“Your shirt is on inside out,” he muttered without looking up from his book.

  “Shite!” I darted into the World History room, tore off my shirt, and put it back on the right way around. Heathcliff glanced up when I walked back in. His eyes met mine and my breath hitched. I remembered the fierce kiss we shared the day he found me inside the occult room, the way he’d grabbed me as though he couldn’t control himself. The way he devoured me with all the fierce passion that had fueled the torrid romance of Wuthering Heights and made him such a beloved antihero.

  My heart pattered faster. Morrie’s insane challenge played over in my mind. One way or the other, I had to get this Heathcliff thing out of my system. I need to find out if what I’m feeling is for this Heathcliff, here and now, or if I’m lusting after the character I fell in love with as a teenager.

  I squared my shoulders and sucked in a breath. Here goes nothing.

  “Heathcliff, um…”

  “What?” His head snapped up again, his black eyes staring straight into my soul.

  “Can we… can I… take you out for dinner on Friday night?”

  “Why?”

  Why? What kind of answer is why? “Because… you never leave the shop. I’m worried you don’t have enough fun. Or enough nutrients.”

  “I have fun.” Heathcliff thumped the stack of books on his desk. “I’m pricing stock, aren’t I?”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more the kind of fun where you hang out with a person you like and get to know them a bit better. It wouldn’t even have to be crazy. I’m not talking about going skydiving or getting matching tattoos. Just dinner. Maybe a drink. Do you want to go or not?”

  Heathcliff’s black eyes studied me. After a long time, he said. “As long as I don’t have to wear anything fancy.”

  I glanced down at his wrinkled white shirt, waistcoat, and old-fashioned trousers. With his heavy boots and long, messy hair, he already looked like he was the lead singer of the world’s hottest rock band. “I think you’re good.”

  I was just about to say something else, but the bell tinkled. I poked my head into the hall. “Welcome to Nevermore Books—”

  My words were lost in screams of delight. The front door banged open and a deluge of screaming, laughing, childish voices poured into the shop. I glanced up just in time to see a wave of young faces run in all directions and disappear into the shelves. Their delighted squeals bounced off the high ceilings and echoed around the darkened corners.

  “What the fuck?” Heathcliff growled. “It’s like the Mongols are invading.”

  “Careful, children, behave yourselves,” a matronly voice called after them. Being children, they completely ignored it.

  I whipped my head back just as two boys crashed past me, arms swinging as they kicked a soccer ball between them. Heathcliff stood up, scooping books into his arms. “You deal with this mess. I’m going upstairs to get some peace.”

  “But—”

  “The whole reason I hired an assistant was so I don’t have to deal with customers. Especially not the ones with snotty noses and jammy hands.” Heathcliff picked up his book and ducked into the storeroom behind the desk. “Have fun.”

  “Wait—”

  He slammed the door behind him. I heard a bolt slide into the lock.

  “You bastard,” I hissed at the door, then turned around just in time to see a young girl scrambling onto the table to grab the stuffed armadillo.

  “Don’t climb on that!” I yelled, rushing over and scooping the child off the table before she fell and cracked her head open.

  “But I wanna!”

  “Come on, Trudy,” An older girl, about fourteen, rushed in and grabbed the child’s hand. “Let’s look in the children’s section. I bet we’ll be able to find some lovely illustrated biblical stories for you.”

  They raced off, brushing past a round woman who stood in the doorway. She ducked as a paper plane flew over her head. Her face crumpled apologetically and her rosy cheeks reddened as she held out her hand to me. “Hello, my dear. I’m so sorry for all the noise. The children are very excited to visit a bookshop. Many of them don’t have books in their homes, you know. I believe reading is just so important, so I thought I’d bring them over.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, straightening the armadillo and taking her hand. “If you could just remind them it’s a bookshop and not a jungle gym, everything will be fine.”

  “I’ll do my best, although I’m afraid sometimes they get the better of me,” she patted her thigh. “These old bones aren’t as fast as they used to be. They’re a rambunctious bunch, but they’re good souls. It’s nice to see them learning and experiencing something new. If I can turn just one of them into a reader, well, I’ll have made a difference.”

