Page 23 of Cinder
But I’m aware time is ticking by and turn my attention to the closest bookshelf and start skimming. Rumors say the original recipe was written inside a book of flowers that belonged to the original alchemist for the club, so I start looking for any books written about flowers.
But as I run my fingers along the shelf, tracing spines with gold-embossed titles and cracked leather bindings, they’re not scientific flower books I’m looking at. They’re the classics.Frankenstein.Dracula.An early edition ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales.
These books have to be worth thousands of dollars.
They make me think of my mom who was a rare book dealer before she met my father. She loved books with a passion, especially the old ones. Maybe that’s why I can feel her here with me now in this beautiful room dedicated to books.
Forcing the romantic notion out of my head, I focus on the task at hand, and I look for a book about flowers. But there doesn’t seem to be a lot of order to the shelves.
Distracted by Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I can’t help myself and pull it from the shelf. The cover is embossed with swirling vines and unusual flowers, faded to the color of old honey. The gilded title glimmers faintly in the center, half-rubbed away by time and the many hands it has passed through.
When I was a little girl, my mom used to read me fairy tales. I used to curl up beside her and fall asleep listening to her sweet voice as she read Cinderella, Snow White, and Rapunzel. Although they were the watered-down versions of the original stories, softened by Disney and less gruesome in their happily ever afters.
The Brothers Grimm versions aren’t so sweet. I flip through the old pages that probably haven’t been open in decades, the scent of burned sugar and ash lifting with every page I turn. I stop flicking when I come toAschenputtel. The German version of Cinderella. The one with no glass slipper, no fairy godmother. Just blood and bones and a girl weeping into a hazel tree.
Sounds about right.
I snap it closed and put it back on the shelf. Beside it are rows and rows of gilded spines with names like Brontë. Poe. Wilde. And Chaucer.
How I’d love to curl up with one of these and read it from cover to cover.
I get so engrossed in the books, I don’t hear the door open.
“You get lost, little Firecracker?”
The voice comes from behind me.
I swing around, and standing in the doorway is Lars.
CHAPTER 11
Lars
She lookslike a deer caught in headlights.
She’s startled but quickly recovers with a cute smile and twinkling eyes.
“I’m a sucker for the classics,” she says, holding up an old book of fairytales.
I usually know when someone is lying. Which is why her reaction confuses me. I can see her genuine love for the books shining in her eyes. But at the same time, my gut tells me she’s up to something.
She’s not an outsider looking for club cock for the night. But she’s looking for something.
I cross my arms. “You like the classics, huh?”
“Oh yes, I’m a big fan. Do you read?”
“I do.” I tilt my head slightly. “I highly recommendCarmillaby Edith Wharton andThe House of Mirthby J.S. Le Fanu. I think we’ve got those on the shelves somewhere.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”
I smile because I’ve just caught her out on a lie. And I’m about to tell her that when she gives me a wicked smile and says, “Except you got the authors mixed up. J.S. Le Fanu wroteCarmillaand Edith Wharton wroteThe House of Mirth. But then, you already knew that didn’t you.” She puts the book back on the shelf and turns to face me. “If you want to trip me up, you’ll need to try much harder than that, Enforcer.”
“So youarehiding something.”
“Aren’t we all,” she says cryptically, slowly moving toward the door.
I put an arm out to block her path. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call security and have you thrown in the dungeon.”
