"I'm sorry... I think there's been a mistake," I say, uncertainly. "I don't have an appointment or anything. I just saw the sign in the window..." I gestured behind me, across the labyrinth of bookshelves towards the unseen door.

"That is what makes you the one I am waiting for," the woman replies. "It can be very difficult to find the right person these days, you know. So instead, I have the right person find me. It's a simple spell of selection and attraction. Only someone with the qualities I'm looking for is able to see that sign at all."

"Oh, r-really?" I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or alarmed. "And what, exactly, are you looking for?"

The woman—Shanti—moves around the desk and comes to stand in front of me. She's a few inches taller than I am, though her long black dress covers her feet and I can't tell how much of her height might be heels. I get the impression that she's quite beautiful, but it's hard to see details in the dim, orange-tinted lights that hang on little strings from the ceiling above. There's also a faint, strange odor about her—like incense with an undertone of fish.

"Someone special," she says, smiling. "Someone with a sharp mind, and a strong spirit. Someone with a good heart. Most of all, someone who needs this place as much as I do."

"This p-place?"

"Yes, this shop. It is not the usual kind of shop, as you can see."

She gestured with her hand, a sweeping motion that invites my eyes to travel the entire, chaotic space.

"It was my papa's shop before it was mine," she says, "though then it was in London; and it was his papa's shop before that, though then it was in Bangalore. Now it is my shop, and it is here."

"I... see," I say, although I'm not sure I do. "Your family is in the business of books, then."

"In the business of knowledge," she corrects, "which is often found in books."

"Occult books?"

She nods, wide eyes widening further still. "People think 'occult' means black magic, witchcraft—things like that. What it really means is 'hidden,' or 'unseen'—secret—that is all. The knowledge is here for those who seek it—those who need it—to find. Just like this shop."

"So... what kind of help do you need?" I ask, intrigued despite my unease.

"Help selling the books, of course," she answers, wandering past me and going to a nearby shelf, where books of every size are crammed unevenly, and trails her fingers over the ridges of their spines. "People find the shop when they need to, but they often confuse what they need for what they want, and that is where they run into trouble. They will find what they need, but it may not be what they want, and then they won't recognize it. All you have to do is help them see what they are looking for."

I look around me at the labyrinth of shelves, and the pandemonium upon them, and wonder if it's actually possible for anyone to find anything in here.

Seeming to read my mind, Shanti interrupts my thoughts. "It is not difficult. You will see."

She returns to the desk and beckons me over. "What hours do you prefer to work?" she asks, leaning over the open book with the script I can't read and picking up her pen.

"Oh... um... but aren't you going to interview me first?"

She looks up at me. "Do you want me to?"

"Um... well, isn't that... the usual way?"

"Very well." She straightens with a sigh. "What is your full name?"

"Noah Hunter."

"Do you wish to work in my shop?"

I hesitate. There's no denying the nerd in me is already in love, and I'm sure there are books about dragons in here somewhere.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"B-Because I need a job, and I like b-books," I stammer.

"Good. You are hired. When can you start?"

"Er... Tomorrow?"

"Wonderful. Come tomorrow then. Here—" She hands me a slip of paper. "Write down the hours and days you want to work, and how much you would like to be paid."

I blink at her. I've only had a few jobs in my life, but my impression has always been that it's the employer who decides these things. She wags the pen at me impatiently, and I take it, then write down five morning shifts and a reasonable hourly wage, and hand it and the paper back to her. She slips it into a drawer without even looking at it.

"Excellent."

When she straightens again, she holds out her hand for me to shake. I take it, and feel her cool, slender fingers close around mine. She smiles.

"Welcome, Noah. I think you will be happy here."

~ ☾ ~

I don't see Ambrose until dinner, but when he comes downstairs and joins me, he looks much improved—back to his usual self-satisfied smirks and secret amusements. He has a double shift at the animal hospital later, and is dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a cream-colored cotton shirt, open at the throat. All traces of illness or weakness are gone, and he looks as effortlessly attractive as he did when I first saw him.

On the one hand, I'm glad he's recovered. On the other, it's almost like whatever passed between us before—the vulnerability he'd shown—never happened.

In fact, he's more aloof and distant than ever, and I wonder if he regrets having let me see that other side of him.

