C.E. Murphy - Heart of Stone

Margrit opened her eyes, frowning. “Got what?”

“Huo’s On First.” The cab driver cut a glance at her in the rearview mirror. “Ain’t that whatcha said?”

“Who’s on-what? What?” Margrit sat up straighter, goose bumps rising on her arms.

The cabbie eyed her. “Huo’s On First. It’s a bookstore down on First.” It was clear he wanted to add, “You dumb broad,” but he held his tongue, watching her in the mirror. “You wanna go there or not?”

“Yeah.” Her weariness slipped away and she leaned forward, gazing out the window. “Yeah, I do.”

THE DOORBELL JANGLED pleasantly when Margrit stopped inside the door, taking in a tiny, crowded store with towering shelves overloaded with books. The space had a sense of serenity that seemed impossible to dislodge, with the scent of old books mixing with the sweetness of tea. She turned back to look over her shoulder at the reversed letters on the door, proclaiming Huo’s On First: An Eclectic Bookshop, with hours that seemed extraordinarily late for a bookstore. A feeling of contentment settled over her, making her smile. The aura of bookstores, so calm and quiet, had the power to soothe her even after a day like the one that had passed. It was the same aura of sanctuary provided by churches, albeit with more reading material and considerably more comfortable chairs.

She ducked between stacks, hunching her shoulders to keep from brushing against shelves. A ladder leaned against a wall, its wide steps stacked precariously with paperbacks. Margrit picked one up, flipping through the pages as she tried not to elbow another stack of books to the floor. Used bookstores-at least the best of them-always seemed to be as crowded as this one was, as if walking around ran a distant second to the importance of the bound and printed pages.

“Insomniacs.” The voice came from above, making Margrit glance up, startled. A very small woman with black hair and blacker eyes peeped down from the top of a shelving unit. The set of her face was purposeful, fine lines carved around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Margrit took two steps back to better see her as she clambered over the top of the shelves and down the ladder, knocking off a stack of books as she passed them. Margrit snatched two out of the air, the other three raining to the floor with finality.

“Thank you.” The woman hopped down from the ladder, rescuing the fallen books and brushing dust off their covers with definitive motions. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Welcome to Huo’s On First. I’m Chelsea.” She offered her hand. “Chelsea Huo.” Her eyes crinkled with pleasure, and Margrit smiled as she shook it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Huo. I’m Margrit Knight.”

“Chelsea.”

“Chelsea,” Margrit echoed obediently. Chelsea’s eyes crinkled again, her smile making wizened apple wrinkles in her round face. “Nice to meet you,” she repeated. “Insomniacs?”

“Are why the store is open so late. I get all sorts of sleepless customers, looking for the comfort of books, or sometimes for one dull enough to send them into slumber. They’re constants, aren’t they?” Chelsea asked cheerfully. “Books are. That’s why we like them so much. They seem immutable. They’re not, of course, not from the author’s first draft to the tenth printing, but they seem like it.” She leaned in confidentially. “And used bookstores like this one are always crowded because the books breed, you see.”

Margrit laughed, looking up at shelves tilting toward one another with the weight of volumes, and grinned. “I didn’t even know I’d said that out loud. It explains a lot, though.”

“Doesn’t it? Now, what can I do for you, Margrit? What are you looking for tonight?”

“I’m looking for-” Margrit cut the words off with a hard swallow. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. Tomorrow.”

Chelsea’s feather-fine eyebrows rose. “You’re a little early, then, aren’t you? Who are you meeting?”

“His name is Alban.” Margrit folded her arms around herself, glancing down an aisle between shelves. She felt, more than saw, stillness settle over Chelsea, and looked back at her curiously.

“Of course,” the tiny woman murmured. “You’re the runner in the park. The young lawyer. Peculiar that he should contact you, but-mmm. Well. How interesting.”

“You know him?” Margrit’s voice broke as she reached for Chelsea’s arm, at the last instant stopping herself from grabbing the other woman. “You actually know him? I mean, do you really know about him?” She almost laughed with frustration, trying to rein in frantic words. She sounded as if she was bordering on lunacy, even to herself. It took a moment to deliberately flex her fingers and move her hand back from Chelsea’s arm, pulling in a discreet breath as she did so. “Please,” she said in a calmer voice, “if you really know Alban, it’d be nice to have somebody tell me I’m not losing my mind.”

Chelsea Huo reached up and grabbed Margrit’s chin, pulling her down for examination. Margrit bit back a growl of protest at the proprietary action and let the tiny woman study her. Chelsea turned her face this way and that, as if inspecting her for flaws, and Margrit felt a growing sense of indignation rising in her. She wasn’t chattel to be declared worthy or inspected for salability.

On the other hand, the imperious little woman knew Alban. It was the first chance to validate what he’d told her, and putting Chelsea off might close the only avenue of information available to her. Margrit bit her teeth together, feeling her jaw clench under Chelsea’s fingers, and strove for a polite tone. “Please. I really don’t know what I’m up against here.”

The bookstore owner let her go with a critical click of her tongue. “Well, then, I suppose you’d better come in back and have a cup of tea.”

“…I mean, it’s not possible.” Margrit ducked her head over the teacup, hands wrapped around it as if she was cold. “It just isn’t possible. But I saw it. I saw him turn into a gargoyle. So either I’m losing my mind or…what did you put into this tea, anyway?” She squinted at the pale liquid semisuspiciously, then looked up at Chelsea with a crooked smile. “I’ve been not telling people.” She could hear herself imbuing the words with capitals, Not Telling People, as if every waking moment had been focused on not sharing the new facet of the world she’d learned about. “All day. Every time I think about it I want to blurt something out, but who would believe me? So here I am with you.” She lifted her eyes, half apologizing with the glance. “Spilling my guts. So I hope to God you’re one of the good guys, or I’ve totally screwed Alban.”

“I’m not one of the bad guys.” The bookseller’s eyebrows fluttered up again. “Though I suppose one of the bad guys would say that, too. So you explain it-why are you telling me?”

Margrit ducked her head over the tea again, all but putting her nose in it. “Because Alban chose this place to meet, I guess. Because if I don’t talk to someone I’m going to go insane.” She glanced up again. “And because I don’t really think I’m on the good drugs and imagining all this. I really need to understand what’s going on. This is awfully good tea.”

Chelsea’s pure laugh rang up to the ceiling and bounced down again. “So you’ve said three times. Any more and I’ll think you’re full of blarney.”

“But it’s true!” Margrit protested, then bit her tongue.

Chelsea smiled delightedly at her. “Thank you. I grow it myself. All right, Margrit Knight. Much of this is not my story to tell, but I will tell you what I can. I’ll tell you enough.”