The Fragile Tower - Book 1 of the No.1 magical fantasy series

The Fragile Tower Chapter 6 - The Bookseller's Secret

Grace was reeling with tiredness by the time the reached home, just after the sun had made an appearance. Her balance was so bad that she tipped and almost fell as she was climbing out of the car. The coffee and cookies had lasted until six, and then Dad and she had gradually grown silent and shivery as the sugar left their systems and the caffeine was all used up. By the time Dad called it a night, Grace was finding it hard to do anything except stare blankly at the snow in front of her feet, and she knew that she badly needed a few hours of sleep before going to get that book.

            But she wouldn't be able to sleep for long. The thought of someone else coming and buying the book made her stomach twist, and her frustration had grown the longer they had stayed out, searching and finding nothing. But she couldn't have left Dad to search on his own. She saw the despair on his face when he told her they had to give up for the night, and it was heartbreaking.

            The house felt desert-hot when she let them both in, but she was still shivering fifteen minutes later, curled up in bed with a warm mug of tea in her hands. The tea didn't stop her beginning to fall asleep, and she jerked awake to find the mug about to spill onto her sheets, and quickly put it down on the bedside table. With blurry eyes she set her alarm clock for half past nine.

           

            She woke at ten fifteen, bolting upright with the knowledge that she had overslept. She swore with one of Dad's occasional favourites, and started scrabbling to find her clothes.

            Ma was sitting at the kitchen table when Grace charged to the door and started pulling her boots on. She was so still, it took a moment for Grace to notice her, and she jumped slightly when she did. Ma was watching her without really seeing, still in her business suit like she had been for a day and a half, and Grace wondered if she'd been to bed at all.

            "I'm just going to the park again," Grace told her, the lie making her squirm inwardly. "Just in case..."

            Ma nodded slightly, and then said in a mumble, "Be careful and don't go any further."

            Grace turned and put her coat on, hoping that not answering would be taken as agreement. Ma's attitude disconcerted her. She had expected to be told she had to stay indoors, so that Ma could keep her safe. But perhaps she was too tired to think like that.

Grace took her keys and her purse off the hall table and walked out. By the time she reached the street, she was running.

            She could see the board up outside Mr. Fredrickson's shop from a quarter of a mile down the road, and she didn't stop running until she was close enough to read the new thriller titles it advertised.

            She bent over for a moment, dragging air back into her lungs, and then stood up and turned to walk in. Her breath was steaming in the air, and it took her a moment to notice that the book was no longer on display. A celebrity cook-book sat innocently in its place, for all the world as if it had always been there.

            Grace was shaking as she opened the door and hurried to the counter. There was only one customer inside, a teacher from Grace's school – Mr. Gregory, she thought -  but he held only one small white travel book with "Istanbul" emblazoned across the cover. He didn't have The Dazzling Lights.

            He placed it on the counter and started delving for his wallet. Grace wanted to run over there and speak to kind old Mr. Fredrickson straight away, but the idea of interrupting made her cringe, and the last thing she wanted was to make the bookshop owner angry when she needed his help. Instead, she walked up to stand a little behind and to one side, her boots scraping on the floor as she shifted from foot to foot.

            "That's seven dollars," Mr. Fredrickson told the teacher, and punched a button with one of his dry old fingers. The drawer popped open, and he asked – because Mr. Fredrickson always struck up a conversation with every customer, no matter how long the queue – "Is this for an upcoming trip?"

            "Wish it was," Mr. Gregory replied, finding his wallet and drawing it out. Grace willed him to hurry, but he took his time selecting a ten-dollar note. "I'm desperate for a little heat. Nobody warned me about the weather up here before I took the job."

            He handed over the note at last, and Mr. Fredrickson went to the till and opened it.

            "You're from California, aren't you?"

            "Is it that obvious?" Mr. Gregory held out his hand for his change, smiling slightly.

            "It's only the Californians who complain about the weather here," Mr. Fredrickson told him, with a little smile of his own. "You should try Norwegian winters. This wouldn't seem like such a hard deal afterwards."

            The bookshop owner glanced over at Grace, and blinked his bright, spectacled eyes for a moment in what looked like a wink. Grace watched in gratitude as he bagged up the book without any further remarks, and turned to her.

            "What can I do for you, my dear? A recommendation? Or another European great?"

            She saw his eyes follow Mr. Gregory to the door, and then, as soon as the bell had jangled to a stop, he reached under the counter and lifted up the book from the window-display.

            Grace could only blink at it for a moment, her eyes watering with tears of relief. But then she looked up at him and his creased face, which was drawn into a strange smile, and she was lost for words.

            "I took it down before the shop opened," he said to her.

            "Why?" she asked, which was a grossly inadequate question in the circumstances.

            Mr. Fredrickson seemed to think it perfectly natural, and answered lightly, "I didn't want anyone else deciding to buy it." He moved out from behind the counter, and walked purposefully to the shop door.  "And by then it had done its job. You saw it last night."

            He flipped the little cardboard sign around so that she read "Open" while the world outside saw that the shop was closed, and then bolted the door top and bottom.

            "I don't-" Grace stopped, her mind reaching for some explanation, but finding none. "You knew I'd want it?"

            "Of course I did." He started to cross towards her again, pushing his neatly folded shirtsleeves further up his arms with the air of someone getting themselves ready. "As soon as I heard about your brother."

            "What do you know about it?" Grace heard the anger in her voice after she had said it, and flinched. "I'm sorry, I-"

            "Anger is quite understandable," he told her, "but I think perhaps that there isn't time for it. At least, there isn't time to direct it at anyone except Ruidic."

            He came back to the counter, and his dry finger tapped at the cover of the book, and she looked at that wild face again, unsettling even is a painting, and felt an urgent need to pursue him and force him to return her brother.

She shook her head, a little dizzy at the way her world seemed to have been turned over and remade. To hear Mr. Fredrickson speak the same name that Ma had used, and to realise that both of them had been keeping so many things from her, was enough to make this seem like a dream. But the urgent pull she felt to find Benjamin quickly, quickly, quickly – that was stronger than the dizziness.

            "Let's go through to the back," the old bookseller said, leading the way past the counter. "Then perhaps you and I should have a cup of tea and a short conversation."