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This morning, as foot traffic is often light Monday mornings, I’m in the back unpacking a new box of books—spy novels—when the bell chimes. I smooth my skirt, push through the cheerful Liberty fabric I’ve hung across the open doorway dividing the front showroom from the back workroom, and stall to cast about for who has come to my tiny speck of London.

A tall man in the dark-blue uniform of the Metropolitan Police examines my selection of Agatha Christies. Panic rises within me, a feeling I’ve become quite used to over the last three months, and a quick recitation of the lie I live and the details I must hold close—along with the reminder of my new name—races through my mind.

Once done—and it’s done a little faster each time—I speak aloud. “May I help you?”

“While I enjoy Marple as a detective, I prefer Brown.”

I blink and the world tilts on its axis as the man turns from the shelves. “Charlie?” I exhale as there’s no air in the room for more. I stand stupidly as he closes the distance between us. Only then do I find my voice. “How are you here? That’s—that’s not your uniform.”

He runs a hand down the wool tunic and polished brass buttons. “It is now. I transferred to Scotland Yard last week.”

“You did?”

He steps closer still. So close a whisper fills the space between us. “It seemed to be the thing to do, as I’ve been spending every off weekend here anyway.”

I blink again, as if blinking will make sense of this. “You have? You’ve been in London?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I soak him in. I also hear my own question and marvel at the stupidity of it. Why can’t I think of anything more intelligent? What if he turns and walks away because I’m a dolt? “I mean, what brought you here?”

“Lady Marchmont let slip she’d been in London the weekend of 4 March, so I ran with that lead. I came every weekend to check the public services rolls for a name I might recognize. I knew you’d choose something from your beloved books.”

My lips curve. “You’re quite the detective.”

“Not so good as you.” He chuckles. “You’d have found me in a heartbeat, after discounting theories about werewolves and the like.”

My smile grows.

“No, it’s no credit to my skills at all,” he continues. “I’d grown rather discouraged and pathetic actually. Until Lady Marchmont, again, caught me coming out of the general store and commented how the book selection had really taken ‘quite a sad turn since Gemma left.’”

He pitches his voice high in an almost perfect imitation of the viscountess before continuing. “She then drew near, as if telling me a great secret, and confessed that she couldn’t be loyal to Hastings anymore as she’d found a perfectly delightful bookshop in London. The Undercover Bookshop.”

Now it’s a full grin, and Charlie is merely inches away.

“She didn’t?” I sigh, recalling how she said she’d interfere if things turned “topsy-turvy.” I also make a mental note to thank her, again and again, until the day I die.

“She did. And all that searching for a fictional detective each weekend ended. I probably felt a bit like you do when an answer comes to you like lightning, except I had to be handed the bolt.”

I take a deep breath. It comes out shaky. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“That was never going to happen, Nora Marple.”

“You chose that name, though you didn’t know it.”

He winks. “Nora Charles is quite a detective.”

I gasp. It was right there all along, and I never saw it. Dashiell Hammett’s detective novel, The Thin Man. Nora. One half of the detective duo with her dashing husband, Nick. Nick and Nora Charles.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” He draws closer still. “Or did you never make the connection?”

“I never made it. I’ve never called you Herbert, and I always forget Charles isn’t your first name, but your last.”

I drop my forehead in relief against his chest. He’s here. He’s really here.

He lifts my chin. “How does Nora Charles sound to you?”

“Marvelous” barely escapes my lips before his capture mine.