A BOOK WAS MISSING.
Emma’s gaze skimmed the spines in front of her. The new mystery had only just been put on the shelves the day before. There had been five copies. She learned four had been checked out after referring to the log.
She also knew with certainty that the title had not been misshelved by her. Over the last several weeks, she had been vigilant, going so far as to record the titles of each book she received to return to the floor. Truth be told, she reminded herself a bit of Mr. Beard, with a notebook tucked in her pocket and a little stub of a pencil that required a quick lick to get going.
“On second thought, I believe you might like a different book.” Emma flashed a conspiratorial smile at the young woman. “Have you ever read The Mask of Dimitrios?”
The woman shook her head, and the wavy ends of her bobbed blond hair swept against her pearl earrings.
“It’s a wild adventure,” Emma gushed. “Not necessarily a mystery, but a page turner nonetheless. I read it a while ago, and still haven’t been able to get the story out of my mind.” Even just thinking of the spy novel and all the thrilling action made her pulse quicken. A good book could do that, and was one of the many things she was grateful to have rediscovered in her love of reading since working at the library.
“Oh?” The woman craned her neck with interest as Emma reached for the book. Properly shelved and available, thank goodness.
The woman accepted the item and ran her hand over the cover. “I’m recently married, you see. We were scarcely together three days before my husband was shipped out to some place he couldn’t disclose. I’ve heard the post is slow to deliver and am not sure when I’ll even get a letter.” She looked down at the book again and swallowed. “I was a secretary, over at the Player’s factory.”
Emma nodded, recognizing the cigarette company’s name. Player’s was one of the prominent factories in Nottingham.
“But you know I couldn’t keep my job...” The woman’s gaze flicked to the wedding band on her left hand, the gold impossibly shiny, unscathed by the nicks of time and everyday use. “It’s why my husband gave me this subscription for Christmas. He knew I’d be bored.” She gave a nervous laugh that didn’t reach her large, sad eyes.
“I think you’ll very much enjoy this one.” Emma smiled. “I found it a perfect diversion when I needed it most.”
The woman brightened and the magic of finding just the right book for just the right person washed over Emma anew. She checked out the book for the young newlywed, pausing to loop the Class A subscriber tag into the small eyelet punctured at the top of the book’s spine. “Enjoy.”
The woman nodded her thanks and tucked the book into her handbag before departing.
Across the room, Margaret watched the woman solemnly and Emma didn’t have to ask to know what her friend was thinking.
That young woman could have been Margaret.
Married and more alone than ever before.
After the new bride left, Emma discreetly scoured the shelves, seeking out the missing book. To no avail.
There was something amiss at the lending library. Nothing worth calling the library detectives over, but certainly worth investigating. Emma would get to the bottom of it.
On her walk home, she was still mulling over the puzzle of the missing book when she turned down her street to find a fire truck in front of the tenement house.
Fear clasped at her throat.
A fireman was bent over someone and stood to his full height, revealing Olivia at his side.
“Olivia,” Emma cried, rushing to her daughter.
Olivia burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry. I only wanted to make some fried bread. I didn’t know...”
“It’s all right, love.” Emma quickly examined her daughter, then hugged her tightly, allaying her own fears. “It’s all right.”
Emma didn’t care about the toast or the kitchen or even the whole blasted building. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was Olivia being outside. Away from the fire.
Safe.
The man from the fire brigade turned to Emma. “There wasn’t much damage, Mrs....”
Emma looked up from her daughter to find the handsome visage of none other than Mr. Fisk.
“Miss Taylor?” he asked, appearing suddenly hesitant.
No words or quick explanation came to her. Never had she thought she would run into one of the lending library’s subscribers on her street, not when the clientele was the type who could afford a place far from the likes of Radford.
“Mrs. Taylor,” Olivia corrected primly. “My father is dead.”
Mr. Fisk blinked, unable to shield his surprise. “My condolences.”
“It happened many years ago.” Emma wasn’t sure why she rushed to offer that explanation. The details were none of Mr. Fisk’s business.
And yet the kindness in his brown eyes brought an inexplicable warmth to her cheeks and made her want him to think well of her. “The marriage bars, they apply to widows when it comes to finding employment...” Emma glanced at Olivia, indicating widows with children, but finished her sentence simply, “Widows like me.”
“You’ll get no judgment from me, Mrs. Taylor.” He adjusted the brim of his cap, so the action doubled as a slight doff. “Everyone has their reasons for what they do.”
The reassurance eased some of the tension from her shoulders. “You said there wasn’t much damage?”
“Only a small burn on the rear wall. A bit of paint and it’ll be good as new.” He looked at Emma and Olivia. “I can come by if you need—”
“No.” Her quick reply brushed away his offer of charity. “No, that won’t be necessary. I am perfectly capable of applying a bit of paint.”
He didn’t appear put out by her abrupt claim. And it was indeed a claim. She had never wielded a paintbrush in her life. But really, how hard could painting a section of wall truly be?
Mr. Fisk smiled. “I don’t doubt your ability at all, Mrs. Taylor. You strike me as the type of woman who can do anything. You’re free to go on up.” He adjusted his hat in her direction once more and turned back to his truck.
The neighbors who loitered on the street to witness the commotion likewise returned to their homes.
Emma held Olivia’s hand as they hastened into the building, gathering the day’s mail as they did so. The acrid odor of smoke burned at Emma’s nostrils and seared into memories best left in the past.
A nebulous film of smoke hung in the air in the flat, making it seem as though Emma’s eyes weren’t adjusting properly. She tugged the ancient windows open amid their squeals of protest then examined the area near the oven while the room cleared. A pan with a charred bit of fried bread sat over one of the burners.
As Mr. Fisk had warned her, the back wall was scorched a brownish black that would indeed take several coats of paint to restore to the original soft yellow.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Olivia said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to catch the building on fire.”
“I know.” Emma chewed her lip.
Olivia shouldn’t have been home alone, not without someone to watch her. Not for so long.
It wasn’t safe.
If bombs did fall, Olivia would be alone. And if she were at school, there was only the opportunity to scatter to save her. Then there were random occurrences like this one where Olivia might have burned the building down.
After tossing the ruined food in the rubbish bin and setting the pan in the sink for a good soak, Emma sank into the chair at the dining room table and flipped through the small stack of mail. The Evacuation Office had sent another notice.
Her stomach clenched. Likely another appeal for her to return Olivia to the country. Already she had received one within a week of Olivia’s return home.
Emma slid the letter free from the envelope and closed her eyes slowly against the words. There, in stark black and white, was a second citywide call for the children to evacuate on February 17.
And this time, Emma knew she wouldn’t have to vacillate over the decision to send Olivia or not. This time, prudence dictated the need to send Olivia away again. For her own safety.