Lily grabbed a book of poetry and her small overnight case from the bookmobile, then followed Aggie into the garage. Above the uneven stacks of Griffo’s used book supply, herbal bundles hung from an old rope tacked to the wall. She walked by them, breathing in the smell of lovage and rosemary, mint, dill and basil. The scents of the earth carried up the narrow staircase that hugged the side of the building and led to a small room on top.
Aggie opened the door and pointed at the depression age furniture. “Bed, chest, rocker, desk. Sink, hot plate, and small refrigerator. Plumbing’s over there. Not fancy, but useful.”
Lily gravitated to the rocker by the open window. Cottonwood leaves grazed the pane. A jasmine vine twined up the drainpipe toward the roof. “It’s perfect. The smell of growing greenery above me, the scent of drying herbal bunches and stacks of saved old books beneath.”
Aggie puttered around, tidying up. “I hope you find it comfy.”
“How much is the rent for a night or two?” Lily looked out the large window toward the goats rambling in the field.
Aggie paused. “The room is empty. Friends stay free, but only if you promise to nudge Piper and me, squeaking and creaking, into our book club for foolish women.”
“I can manage a push or two. Thank you, Aggie.”
“I’ll call Piper and tell her. You can drive the bookmobile into town and back, or you can ride with me.”
“Or I can walk. It’s only a couple miles and I liked walking to the library when the sun was shining and I was in the mood.”
“If you miss your library books, try Griffo’s downstairs, or visit the Used Stuff Store. They have a few shelves of old books there.” She moved to the stairs. “I’ll leave you to settle in and later, put a plate of cheese and fruit outside your door. If you are still hungry, stop by the kitchen.”
Lily heard Aggie’s footsteps retreat down the stairs. She knew the Global Antiquarian Society Book Tour was arriving at the library. She thought about the unpacking of the wooden crate. A tour representative would supervise Director Trummel as she unlocked the glass case and positioned the books. When the display was perfect, the lights would be set to highlight the old manuscripts. Then, the case would be locked and the alarm set. Everyone would leave.
Depressed, Lily stared out the window. She’d missed out on arranging the most beautiful book display ever to visit the Groverly Main Library. Beyond the main house porch, grew Aggie’s garden, with its odd mix of beds. Farther on, a stream flowed and fields undulated like unwound bolts of green silk. The ghost of Virginia Woolf slipped into the room as Lily thought of running through the wild grass outside, finding rocks, rocks next to water. With enough rocks and deep enough water, she could plunge into its cold wet cave and disappear.
She got up to pick up the books scattered around the room and randomly immersed herself in a tattered copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She thought she heard a sound and when she peeked outside, found the plate of food. She ate a few bites, then pulled the red flyer butterfly from her purse, and undid the folds. Its bright color under the bed lamp cheered the dim setting. After she unpacked, she pulled on a soft, white nightshirt and climbed into bed. She couldn’t keep a dark loneliness from wrapping itself around her. She couldn’t forget her surgery. Or forget the firing. Losing her job and her books, with only an uncertain future ahead. Would traveling give even a modicum of pleasure? And if not?
She shivered. With her head flat on the mattress, she tried to relax, but the bedsprings creaked with every move. She whispered an old Zen phrase, “Be like a damp stone.” She repeated it over and over, then edited it. “Be like a stone. Be like. Be like. Be.” Be like Virginia. The haunting by Virginia Woolf surfaced again, the tortured writer with stones in her pocket, walking into the water to die. “Be. Be. Be.” Lily pushed thoughts of the author aside. She burrowed into the comforter and got through the night the best way she could. A toss. A turn. A warm pillow flipped to the cool side.
At the Craft Market in Groverly, Griffo waited for customers to visit the vividly painted gypsy vardo. He’d parked near the road to catch the eye of any passerby, certain his place would be hard to miss, with its wild-eyed griffins, gargoyles and dragons. Each morning, he rolled up the yellow awning and flipped down the back counter. He expected his hand-lettered sign “Griffo’s Rare Gems & Jewels” would draw in the crowds. Each day, he counted change and pulled out his credit card machine in preparation for rich customers. His sales pitch sold a couple bracelets for a couple dollars, but the place was dead. Finally, he locked up the vardo and drove to the Emporium in his roadster.
“Looks like you could use some picketing today,” he said.
Boris shook his head. “Sorry, the picketing stunt’s worn out. Care to sample the latest DVD trailers?” He hit the play button.
When Sax walked in the door, Boris beckoned to the two men. “Tell you what, things are slow. Why don’t you guys join me with the ritual polishing of the knives?”
They grinned and followed Boris to the office. It took only a few minutes for him to release the large ancient swords from the wall. “Watch carefully, the rubbing is like a caress.” He held the soft cloth and swabbed the blades with metal cleaner.
The men worked with care and tenderness, shining each sword until it gleamed. Boris removed the delicate daggers from the gold cord, and the three cleaned the intricate crevices and designs of each handle.
“Now we throw. My weapons are light, balanced, and deadly sharp.” Boris whipped a knife through the air with perfect aim. “Sax knows.”
“Sometimes, Boris lets me throw a few.” Sax let his dagger loose with a slow and deliberate thrust. It almost stuck to the outer rim of the target.
Boris thumped him on the back. “Much better.”
Griffo laughed and threw his knife with savage intensity. It fell to the ground.
“You need practice to do it right,” Boris said. “When we throw together, it forms a bond.” He touched his fingertip with the blade and waited for a small drop of blood to form, then placed his finger on the counter, marking it with a perfect imprint. He offered the dagger to Sax, who followed suit and pushed down hard on the counter to create a blob.
“Gypsies don’t believe in leaving fingerprints.” But Griffo poked his finger and put his light bloody print next to the other two.
After the goats bedded down in their straw nests, Aggie found the Bronte poem.
Thought followed thought – star followed star
Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.
The corners of her mouth raised. She was quite sure she got it.
In the spare room, Piper opened Delarivier Manley’s The New Atalantis at random.
She placed herself by the Duke. His eyes feasted themselves upon her face, thence wandered over her snowy bosom, and saw the young swelling breasts just beginning to distinguish themselves, and … gently heaved ….
She quit reading.
In the Groverly Library, the display glowed and the Book of Cures rested unnoticed in the shadows of open, rare and famous volumes. The sealed cover leaned against a bronze stand at the rear of the display, next to the sliding door of the locked case.