I ran my fingers idly across the spines of the books I passed. My twin sister, Lacey, had always hated used books; she wanted everything brand new, born into this world for her alone to make her mark on it. I’d never minded a little scruff. I liked that used books brought with them their own history—every dog-ear, every stain, every crease. Maybe a book was slightly faded because someone had left it in the sun on their honeymoon. Maybe page ninety-eight was turned at the corner because it contained a glorious insult, or the perfect romantic turn of phrase. Maybe the person who’d highlighted nearly every line had graduated at the top of her class. Secondhand books could have lived in tiny walk-ups or hotel rooms or the White House—or, here, even in Balmoral Castle itself. Each book was a mystery, its secrets hidden in plain sight.
Kind of like me.
Most shoppers in Wigtown, known officially as Scotland’s National Book Town, were so immersed in its bookstores that they barely looked at the human beings working in them. No one appeared to notice the beauty mark that to me seemed so obviously to be made of eyeliner; the fact that I could see the register better if I looked over, rather than through, the lenses in my matronly frames; or that I was, appropriately, wearing an actual wig. And whenever Nick joked that there might be a village somewhere called Booktown that specialized in wigs—which was often—no one realized they were laughing politely with the second in line to the throne. The store itself was part of our disguise.
My elderly murder aficionado eventually met me at the register with my recommendation and a couple of grim offerings from Creepy French Murders (Historical). I rang him up with the promise to set aside anything else obscure that came our way.
“Much obliged, Miss…?” He peered at me expectantly.
“Margot,” I said.
He touched his hat. “Name’s Duncan,” he said. “Remember me to your husband. He helped me find a very naughty bodice ripper yesterday for the wife. Best recommendation of the year so far.”
“Ah, so you’re a regular here,” I said.
“Too right. This shop is like a telly program! New every week,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the variety. Just last month we had a Danish lass who’d left her fourth husband when she found him shagging her second husband.” He wiggled the twin thickets above his eyes in gossipy glee.
“Sounds like this place is a book in itself,” I said. “Maybe you should write it.”
“Not enough murder, lass.” He studied me. “What brings you here? Don’t suppose you’re on the lam?”
I held a neutral expression amid a flutter of nerves. We’d sketched out a story, but this was the first time anyone had looked me square in the face and asked.
“Steve left his job,” I said. “We’ve been traveling. He’s looking for inspiration, and I’m…”
Duncan cocked his head and waited.
“I guess I’m looking for inspiration, too.” I shrugged apologetically. “I hope our chapter in your book isn’t too boring.”
“Nonsense,” Duncan said. “No one is boring.” He hooked a thumb back toward the bowels of the shop. “There’s stacks of inspiration right here. You’ll find it soon enough.”
He left with a ding of the bell over the door. From my perch behind the cash register, I watched as he touched the brim of his hat in the direction of the owner of the café across the street. The sun didn’t fully set in Scotland at this time of year until late, but around closing time every night, I would glance out the window, and my hand would itch to sketch its slow descent. Nick had joked that the soft light of the Scottish evenings made his face more luminous, like the lead actress on Outlander—which he’d been binge-watching—and I had laughed, but he was right about its effect, both on his face and on everything else. The Bookmark wasn’t even on Wigtown’s most picturesque stretch of road, but the waning rays still suffused a singular glow onto its buildings, and the street took on a gentle quality, as if it were easing you into its arms for a good-night hug.
The woman across the street finished sweeping the patio and leaned on her broom in a moment of fatigue. She was winding down for the night; with a swell of satisfaction, I too locked the door of the shop. Our shop. For now, anyway.
I flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED, and then my body took over, instinctively tensing my muscles to brace me for what it knew was coming. Right on cue, the church bells clanged, and I was no longer in Scotland. They ceased being the bells of Wigtown and became those of Westminster Abbey, ripping through the temperate London air in a celebratory aria I will never forget—because nobody was celebrating with them. The crowd, which practically screamed off the roofs when I’d arrived, was quiet. No cheering. Not even any booing. Just staring, either at us or at the devices in their hands, in icy silence.
For six sonorous clangs, I was back in front of that church. Exposed. Loathed. Ashamed.
The church bells made it hard to forget.
* * *
I trudged up our narrow staircase toward the smell of something burnt, as usual. The flat above the shop was, in many ways, an echo of the books below: tattered, torn in parts, but well loved. The ancient appliances were tricky to regulate even for an experienced chef, which Nick was not, and so the aromas wafting from his general direction come dinnertime were always just left of tempting. Nick had been raised in a place where chores were done before he would ever realize they needed doing, and in these few weeks on our own, I think he’d enjoyed playacting as a civilian—running to the market, doing laundry, scrubbing down the kitchen counters. What was a drudge for most people was a novelty for him, as