  “I was a reader growing up,” I smiled at her. “I’ve never forgotten the feeling of diving into a book and escaping to another world. Is this a school group?” The kids were a range of different ages, and there were far too many to be her children.

  “Oh, heavens no. These are my youth group. I’m Brenda Winstone, and I run the youth group activities at the Argleton Presbyterian Church,” the woman frowned. Her rosy face instantly aged, and a look of sadness came over her kind green eyes. “I haven’t any children of my own, you see. My husband is Harold Winstone – you might know him, he’s a very famous historian. He travels all over the world writing books about interesting buildings and their history. Right now, he’s writing a history of the old Argleton hospital, the one they’re tearing down? A lovely man is my Harold, but he dedicated his life to his research and didn’t want children distracting him. So I donate my time to young ones in need.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Brenda. Mrs. Scarlett mentioned you the other day. You’re in the Banned Book Club.”

  Mrs. Winstone’s eyes bugged out. “Please, don’t say that so loud.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a secret.”

  Mrs. Winstone opened her mouth to say more, but the older girl poked her head in the room and said that a boy named Thomas had thrown up on a George Eliot. Mrs. Winstone dashed off to deal with that particular disaster while I rescued a terrified Grimalkin from where the boys had her cornered on top of a bookshelf.

  As Grimalkin’s claws dug into my shoulder, I watched Mrs. Winstone scurry around after the children, who ran circles around her. What an odd woman.

  Half an hour, a broken chair, one slammed door, and three squashed fingers later, Brenda Winstone paid for a huge stack of children’s books and bustled the youth group next door to terrorize Greta at the bakery. I went across the hall to straighten the Fiction room and discovered the teenagers had moved every one of our copies of Darwin’s On The Origin of Species into the General Fiction section.

  Who says religious people don’t have a sense of humor?

  I’d nearly finished re-ordering the books when Heathcliff emerged from hiding. “So what did they break?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And?”

  “There may be a tiny scratch on a chair in the Children’s room.”

  “And?”

  I sighed. “The chair’s broken. One boy slammed his friend’s fingers in the door, but I think they’re just bruised.”

  “Just you wait, I’ll have an HSE officer and the parents’ lawyer in here by the end of the day.” Heathcliff noticed the stack of Darwin books by my feet. “Church group, were they? Stick all the Darwin in the fiction shelves, did they? If any one of the little bastards sat in my chair, I’ll be breaking fingers for real.”

  I threw a Darwin book at him. He ducked and slipped away, humming under his breath.

  He’s in a remarkably good mood, considering a horde of marauding children just destroyed his shop and we’re hosting a book club tomorrow. It’s not… it’s not the prospect of our date that’s making him almost cheery, is it?

  No.

  It can’t be.

  But maybe…

  A broad smile crossed my face. After a shaky start back in Argleton, things really were looking up. I had a date with Heathcliff, Morrie was making me feel all kinds of good, no one had been murdered in the shop in over a month, and we were about to host the first of what I hoped would be many events.

  I thought back to all the gossip about the King’s Copse development, and Mrs. Winstone’s reluctance to talk about the book club. Mrs. Scarlett seemed like a harmless old woman, but the more I heard about her and her book club, the more I wondered if I might be running with the badass old biddies of Argleton. It’s just a group of women chatting about books over high tea… it isn’t as if the Banned Book Club is dangerous, is it?

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, this is a lovely room,” Mrs. Ellis clapped her hands with glee. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Mina.”

  I had to agree. Yesterday, after he sheepishly came out of hiding and forgave me, Quoth and I finished flipping the bookshelves around to create more space and arranged the most comfortable chairs in a semicircle in the bay window. A table with ornate legs held a tray and kettle. I’d managed to locate enough un-chipped teacups and saucers in the guys’ flat. I even created a banned books display featuring some other censored titles we have in stock – The Picture of Dorian Gray, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Handmaid’s Tale, Harry Potter. Alongside it, I added two of Quoth’s smaller paintings and a selection of my book art – origami shapes and hollowed books I’d made from discarded stock that Heathcliff had reluctantly allowed me to sell in the shop.

