Page 9 of By the Book
“It’s what you’d expect from a personal diary at the time,” George said in a dusty voice, drawing me back to the conversation. “A high-quality rag paper, iron-gall ink. The discoloration is consistent with its age. And, of course,the handwriting matches other known samples of Nathaniel Blackwood’s writing.”
It took me a moment to catch up. “You authenticated it?”
“You have to authenticate these days,” Colleen said with a little laugh. “People just aren’t satisfied with a clean provenance anymore.”
Passing me a card, George said, “I’d love to take a look at your collection. I’m sure there are some wonderful titles I could help you put in the hands of interested enthusiasts.”
“Uh, right.”
“Colleen,” Mrs. Shufflebottom called. “George, I want you to meet Pippi.”
With murmured goodbyes, Colleen and George moved away. I got up on tiptoe to scan the crowd for Bobby—he was talking to our friend Chester. As I dropped back down, someone stepped in front of me. Like, right in front of me. So close I took a step back and almost said a few choice words that Nathaniel Blackwood never would have written in his diary.
It was the floppy-haired guy with the Coke-bottle glasses. “Hi, hello.” He stuck out his hand. “Stewart Graham. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
Let me tell you: all thoseHow to Win Friends and Influence Peopletypes could learn a lot from Stewart’s handshake method. I was surprised, at the end, that my arm was still attached to my body.
“This is so amazing, what you’re doing. This is incredible. It’s so generous. It’s such a gift.”
“Thanks, I guess? I mean, I love libraries, and now I get why Mrs. Shufflebottom needed somewhere to hold the fundraiser. But it’s not a big deal; I was happy to do it.”
“Me too. Me too. I love the library so much. I work there, you know.” He nodded along with his own words, and his head looked so loose on his neck it was like someone was yanking itup on a string. “But I meant this—Hemlock House.” He breathed the words like they were sacred. “I can’t believe you let usinside. Do you think it’s true that Nathaniel Blackwood buried his dogs in the cellar? Have you ever found the secret chapel where Nathaniel Blackwood’s bride celebrated the black Mass? Which ghosts have you seen?”
I picked something out of the barrage of questions. “Ghosts?”
“Kidding!” He gave a nervous, frenetic laugh. “Oh my God, I’m so glad I get to talk to you.” His voice dropped into something darker and more urgent, and he grabbed my wrist. “You’re not going to let them auction that book, are you? Because youknowit’s a fake.”
“Is it?”
Nodding ferociously, he said, “His widow burned all his papers after his mysterious accident. Youcan’tlet them auction it. Can you imagine the damage it would do to Nathaniel Blackwood’s legacy? Not to mention the legal liability.”
I opened my mouth to say something to that, but I stopped when I caught sight of Mrs. Shufflebottom. She was staring at us from where she stood with Colleen and George as they talked to Pippi, and her face was white.
“I’d love to get in there and inspect it—” Stewart was saying, still clutching my wrist.
“Uh, right,” I said and broke his hold. “It’s nice to meet you, but my boyfriend texted me and needs some help.”
“I can help! I’d love to see the bedrooms—”
“I think we’re keeping everyone downstairs today,” I said. And then, because sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own, I added, “Maybe another time.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll call you! You know what you should do? You should do tours! I could help you!”
I slipped around him, nodding and mumbling something I hoped passed for agreement-slash-maybe-slash-goodbye. Working my way through the crowd, I nodded and exchanged hellos and zoomed as quickly as I could toward Bobby and Chester.
Here’s the thing about Chester: he is unreasonably handsome. Like, Bobby is perfect. Don’t get me wrong. But Chester looks like someone put him together piece by piece with the sole purpose of modeling sweaters and glasses and, let’s face it, tighty-whities, all with perfectly tousled hair and eyes like an Arctic morning. He’s also painfully shy, which was one of the reasons I was surprised to see him tonight.
“Everything okay?” Bobby asked, glancing over my shoulder.
I followed his gaze back to see Stewart staring at me from across the room. He gave an excited wave, and I offered a limp one back.
“You know, it’s more fun when you’re not caught in the middle of it,” Chester said. “How does he keep getting himself in these situations?”
I assumed he was referring—rudely—to the fact that, until recently, Chester’s dad had been convinced that Chester and I were perfect for each other, and we’d eventually see it if he kept forcing us together.
I gave Chester a dirty look.
“It’s like watching a train wreck,” Chester said, grinning as I ratcheted up the glare. “You could sell tickets.”
