As she passed a box filled with her old notebooks and journals, she paused, brushing a hand across their spines.Would she ever again feel that need to hold a pen in her hand and scribble down her ideas?Pursing her lips in frustration, she turned from the notebooks and resolved to start her day in earnest.
3
AnhourlaterandAurelia was standing in the stairwell at the door to the shop, willing herself to walk through it and go about the business of opening for the day.She felt a chill run up her spine at the thought of stepping into the shop again, but it was broad daylight and there were no voices coming from the other side of the door.Last night had to have been a dream, no matter how very real it might have seemed.Inhaling deeply as though the air could supply her with courage, Aurelia opened the door and walked onto the mezzanine.
It was empty, just as it should be.
She exhaled and looked around.Whenever she walked into the shop, she was always conscious of the hush that came from the dense books; the worn, sky-blue carpet underfoot; and the yellow curtains with their blue tasseled tiebacks.On her visits to the shop as a child, she’d been dazzled by its blue and yellow décor, so evocative of moonlit skies and magicians’ capes.She was less dazzled once she was old enough to vacuum and dust what to her had felt like miles of blue carpet and rows and rows of books.
There was a wrought iron railing overlooking the floor below, and Aurelia stepped over to it.Like the ground floor, bookshelves ran along the mezzanine, though there were gaps for artwork and built-in benches where customers could sit and read.Opposite the door to the flat stretched a wide cushioned window seat set below the oversized window at the front of the building, facing the street.The only sounds were her own breathing, the soft ticking of the clock downstairs, and the distant noises from the street outside.She reminded herself that a quiet shop was a good sign; it was further proof that what she’d experienced last night was all in her imagination.
Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Aurelia walked down the spiral staircase that led from the mezzanine to the back of the shop, where she passed a large semicircular desk with a high ledge running across the top.The desk was home to a register and a small typewriter that had sat there for so long that it was practically a fixture.Heading toward the front of the shop, she surveyed the overstuffed yellow velvet armchair and the round table with its rotating stock of books marked as ‘Recommended Reads.’She was nearly past the table when one of the books on display,Pride and Prejudice, caught her attention.
Ah, she told herself,I must have spotted it yesterday and had it in the back of my mind.Relief washed over her until she realized that might explain why she thought she’d heard a reference to Darcy’s home, but not why she’d heard voices in the first place.
Her anxious thoughts were displaced by the sound of the old mantel clock at the back of the shop chiming to let her know that it was ten o’clock and time to open for the day.
Moving to the front windows, she raised the blinds and looked out across the street, which formed one side of a small and leafy square that had inspired the shop’s name—On the Square Books.The shop’s building was tucked in amongst others on the street like a slim book between heavier volumes on a bookshelf.Though it was in central London, somehow the square was an oasis from the general hubbub of city life, and this morning was no exception.
Usually Aurelia appreciated the stillness, but now she wished for a bit more noise and activity to distract her from the thoughts that kept surfacing—strange noises in the shop, the odd light under the door.At least it was a Saturday, she told herself, which was sure to bring customers and, with them, something different to occupy her mind.
In spite of Aurelia’s hopes, not a single customer crossed the threshold until just before noon, when one of Aunt Marigold’s old regulars arrived.
Just as she did now, Mrs.Smith always seemed to arrive and depart in a rush with her corgi, Alfie, trotting behind her as fast as his short little legs could carry him.Whenever Fezz saw Alfie, he slunk to the spiral staircase and let out a few non-threatening hisses as he affected to nonchalantly climb the stairs.Alfie would stand below, whimpering his desperation to follow Fezz, but too afraid to venture far from Mrs.Smith—likely afraid she’d race out of the shop without him.
The two animals began their standoff as soon as Mrs.Smith breezed inside.Mrs.Smith—she was always ‘Mrs.Smith’ since she’d never invited Aurelia to call her by her first name—didn’t so much as look at Aurelia but headed straight for the shelves stocked with Agatha Christie’s works.