  Mrs. Ellis admired one of my hollowed books, trying to see if her hip flask would fit inside the velvet-lined compartment, when Greta bustled in carrying platters of sandwiches and pastries. She arranged them on the table, placing a single plate in front of the wingback chair.

  “Mrs. Scarlett has specific dietary requirements,” Greta explained when I asked about the plate. “She’s been very sick lately with an upset stomach, so she’s on a detox diet. Gluten free, egg free, dairy free. I’ve made special versions of all the treats here for her.”

  “Thank you so much, Greta. You’re a genius. Hey,” I had an idea. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the book club?”

  Greta shook her head. “No, no, I’ve got so much work to do at the bakery. And my English is not good enough to read the books so fast. But thank you, perhaps another time.”

  She hurried off. I watched her go, feeling like I should go after her and say something else. She was around my age, and like all Germans I knew, her English was flawless, even better than mine. Working all day and night in that bakery… I never saw Greta with an assistant. She must be lonely, especially since people in the village could be unfriendly to outsiders.

  Footsteps creaked over the floorboards and Brenda Winstone entered, wearing a long floral cardigan over a pair of tan trousers. “Is this the place? Oh, look at those lovely sandwiches!”

  Mrs. Ellis bustled over to introduce us. “Mina, this is my cousin, Mrs. Brenda Winstone.”

  “We met yesterday,” I smiled. “Hello again. How are your charges liking their books?”

  Mrs. Winstone’s kind face fell. “I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to ask them. I’ve—I’ve been replaced as youth group leader.”

  Mrs. Ellis stared in shock. “But why? You’re the best thing to ever happen to those children.”

  Mrs. Winstone sniffed. “One of the dears told that nasty Dorothy Ingram I was in the banned book club and took the youth group to this shop, and that little Billy Bartlett had his fingers smashed and the parents were making trouble. Dorothy got the church committee behind her, and they forced me to resign as the youth group coordinator.”

  “I’m so sorry!” I cried, thinking it must’ve been one of the kids overhearing my words. “I didn’t mean to get you fired!”

  “Heavens no, Wilhelmina, dear. It’s not your fault.” Mrs. Winstone picked up a sandwich and took a huge bite. “Dorothy’s wanted me out for years – she finally had the perfect excuse. I’m trying not to let it bother me, but I’m sure we don’t want to bring down the meeting with my sad news. Thank you so much for the use of your shop. The room is absolutely beautiful.”

  “It’s Mina, actually,” I smiled. “And I don’t own the shop. I just work here. I loved the idea of a Banned Book Club, so I convinced my boss to let us host the event. You can use this room as often as you like.”

  “Well, it’s marvelous. Simply a magical place. Say, do you have a children’s story time?” Mrs. Winstone beamed, her rosy cheeks glowing an even deeper red. “I love helping children to read, and I’m certain I could find a lovely tale that would satisfy the parents, too—”

  “After your neglect nearly cost poor Billy his fingers, there’s not a parent in this village who’ll trust their children with you,” a cold voice from behind her said.

  I glanced up at the elegant young woman who’d just entered the room, her blonde hair perfectly in place and a mink stole hanging around her narrow shoulders, just low enough to reveal an impressive necklace of clustered diamonds and rubies around her neck. She swept past us in a cloud of cloying perfume and settled herself on the end of the chaise lounge, placing both hands on her rounded stomach and peering up at Mrs. Winstone with a smug expression.

  “Hello, Brenda, Mabel,” she purred.

  “Ginny,” Mrs. Winstone said, her voice clipped.

  “Hello, dear. How is the baby?” Mrs. Ellis sat down beside this newcomer, Ginny, and touched her stomach.

