Death and Sensibility by Elizabeth Blake

Author:Elizabeth Blake
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Twenty-Five

A few people were scattered around the bookstore, walking slowly past the tables, or standing, heads down, shoulders bent in the posture Erin knew so well, having observed it in her own customers in Kirkbymoorside. There was a particular concentrated calm displayed by people browsing in bookstores, a kind of focused, meditative state. It was soothing, like watching sheep grazing in a meadow. The room was quiet, the only sound the turning of pages or low murmurings of customers. Inhaling the familiar, musty scent of paper and ink, Erin felt a sense of peace; she was at home here, among these uniquely human objects, repositories of thoughts and feelings and imagination.

Minding the till was the thin, older gentleman she had seen earlier in her panel; he looked up from the book he was reading and nodded as she and Charles entered the room.

“Were you looking for something in particular?” he asked in his reedy voice, thin as paper.

“Just browsing,” Charles answered.

“Let me know if I can help,” he said before turning back to his book.

“Did you notice what he was reading?” Erin whispered as they perused the tables of titles, many related to Jane Austen and her time period.

“No, what?”

“Terrence Rogers’s book.”

“The one he was promoting so relentlessly?”

“Yep.”

“The Plot Thickens, something like that?”

“Jane Austen and Her Contemporaries.”

“Right. I remember.”

“Oh, here’s Grant’s book,” Erin said.

“Which one?”

“Alluring Lies: The False Promise of Romanticism. That’s interesting,” she said, perusing the Acknowledgments. “He thanks Barry Wolf ‘for his invaluable assistance and guidance.’”

“That is intriguing,” Charles agreed as Erin replaced the book on the table. The cover illustration was a painting of a satyr presenting a blushing nymph with a sumptuous bouquet of red roses. The expression on his face was rapacious, vulgar, as he leered at her yielding, voluptuous body, clad only in a sheer, clinging white shroud. The message was clear: the roses were a front for aggressive male libido, thinly cloaked in a false presentation of love and romance.

“Nice cover,” said a female voice behind Erin.

Erin turned to see Khari Butari, clad in a mustard-colored tunic over black pants.

“Hello,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Khari smiled. “I’m not surprised. These carpets are at least three inches thick.”

“Hi, I’m Khari Butari,” she said to Charles.

“Girls of Dakar, winner of Best Documentary, New York African Film Festival, 2018.”

Khari’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Who are you?

“Charles Augustus Kilroy,” he said, shaking her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

She turned to Erin. “Who is he?”

“A fan,” she said. “He’s a fan.”

“Bien sur,” said Khari. “A superfan, I’d say.”

“I prefer ‘uberfan,’ actually,” he said.

They all laughed. The thin gentleman looked up from his book, clearly annoyed.

“Are you going to Grant’s reading?” said Khari.

“When is it again?” asked Erin.

“In about fifteen minutes.”

“We’d better get going. Are you coming?” she asked Charles.

“I think I’ll stay here and browse a bit. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Where is the reading?” Erin asked as the two women headed toward the panel rooms.

“Mickelgate.”

“I just learned it’s Norse for ‘Great Street.’ It’s one of the city’s most ancient and important thoroughfares.

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