IT HAS ALREADY STARTED SNOWING as we head out into the twisting streets of Eerie-on-Sea. Only, because this is the seaside in winter, don’t go imagining a pretty snow-globe flurry. The snow is like a swarm of icy bees – stinging our eyes and trying to get up our noses.
“Is it always this cold?” says Violet, shouting above the wind.
I shrug, though you probably can’t tell because of my big coat. And it’s not my coat, exactly – like Violet, I’ve borrowed one from lost property. All signed out, and accounted for in the ledger, of course. In each coat pocket we have a hot pebble from the stack I keep on my wood burner.
“It’s not far,” I shout back, and we start to climb a narrow lane of steps, heading deeper into the town.
“Can’t see if we’re being followed in this weather,” Violet calls, looking back.
I look back too, and, for a moment, it seems like there is someone there. We both stop, squinting into the snow. Was that a shadow stepping back into a doorway? There are a few people around, hurrying against the wind.
“It’s nothing,” I say, almost convincing myself. “Mustn’t get paranoid.”
But I can’t stop myself from glancing up at the hotel tower, still visible over the rooftops behind us. Does Lady Kraken’s cameraluna work by daylight, too?
We come out into a square, with a bronze dolphin statue in its centre. We cross this, and find ourselves standing outside a large shop window, bathed in its warm light. Something grotesque leers out at us. It’s the mermonkey, looking just as ugly as the drawing on the postcard, sitting on a great, peeling circus pedestal and grinning down from behind an ancient black typewriter.
“It’s real?” says Violet.
“Well…” I shrug. “There’s real, and then there’s really real, isn’t there?”
“The Eerie Book Dispensary.” Violet reads the painted letters from the window. Then before she can say anything else, there’s a ding and the door of the shop opens.
A tall, handsome man with dark, grey-speckled hair steps out and pulls his jacket lapels up against the weather. He stops a moment as he sees us, and pauses. It looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just gives a small nod before striding away across the square.
“Is that the owner?” says Violet. “He looks … booky.”
“Not exactly,” I say. “That was Sebastian Eels. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s an author, and a bit of a local celebrity. He’s a bit full of himself, too, if you ask me.”
“You’re not being rude about my customers, are you, Herbie?” says a Scottish voice I know well. A woman with tumbling red hair and a green dress is leaning out of the doorway, pulling a shawl around herself.
“Sorry, Mrs Hanniver. We were just coming to see you,” I say, though I notice Violet is still staring after Sebastian Eels with an odd look on her face.
“Well, come and see me a bit faster then, and close the door behind you,” says Mrs Hanniver. “It’s as cold as Neptune out there.”
Inside the shop, a cheery fire blazes in a black marble fireplace. We shuffle out of our borrowed coats.
“So, Herbie Lemon, has someone lost something in my dispensary? And is this, perhaps, the girl who lost it?”
“Not exactly,” I say, holding my hands to the fire. “This is Violet. Violet, meet Jenny Hanniver. She owns this place.”
Violet says hello, but she’s distracted, gazing around the shop in amazement. I remember how it feels to visit the Eerie Book Dispensary for the first time, and to see the sagging floor-to-ceiling shelves – colour-coded and stuffed with all manner of books, seemingly in no order at all. I can remember the book I got, too, but that’s another story…
“Ah, Violet,” says Jenny Hanniver. “I see that Erwin likes you.”
I look down and, sure enough, the dispensary’s cat, Erwin, is curling himself around Violet’s legs.
Mrs Hanniver scoops him up, a mass of snow-white fur and two ice-blue eyes in her arms. “A good sign. Cats can always tell.”
“Tell what?” says Violet, stroking the cat’s head.
But Mrs Hanniver just smiles.
“Violet’s got something to ask you,” I say, because the silence is a bit awkward. “Or show you, I mean.”
“Oh, yes.” Violet reaches into her pullover and pulls the ribbon over her head. “This.”
And she hands over her mermonkey card.
“So you’ve been here before,” Jenny says, turning the card in her hand.
Violet shrugs. “Maybe. My dad’s a writer, so perhaps you know him? His name is Peter Parma.”
“Peter?” Jenny blinks. “Wait, your name is Violet Parma?”
Violet nods. “You … you know me?”
“Know you? Not exactly. But I held you in my arms once, when you were a baby. Many years ago.”
“You do know my parents then?” Violet’s voice rises with excitement. “And my mother? You knew my mum?”
“I met her; it’s not quite the same thing. Your parents consulted my mermonkey, as many do. And they went missing soon after.” She holds up the card. “This, I presume, is the book prescription they were given?”
“Must be,” I say. “Can you tell which book it was from the code?”
“From the code? No, not a chance.” Mrs Hanniver frowns. “The books change position all the time, as you should know by now, Herbie.”
“Hold on.” Violet raises her hand. “I don’t get how this place works. It looks like a shop, but it sounds like it’s something else. What is it, exactly? A library?”
“The world’s one and only book dispensary,” Mrs Hanniver says, handing the card back. “A library will lend you the book you want, while a bookshop sells it for a price. In this place, however, it’s the book that chooses you.”
“With –” Violet still looks unsure – “the mermonkey? That thing?”
And she points to the grotesque creature sitting in the window. Viewed from behind, its scaly lower body and hunched hairy back are a disturbing sight.
“Why not find out for yourself?” says Jenny Hanniver.
