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“Excuse me, ma’am. You work here, right?” A man approached. “Would you please ring up this book for me? There’s nobody over at the register.”

The customer was right. Archibald had abandoned his post. Probably to go and have a snack with their illustrious guest.

As she rang up the sale, she heard Dan Wilder’s voice filtering out from the breakroom.

“Don’t you have a used books section?” he was asking. “I finished something on the flight over here and I’d love to trade it in for something else to read on the trip back.”

She counted out the customer’s change.

“Mmm… Sorry. We’re moving away from the old used books model,” Archibald said proudly, like it was a relief. He may as well have bragged about switching to indoor plumbing. “We’re streamlining our inventory here in the shop. New titles and bestsellers only going forward. Only the things people actually want. No more of that gross old junk.”

A silence followed.

“Huh,” Dan Wilder said. His tone was careful, neutral and diplomatic. “Well, I think that’s a shame.”

“That’s progress,” Archibald said. He sounded exactly like Clement. “Much more efficient sales model.”

“Enjoy your book!” Tempest smiled at the customer even though her heart was threatening to beat right out of her chest.

Progress?

As soon as the customer departed, Tempest locked the till. She couldn’t just stand there eavesdropping any longer. She had to move.

She paced the floor, moving from room to room through the labyrinthine bookstore. She climbed up stairs and wound her way back down through hallways crowded with bookshelves. When she reached the poetry atelier she stopped and stood between Neruda and Szymborska with her clipboard held against her chest and her eyes fixed on the middle distance. She fought back the tears.

More efficient?

She thought of the elderly couple who’d come in the week before with their trolley full of books, their eyes lighting up at the idea of store credit, their joy at the thought of their old, beloved books finding their second life.

She thought of all the boxes of books in the back still waiting to be shelved. How hopeful they were as they waited patiently for their next reader. They were all nestled together with their curled edges, and wishful inscriptions inked inside their front covers. There was so much wisdom waiting inside them. Not only in the original words. In the recipes written in margins, the lives pressed between their pages like dried flowers.

Wasn’t this the point? Wasn’t that where all of this had started?

Owl’s had never been a shop that exclusively sold new merchandise. The charm of the magical bookshop was that it didn’t sell the same stuff as everyone else. Owl’s was where you came to find books that had been passed down, sometimes for centuries, before ending up in your hands.

Old junk?

Fortune suddenly appeared. She landed on Tempest’s shoulder. She always seemed to know when Tempest needed her.

“Change is coming, isn’t it?” Tempest whispered to her friend. “I can’t keep pretending everything is fine.”

For once, Fortune was silent. She didn’t have anything to say.

Tempest took a few deep breaths before heading back toward the front of the store. Dan had returned to the table. While she was away, however, the purple group had somehow expanded. She suspected that Archibald and Barnabas were handing out wristbands willy-nilly to anyone and everyone who walked into the shop now, and not just those who had pre-registered for the event.

The purple group’s line had no end. She didn’t know if they’d be able to get through everyone by Dan’s 6:30 hard stop time.

“Tempest! Keep your bird away from the signing table!” Barnabas shoved past her. “She’s freaking out the customers. She needs to be locked up in her cage, immediately.”

She’d never know if it was merely bad luck or Fortune’s ire, but the calamities began to compound almost immediately.

A clumsy customer knocked over a rack of bookmarks.

The water cooler in the hallway near the restrooms sprang a leak. Tempest had to run to find a wrench and turn off the water.

A toddler in the children’s section spied a mouse, picked it up and put it in her pocket. Fortunately, the child’s mother was not musophobic and elected to keep it as a pet.

At 6:27, Tempest rushed back to the main room with her copy of The Most Important Question. But it was already too late. Dan Wilder was stepping away from the table. He reached his hands up overhead to stretch, clasping his fingers and swaying slightly. He already had his overcoat on.