Nefertiti's Heart by Exley A. W

Author:Exley, A. W. [Exley, A. W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Fantasy, Romance, Science Fiction, Historical
Goodreads: 16164095
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Published: 2013-02-14T07:00:00+00:00

Tuesday, July 16

A quick visit to Mayfair the next morning and Cara held a list of three rare book dealers to visit in the greater London area. The first one was a dismal failure. The owner gave her a haughty look and treated her like an imbecile for not knowing the name of the book she sought.

I thought they were called rare books because there aren’t many of them. You should have known which one I meant.

She trudged through the dark and narrow back streets of Soho to find Goslett Yard and the second on the list. The little shop was ancient, the timber façade blackened by centuries of grime and filth from the London streets. Soot coated some of the uprights; scars showed the building survived its battle with the Great Fire while the flames razed other structures to the ground. The glass of the windows was so thick, light ended up distorted and refracted on the journey through the panes.

She pulled open the heavy door and stepped back in time. Candles burned in wall sconces, shedding little light and a gentle, warm radiance. The smell of melted beeswax, books, and lavender oil permeated the air. The ceiling soared higher than the width of the shop, making for a strange visual illusion, as though she stood at the bottom of a book-lined well. Surrounded by the words from a thousand pens, peace settled over her. The rows of books enticed, and she longed to run her fingers over their spines in a whispered caress.

She reached out a hand; her finger hovered over a tiny gilt hummingbird. A sharp memory stilled her hand. Her father had always been angry when she touched his books, berating her about their worth and complaining about the oils and dirt on her hands. She turned her hands over and stared at her fingers, then risked a stroke. She caressed the little bird, indulging in the contact with the unusual, small tome.

Emerging from the tall stack of books, she approached the counter. An elderly man perched behind a high desk, a peacock feather quill in his hand, as he laboured over an illuminated manuscript. A pot of liquid gold paint stood open in front of him. A small electric lamp lit up his workspace, the only modern concession in the shop, the book too precious to risk an unguarded candle so close to the fragile paper.

Looks like the original shop owner.

She cleared her throat, and he looked up at her with a gentle smile on his deeply etched face. His eyes were milky with cataracts and she wondered how he fared in a bookshop, or how he could labour over repairing a book. Or, perhaps his love for the written word drove him onward, despite the impending blindness.

“I’m looking for a book—” And I’m incredibly stupid, she thought as he immediately smiled indulgently at her.

“It’s oral histories from the ancient world. It’s a very old book, possibly mediaeval in origin.” She had no idea what she was doing.

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