  “He’s perfect. We’ve just had our latest scan and the doctor says he’ll be strong and healthy, just like his father.” Ginny picked up one of the teacups and held it up to the light, frowning at the pattern.

  “These aren’t Royal Doulton,” she pursed her lips.

  “Nope,” I said, already disliking this posh bitch. I picked up a cupcake and took a big, messy bite. “But they hold liquid, which is the important thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I… I think I’ll go find myself a seat,” Mrs. Winstone whispered. She hurried off to take a place on one of the armchairs, as far from Ginny as it was possible to be while still remaining in the circle, and piled sandwiches and cakes onto her plate.

  “What’s up with those two?” I whispered to Mrs. Ellis as Ginny and Mrs. Winstone glared at each other across the cake stand.

  “That’s Ginny Button,” Mrs. Ellis whispered. “She’s unmarried, with a long string of lovers. She loves rubbing Brenda’s nose in the fact that she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Mrs. Ellis nodded, her face lighting up at the chance to impart some fine gossip. “Ginny’s a rotten piece of work, saying what she said. Poor Brenda lives for those children. She desperately wants one of her own, you know, but her husband Harold has given his final word on the matter. Ginny, of course, lets Brenda know every meeting how much of a mouse she is. Ah, I think I smell Sylvia now.”

  I sniffed as a haze of musky perfume wafted into the room, followed shortly after by a middle-aged woman with a jangle of jewelry and flouncy black peasant skirts. An enormous tie-dyed tote bag slapped against her side. “Am I late?” she wheezed, tucking a strand of frizzy hair behind her ear. The gesture was of little use since the rest of her hair stuck out at all angles, as if she’d just inserted her finger into an electrical socket. Something about her wild eyes and the millions of beaded bracelets stacked up her arms seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.

  “Calm down, Sylvia. You’re on time. Gladys isn’t even here yet.” Mrs. Ellis patted her arm. “Dear Sylvia is always running late.”

  “I’m never running late!” the woman protested. “Modern society places too much importance in the arbitrary passing of time. Why, if we were to follow the rhythms and cycles of nature, then—”

  “You’d think with your powers of divination, you’d be able to predict when you needed to leave your stinking little cottage,” Ginny simpered from the sofa.

  The woman’s face reddened, but she didn’t say anything. Neither, I noticed, did any of the other ladies. Ginny Button must have a lot of power in the village.

  “Mina, this is Sylvia Blume. Sylvia, this is Mina Wilde—”

  “You’re Helen’s daughter,” Sylvia Blume beamed, throwing her arms around me like we were old friends. “I remember you when you were just a wee girl, reading books in the corner of my shop. Look at you now, all grown up!”

  Now I remembered where I’d seen Sylvia before. She owned the shop where Mum did her tarot readings for suckers who liked being parted with their money. I used to spend time there after school before I discovered Nevermore Bookshop. I vaguely remembered the cloying smell of incense clinging to everything and a frizzy-haired woman who used to pinch my cheeks and feed me candies from under her fortune-telling table.

  “Yes, er, hello again.”

  “It’s a real shame about your eyesight. Helen told me all about you having to give up your fashion job.”

  My cheeks flushed. “It’s not like that.”

  Only it was. That was exactly what had happened. I mean, yes, I’d intended to just muddle through as well as I could until my eyesight got worse – which could’ve taken years or even decades – but Ashley went and blabbed it all over the fashion world. But when Sylvia Blume spoke of it, I felt embarrassed, and I didn’t like that.

  “I know. I can do an aura healing for you!” Sylvia grabbed my shoulders, snapping my neck forward. “I’m an accomplished healer. I can perform a cleanse that will banish the evil energies that are at war within your body and restore your sight!”

  No way. “I think if modern medicine can’t do anything for me, then you’re probably not going to have much luck.”

  “Nonsense.” Sylvia dropped her tote bag on the floor with a bang, grabbed my wrists, and yanked them above my head. Her earrings clattered together as she shook her head from side-to-side and started to chant.

  Quoth, if you can hear me, get me out of this.

 

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