“I am out in the real world.”
“It’s way bigger than New York City, my girl.”
Something in the way Amelia spoke caught Laura’s attention. “What do you mean?”
“You should come with me.”
“Where?”
“London.” Amelia’s lips twitched.
“London?”
“I’ve been asked to move there in the fall, once my study here is complete. They want to try to re-create the conditions and programs I’ve set up here, in the East End, where they’re battling similar issues with regard to infant mortality.”
“That’s wonderful news. What an opportunity. I’m so happy for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
Amelia knew her so well. She didn’t need to explain, but tried anyway. “I am happy that you’ve been given such an opportunity. To travel, to have this recognition of your accomplishments. But I’ll miss you.”
“Why don’t you come along?”
Laura laughed. “Because I have a husband and children. Or am I supposed to bring them, too?”
“I don’t want to be without you.”
This was madness. “Exactly how do I explain to Jack that we must follow you across the ocean? He’d know something was going on.”
“There is something going on. I love you, Laura.”
The words she’d been desperately hoping to hear landed hard. “You know I can’t.”
“Consider it, please?”
She shouldn’t do any of this. She should return to her family and assume the role of dutiful wife and mother.
She stood and looked out the window as if searching for an answer, but the cloudless sky overwhelmed her. She was exposed down here in the Village. Or perhaps she was truly herself down here. Both thoughts frightened her.
The horn from a passing automobile made her jump. Amelia came up behind her and wrapped her arms around Laura’s waist. “You don’t have to decide right away.”
More than anything, Laura wanted to lose herself in Amelia’s scent, one that hinted of cinnamon and the sea, and not think about what the future held.
Together, they retreated to the warmth of the bed and each other’s arms.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
New York City, 1993
Wait.”
Sadie turned away from the cage door, where she had been fumbling with the lock. Nick stood where she’d left him, hands at his sides. “Yes?”
“What’s the book about?”
She looked down at the worn cover of the Surviving Spinsterhood book, wondering what on earth she was thinking, finding comfort in this ancient volume. The world had changed, and here she was, stepping back in time instead of moving forward. Studying the appropriate tipping etiquette for a lone woman traveler in the late 1800s, learning how best to budget on sixty dollars a month. Useless knowledge, all of it. Her mother had been right all along.
She handed it over to him, cringing inside. How pathetic she must seem. There was no explanation as to why she’d have the book in her bag other than the fact that she was deficient, a loser who couldn’t hold a man.
Or the book thief.
“Any good advice inside?”
He had the tiniest of smiles on his face. But not like he was making fun of her, like he was curious.
“The author, Abigail Duckworth, says to find a passionate interest.”
“I like to dance. Check. What else?”
Sadie rose to the bait. “That every lady should have the makings of a manhattan at hand.”
“Rye, bitters, and vermouth. Yup.”
She wasn’t called “No Stumpin’ Sadie” for nothing. “Miss Duckworth suggests owning at least four bed jackets, including one of quilted silk and another in velvet.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Check and check.”
The incongruous image of Nick reclining in bed in a quilted bed jacket made her laugh. She regarded the battered volume. “I’m fond of this book. It’s a quirky slice of history, published in 1896, part of the original donation from the Berg brothers. Certainly not the most valuable, but still.” She paused, breathing hard, like she’d run a mile. “I really must go.”
His face grew serious. “Actually, I came down here to find you. Claude said you had headed to the stacks.”
“What is it?”
“Something else is missing.”
God, no. “From the Berg? Another book?”
“Not quite. A page from a book.”
“Which one?”
“Shakespeare’s folio.”
* * *
Up in the Berg, Claude and one of their regular scholars, a rabbity fellow named Mr. Blount, stood staring down at an oversized volume laid out on one of the tables.
Mr. Blount had been studying it for over six months now, part of a project with Harvard University, and he looked up with huge eyes as Sadie and Nick approached.
“The title page. It’s gone.”
She could see it clearly in her mind’s eye. A portrait of Shakespeare, high forehead and lashless eyes, above which were the words Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. Dated 1623. So very long ago.
The page had been cleanly cut out, only a narrow column remaining.
“When did you last request this, Mr. Blount?” she asked, her voice faint.
“Before this morning? Two days ago. You retrieved it for me.”
This was more than an act of vandalism. This was war.
Nick spoke up. “Tell me more about it.”
“The First Folios,” said Mr. Blount, “were published by Shakespeare’s friends seven years after his death in 1616. They’re the closest thing that scholars have to his original works, since no handwritten copies survive. There are two hundred thirty-three in existence.”
Sadie addressed Claude. “How could this have happened?”
“One of us has been in the room consistently,” said Claude with a hint of aggression. “I haven’t seen anyone pull out a knife or a razor. Have you?”
They were turning on each other, and she welcomed the challenge. “Certainly not.”
Nick broke in. “In this case, someone didn’t take the whole book, just the page. Why would they do that?”