She began to feel a turmoil inside her, a strange instability that had not been there before. The awkwardness between them remained, but it was softer now, and alongside it there was something deeper and more disarming. The way he had begun to look at her, to regard himself around her, was something altogether new, and her behavior toward him had altered, too. There was a familiarity to their actions now, as though they had been through something together, which in a way they had. But there was also a new foreignness to the way they interacted, as though each was wary of the other, equipped with new information, or new feeling. Everything had become tenser.
A part of her wished to never see him again, to no longer be confronted with him. There were more important aims to satisfy, other tasks to complete, like returning home so she could write her books. She needed to stop thinking of him.
Jane tried to remind herself of the things she disliked about him and spent several minutes attempting to compose a list of his faults in her head. When that did not work, she looked for another distraction. She fetched Fordyce and pleaded with herself to begin the next sermon. She ran her eyes over the lines of text and read nothing but reassured herself that eventually, distraction would come.
WHEN SHE GREETED Sofia in the kitchen that evening, her eye caught the glimmer of the glass cabinet that held the liquor and her books. She turned toward it to discover only four books now sat in the pile on the little glass shelf.
A second book had disappeared. Sense and Sensibility.
“Did you move it?” Jane asked Sofia, pointing to the empty space where her novel once rested.
Sofia shook her head with a look of horror and picked up a bottle of wine. “I don’t understand,” she said. “We’ve done everything right. You’ve stayed in the house, have you not?”
“I have,” Jane replied.
“You have not committed any interactions with the twenty-first century that might jeopardize your chances of returning to 1803?”
“I cannot think of anything,” Jane said. “I’ve spoken to Fred and spent the entire day inside.”
“Well, those two acts hardly warrant the calamity we see before us!”
Jane nodded. She made no mention of invading Fred’s room, discovering his manuscript, and everything else. She doubted they posed any relevance to the present predicament.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” Sofia said. “I have been lax on my quest. I’ve preoccupied myself with getting my husband back and rescuing my career. But I will do something now.”
“No, Sofia, you have been wonderful. It is I who have erred.” Jane swallowed and felt racked with guilt.
Sofia shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. “It’s time for drastic measures.”
“What will you do?” Jane asked, concerned.
“I will go back to the library. A bigger one this time.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sofia entered the atrium of the University of Bristol library. To say she felt out of place was an understatement. The cavernous redbrick building stretched over four stories. Stacks, computers, and men in cardigans filled the floor. This cathedral of literature, for serious book people, did not exactly welcome her inside. The last literature she’d read was by a journalist who was ruminating on the size of her bottom. Sofia worried that someone might ask her to leave.
It had not always been so. She’d loved reading as a child: she devoured Judy Blume, solved crimes with the Famous Five, and went on a trip with Lewis Carroll. She blamed Noel Streatfeild entirely for her consumptive obsession with shoes. She was once rendered so desperate on a dreary holiday in Blackpool that she had picked up the phone book and read half. Above all, she loved Jane Austen. But Sofia hadn’t read a book in so long, she thought she might’ve forgotten how.
She reached a line of ancient stacks, picked a row at random and trudged down it with a scowl. She felt lost already. She scanned the titles.
“Can I help you?” whispered a voice from the next shelf over.
Sofia peered through the row of books at eye level. The voice came from a librarian, who pushed a cart of plastic-covered books down the opposite stack. “No, thank you,” Sofia lied. She pretended to peruse the shelves some more.
“The Almanac of Ukrainian Poetry,” he said. He pointed to the book Sofia was pretending to look at. “A cracking read. Many verses on potatoes. Can never have too many poems about them, I say. I have the pocket version on my bedside table.” Sofia glared at him. He wore a black collared shirt and creased black trousers, unfashionable and scruffy. “Ah, there. A little smile,” he said. “I knew my Ukrainian jokes weren’t that bad.”
“I’m fine on my own, thank you,” Sofia said. The librarian held up his arms in a mock surrender and returned to reshelving books. Sofia moved to the next shelf over.
“Bulgarian poetry is also good,” said the librarian. He peeked through a gap in the books again. “They’re more laissez-faire with their potato imagery, but you can’t have everything.”
Sofia sighed.
“Tell me what you’re looking for,” he said. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve been here before. I might even know where it is.”
“No,” Sofia answered.
“Is it naughty? It’s a naughty book you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sofia said.
“I know. It’s The Da Vinci Code!” he shouted.
“Lower your voice! We’re in a library.”
“I’ll keep shouting until you tell me.”
“Fine,” Sofia said. “I’m looking for a book on witchcraft.” She coughed.
“That wasn’t