We eat in the dining room, with its wall of high windows looking out on the brambly garden, now lost beneath the evening gloom, and I find it's not unpleasant to share a meal like this. As we eat, Ambrose compliments my cooking, expresses mild interest in my new job, and asks me a bit about myself. I tell him the bare minimum—that I studied and taught linguistics at a small college, and that I left that life behind to come here.

What he doesn't seem keen to discuss is himself, his family, or the thefts. At last, when he's finished eating and has poured himself a second drink, I decide to breach the topic.

"Dane says there are only two of your living relatives on that list who haven't yet been robbed," I say. "Aileen Reed and August Turnbridge. According to the note you gave me, Aileen and August, or Augustus, are your father's brother and sister, so—"

"Aengus Thorne was not my father," Ambrose snaps, with such sudden vehemence that I drop my fork in surprise. "He knew I was not his child, and he never treated me as such. With the exception of Jack, and possibly my mother, the Oakfields and Thornes are thoroughly rotten lots, and as far as I'm concerned they've gotten exactly what they deserve."

He stops, thin nostrils flared, and his eyes flash bright before dimming back to their usual red-brown.

"You can pass that on to your detective, too," he says, still with a hard edge to his tone and an equally hard light in his eyes. "I'm sure he's already moved my name to the top of his list of suspects, anyway—if he has any sense at all."

I'm not sure what to say, so I stay quiet a moment. "Why did they all come here? The two families? And why did you come here, if you hate them so much?" I ask.

He looks at me so intensely it's almost a glare, and I will myself not to squirm beneath his gaze.

"I came here because I was curious, little wolf," he says, in a quieter voice than before. "Rowan Oakfield, dead at last, and all his earthly possessions willed to me, of all people, whom he hated most? And then the rest of them starting to drop like flies, and their gift-relics stolen? Of course I was curious. Because it has to be one of the nine, doesn't it? Who else would know? And yet now, as you say, only Augustus and Aileen remain, and neither of them have the brains for something like this."

He pauses and sips his drink, but keeps his eyes on mine.

"As for why they all moved here, of all places... Well, the two families are 'thick as thieves' as they say—in this case quite literally so. They were run out of Scotland by better and more skilled sorcerers after some of their less-savory dealings came to light. They needed a new home—new hunting grounds—and Spring Lakes seems to attract such things—things that want to stay hidden."

I digest his words a moment, thinking. Finally, I decide to try the direct approach.

"Do you know who it is?"

He looks at me askance, swirling the last of his drink and making the ice clink against the glass. "I don't," he says. "Do you believe me?"

Again, I pause.

"I don't know," I say at last. "But I think I'd like to."

I expect him to smirk, or laugh, but instead he looks unusually grave as he pushes back his chair and stands. "I'd like you to, as well," he says. "And I'll tell you something else, little wolf: out of everything I've said to you, since the moment we met, only one thing wasn't true. I won't tell you which, but I will tell you this—don't ask questions that you don't want to hear the answers to, because I won't lie to you again. I like you too much for that."

He leaves me then, alone with the dishes and my thoughts, and a sudden ache in my chest.

I clean up, and then head for the stairs. I've just reached the bottom when Ambrose appears at the top. I wait as he descends, caught in a little snare of awkwardness, and unsure where to look.

He stops when he's level with me, and in the silence I scramble for something to say, but he speaks first.

"Thank you for dinner," he says evenly. "It was... delightful."

His eyes are on my mouth when he says this, and I touch my fingers to my lips, thinking I must have a fleck of food there. Strangely, a flush of color rises to his face, and when he lifts his eyes to mine they flare with dark fire.

"You're... welcome," I say, though it sounds a little strained.

"I'll make it up to you—your kindness, and your hard work. You deserve to be appreciated properly."

"Um... thank you," I reply, willing the words not to stick in my throat. "But you don't owe me anything."

"Oh, I do so," he says, his smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. "Breakfast, at the very least—tomorrow. Until then... good night."

He moves past me, headed for the door, and I start up the stairs.

"There is one more thing you ought to know," he calls as an afterthought, making me stop and turn. "The next time that I kiss you, little wolf, you'll have asked me to. And you will ask me to."

He throws me a final wink—a little flash of embers—and then he's gone, leaving me with a tangle of confused feelings to pick through.

And one thread among the many, I note with a hint of dread, feels an awful lot like hope.