Page 3 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers
The older I got, the more I found that I could relate to those things. So, when I turned sixteen, I began to pester John for a job.
He took great offence to my proposition at first, but thanks to his granddaughter Amelia’s persistent lack of interest in reading and business, John eventually conceded that I was his best chance for retirement.
For the first couple of years, I worked to gradually increase my hours while John subsequently reduced his own until I eventually became full-time. He still visited the store, though as his health declined, his visits became fewer and further between. Patricia Farley, the president of the local book club, managed to take two or three shifts on the weeks that John couldn’t. I had a sneaking suspicion that Trish stayed out at the broken-down cottage on those weeks, too, but I was never bold enough to ask.
Amelia, who stayed my best friend and remained uninterested in the bookstore, came and went as she pleased. She usually called in during the week to brief me on local gossip, and she always left behind a trail of books she’d neglected to return to their shelves and chocolate wrappers that hadn’t made it to the bin in her wake.
I didn’t mind the frequent moments of quiet solitude between visits because I liked my own company and the little niche I’d found amongst the avid readers in our town. I also liked the characters in the books that entertained me during the slow times. We had a tight budget, but I managed to balance it between the classics our regulars liked and new trending titles on BookTok and Bookstagram. It was enough for a monthly delivery of new material, which sustained me between my other tasks.
I was seventy-four pages into one of those books—a new adult romance with enough spice to make my cheeks flush—when the little brass bell at the entrance jangled, followed by the sharpclickof the front door closing.
Glancing up from the page on which the forced proximity trope finally made an appearance, I realised how late it was.
The gentle lights hanging from the exposed rafters were visibly strained against the waning daylight, scarcely able to illuminate the spaces between tall rows of bookshelves. They cast a soft and reflective golden glow on the wood and spines. Craning my neck to peer around the reading lamp in front of me, I saw the empty street outside was already submerged in the lilac gleam of dusk.
“I’m sorry,” I called out, in case there was someone still at the front. My voice echoed through the store, sharper than I’d intended. “We’re closed.”
There was no answer.
They must have seen the front counter is empty and left.
Closing my book, I gathered up the chocolate wrappers Amelia had left behind. She had breezed in and out of the store to invite me to dinner and drinks at The Water Dragon four chapters ago. I’d set myself up in the reading nook to see out the quiet final hour of my shift, and so I told her I’d come out once I’d finished the chapter I was reading.
She’d left with a shrug—but not before agreeing to lock up at the front, which she had clearly forgotten about in the twenty seconds it took her to get from the back of the store, through the rows of bookcases, and out to the front entrance.
Mentally cursing her, I fluffed the pillow I’d been nestled against on the two-seater couch and tucked the book under my arm.
My steps were light on the hardwood floors, creaking slightly in certain places where the wood had warped after the leak a few years prior. I binned the wrappers and shut the door to the office Amelia had left open, flicking the main light switch down on my way past.
Dante’s plunged into an earthy gloom with grey, dust-flecked light floating between the shadowed shelves. The day was disappearing fast.
Blinking a few times to let my eyes adjust, I took the shortest route around the outskirts of the bookcases to the front desk. The counter sat to one side of the narrow entryway, which was occupied by a circular oak table showcasing new releases. A few stalls of bestsellers sat on either side of an antique armchair against the opposite wall. Beside it was a solid, gated staircase leading to the book surgery on the second floor—and Amelia had left the gate open.
Picking up my bag and sliding my book into it, I strode over and latched the gate closed.
I have no idea why Amelia would open it in the first place when she has no interest in any of the repairs that are stored upstairs, and she always brings her own food—
The thought stilled me for a moment.
Amelia never opens the gate. She never goes upstairs.
I looked out of the display window into the street, the cobblestone turning indigo in the fast-fading light as greyscale shadows crept up the buildings across the road. Wooden tablesand crates had been emptied of their wares, some covered with tarp and others dragged in beneath the awnings. The first of the streetlamps flickered on a few doors up, shining silver onto the pavement below. The person who had walked into Dante’s a few minutes ago was gone.
There’s no one out there.
I rolled my shoulders back, dispelling the unusual shiver creeping up my spine, and started walking back to the desk.
Halfway across the room, I stilled again.
I was alone, but the feeling of being watched lingered like the brush of a hand along my back.
Somewhere on the upper level, a page flipped over. The sharp scrape of freshly bound and uncoated paper was unmistakable.
My skin prickled.
A sensation like the blow of breath hit the nape of my neck.
Someone is up there.
