“She doesn’t seem the type.”
“She’d be pleased to hear you say that.” As they passed Bel and the Dragon, music pumped out the tavern’s open door. “Although Grandpapa is no longer with us, Rose has kept her interest in languages. She teaches herself now, and she loves new books to puzzle out for practice.”
“I would never have guessed it. Rose seems…”
“Empty-headed?” Violet supplied helpfully.
“No. Well, a bit, I suppose, but I don’t mean it in a bad way.”
“She’s constructed a good facade, our Rose.” She moved closer to him, avoiding a horse and carriage. “She is of the opinion, you see, that men aren’t interested in intelligent women.”
“I wasn’t,” he murmured.
“Pardon?”
Switching sides to shield her from the traffic, he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t at all aware of Rose’s scholarly tendencies. Philosophy, languages…you Ashcroft girls are surely not the usual sort.”
“The Ashcroft motto is Interroga Conformationem.”
“Question Convention?” Judging from his expression, that seemed to amuse him. “What talent is Lily hiding?”
“Only a gentle heart. She cannot stand to see any being in pain, human or animal.” She stopped before the bookshop, which looked blessedly deserted, and suddenly realized that with all the conversation, she’d forgotten to worry about strangers staring at her.
In fact, she’d forgotten about everything but Ford, including her unsightly spectacles—and her little brother.
Fortunately, the children were right behind them. “Do you two think you can behave in there?” she asked sternly.
Ford crossed his arms. “No pranks in there, you hear?”
“Gads, Uncle Ford, of course not.” Jewel pulled open the door. “Pretty,” she said, looking up. “Like Rowan’s house, and Auntie Kendra’s.”
Entering behind her, Violet bit back a smile. The ceiling Jewel was gazing at was beautifully carved and gilded, although the rest of the shop had seen better days. Row upon row of narrow aisles were crammed with books on sagging wooden shelves. More books sat piled haphazardly on the floor, apparently waiting to be sorted. Dark and well-worn, the place smelled like leather, paper, and ink.
Exactly the way a bookshop should.
A man appeared, looking well-worn like the shop. “John Young, at your service.” His hair was salt-and-pepper, and his blue eyes were faded with age, yet lively as he regarded Jewel. “You like the ceiling, little one? If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you a secret about that ceiling.”
He wove through the tall shelves and stopped in the middle of the shop. “Look up,” he said.
They all did. A carved molding divided the elaborate ceiling, and although the sides were decorated in an identical fashion, the front half was dated 1576 and the back 1577.
“Why are there two dates?” Rowan asked.
“That’s the secret.” Mr. Young smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth with only one missing. “Tell me,” he asked the children, “what happened between those two dates?” He waited a beat. “I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t the first time it happened, nor will it be the last. It happened again about fifty years later, and yet again in 1665.”
“I wasn’t born yet,” Jewel said. “How should I know?”
Rowan puffed out his chest. “I wasn’t born yet, either, but I know anyway. The Black Death.”
“Bright boy.” The bookseller ruffled Rowan’s hair. “The workmen were from Italy and sailed for home when the plague took hold. But they promised to come back and finish, and so they did, a year later. Hence the two dates.”
“That’s funny.” Jewel stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then her gaze dropped to a table against the wall. “A draughts board!” She batted her lashes at the bookseller. “May we play?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Young said I’m bright,” Rowan told her. “I wager I can beat you.”
Ford laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend you bet money. She’s the type that goes for the throat.”
“I can beat any old girl.”
Jewel planted her hands on her hips. “We’ll see about that.”
She made a beeline for the table, waving Rowan into the chair opposite as she settled herself with a fluff of her pale yellow skirts. Her face was all business as she began to set the markers.
Mr. Young turned to Violet, peering curiously at her eyeglasses. “May I help you find something, milady?”
“They’re spectacles. They allow me to see at a distance,” she explained, although he politely hadn’t asked.
“How very fascinating.”
He didn’t seem repulsed by her appearance, just honestly interested. “Would you like to try them?” she offered.
“I can see at a distance fine. It’s up close where I have trouble. My arms need to be longer.” His smile reappeared. “It’s a brilliant invention, though, isn’t it?”
“Quite.” She smiled in return. Perhaps not everyone would laugh at her, after all.
“Have you any books in foreign languages?” Ford asked. “And my lady would like to see some philosophy titles.”
“Philosophy I have. This way, if you please.” After directing her around the corner to a tall shelf full of books, he scratched his graying head. “Now, as for foreign languages, I’m afraid…ah, yes, perhaps I do have something in the back. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
The instant he disappeared, Ford moved close, so close Violet could smell the warm scent of his skin. Patchouli and soap and fresh air.
He backed her gently against the shelves. “How does it feel to be off the barge?” he whispered.
“Liberating.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Will you look for books, too?”
“I’ll look for Rose’s.”
“Would you? I’m hopeless at languages.”
“I don’t know many. French, having grown up on the Continent during Cromwell’s Protectorate.” He lifted the tail of her long, heavy plait, and Violet went still, barely breathing.
Was he noticing it wasn’t soft and shiny like other girls’ hair? Did he think it was hideous?
“Some Dutch,” he went on, “since the exiled court spent time at The Hague as well. And Latin, of course.” Wrapping the end around his finger, he gave it a gentle tug. “But that’s all.”
“It’s three more than I can claim.” Watching his fingers play with her hair, her scalp went all tingly. “If
