Page 88 of Shadowfox

And then—at the corner of Károlyi Mihály Street, just beyond a shuttered café—I made a sharp right, turning down an alley just wide enough for a delivery cart. The alley opened onto the back of a narrow three-story building whose windows were warped with age. The door was coated in weathered green paint, peeling like old wallpaper. Above it hung a faded, hand-painted sign:

Antikvárium. Rare Books & Curiosities.

The door creaked, as I pulled the handle and stepped through.

The air inside was dry and thick with the smell of vellum and faint hint of tobacco. It was blessedly warm. Shelves rose like old sentinels around the room, and in the far corner, behind a desk cluttered with cracked spines and spectacles, sat the bookseller. He was a stooped man with ink-stained fingers and a face like a walnut.

I made a show of running my fingers across a row of ancient, gilded tomes.

“Valami különlegeset keres?” The shopkeeper smiled, revealing deeply stained teeth.

Looking for something special?

I only knew a few words in Hungarian, things like, “Where is the restroom?” or “It’s so cold, isn’t it?”

So, switching to French and hoping for the best, I said, “Pardonnez-moi. Parlez-vous français?”

The bookseller’s face brightened as he switched effortlessly into French. “I do, though I rarely find someone to speak it with. What an unexpected pleasure.”

I smiled and stepped to his desk, holding out the sealed envelope. “This is a book for a friend of mine. Would it be inconvenient if I left it with you for him to retrieve? It is only a book.”

The man’s brow furrowed, then his smile returned at the mention of the word “book.”

“There is no such thing as only a book, my dear.” He reached out and took the package, his weathered hands tested its weight. On the envelope’s front, in hastily scrawled black ink: Geza. “And this Geza is important to you, is he not? A love, perhaps?”

The man’s eyes glimmered, as though begging for the story behind the envelope.

“Oh, no. I mean, yes, I love him dearly, but as any sister might. The book is only a trifle for an old friend.

He will pick it up this evening. Or tomorrow.”

“But, of course.” His already wide smile grew as he shoved the envelope into a cubby below his desk. Glancing up again, he added, “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you so much.” I waved a hand around the shop. “Now, let me see if I can find something for myself, yes? This place is a wonder.”

He brightened at my praise, then returned to his own reading.

I stepped toward a towering wall of shelves that reached to the second story. All the titles were in Hungarian, but I didn’t care. I only pretended to shop.

One heartbeat.

Then two.

Then the bell over the front door jangled.

I resisted the urge to turn and look.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Confident.

They grew closer, then stopped.

Still, I didn’t turn, just pulled a book off a shelf, lowered my eyes to a random page, and let the moment stretch.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw my tail shifting his weight from one foot to the other, desperately searching for a reason he was standing far too close to his target. From his sharp inhale, the soft click of his boots against the wooden floor, and the almost-smirk in his tone when he spoke to the shopkeeper in halting Hungarian, I knew:

He thought he’d won.

I returned the book to its dusty shelf, offered a perfunctory goodbye to the shopkeeper, and headed out, knowing my shadow would soon follow, knowing there had been only one victor in our game that day—and it had not been him.

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