The Echo of Old Books(3)

Over the years, she had learned to limit her exposure to books imbued with negative echoes and to shun certain books entirely. But on days like today, avoidance wasn’t possible. All she could do was work quickly.

The final box contained more novels, all in great shape, but nothing she could use at the shop. Then, as she neared the bottom of the carton, she came across a paperback edition of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day.

It was nothing special. In fact, it was rather shabby, its pages yellowed almost to brown, its spine deeply creased. But its echo was impossible to ignore. Intrigued, she laid the book in her lap, pressing her palm against the cover. It was a game she played sometimes, trying to guess whether a book contained an inscription and, if so, what it might say.

She loved imagining how a particular volume had found its way into a reader’s hands—and why. Why that book especially, and for what occasion? A birthday or graduation? A promotion?

She’d read a lot of inscriptions over the years, some sweet, some funny, some so poignant they’d brought tears to her eyes. There was something deliciously intimate about opening a book and finding those few scribbled lines on the flyleaf, like being given a glimpse into its emotional life, which had nothing to do with its author and everything to do with its reader.

Without a reader, a book was a blank slate, an object with no breath or pulse of its own. But once a book became part of someone’s world, it came to life, with a past and a present—and, if properly cared for, a future. That life force remained with a book always, an energetic signature that matched its owner’s.

Some books carried mingled signatures and were harder to read, usually in the case of multiple owners. That was the vibe she was getting from the copy of The Remains of the Day. Lots of layers. Very intense. The kind of book that almost always had an inscription. And as she flipped back the cover, she saw that this one did.

Dearest,

Honor isn’t about blood or a name.

It’s about being brave and standing up for what’s

right. You, my love, have always chosen honorably.

Of that, you may always be proud,

just as I am proud of the man I married.

—Catherine

It felt like a reassurance of some kind, words of comfort offered to a troubled heart, but the energy the book gave off, a dank, weighty sensation that felt like doubt, along with threads of guilt and regret, hinted that Dearest—whoever he was—had been less than convinced.

Ashlyn closed the book, placing it firmly on the no pile, then reached for the final book in the carton. Her belly did a little flip as she lifted it out, the kind that meant she may finally have discovered something worthwhile. It was a small volume but quite beautiful. Three-quarter Moroccan leather, ribbed spine, marbled blue boards—and, unless she missed her guess, hand-bound.

She held her breath as she examined it. Little to no shelf wear. Binding tight and square. Text block yellowed but otherwise solid. She peered at the embossed gold lettering on the spine. Regretting Belle. Not a title she was familiar with. She frowned as she continued to study the book. There was no sign of an author’s name. No publisher’s name either. Odd, but not unheard of. But something was off.

The book was strangely quiet. Silent, in fact. The way a new book felt before an owner’s echo rubbed off. An unwanted gift, perhaps, that had gone unread? The thought made her sad. Books given as gifts should always be read. She turned back the cover, hunting for the copyright page. There wasn’t one. There was, however, an inscription.

How, Belle? After everything . . . how could you do it?

Ashlyn stared at the single line. The script was jagged, the shard-like words intended to cut, to wound. But there was sadness, too, in the spaces between, woven through the ellipses, the desolation of a question unanswered. The inscription was neither signed nor dated, implying that the recipient would have required neither. An intimate acquaintance, then. A lover perhaps, or spouse. Belle. The name leapt off the page. Might the book’s recipient have also been its namesake? The giver its author?

Intrigued, she began flipping pages, on the lookout for an author’s name, a publisher’s imprint. But there was nothing. No trace of how this strange and beautiful book had come into the world.

The absence of a copyright page suggested the book might be in the public domain, meaning it would have to have been written before 1923. If so, it was in amazing condition. But there was another possibility, one that seemed more likely. The book may have been rebound at some point and the binder had been unable to include the original copyright page.

Some of the pages may have been damaged or lost. It certainly happened. She’d been tasked with rebinding books that came into the shop in grocery bags, loose pages held together with twine or rubber bands, warped boards left to mold in damp basements, attic finds whose pages were so dry they crumbled when touched. But never had she come across a book missing all traces of its origins.

People rehabbed old books for all sorts of reasons, but those reasons almost always fell into one of two categories: sentiment or collector value. In either case, preserving the author’s name would be critical. Why would someone go to the trouble and expense of having the book rebound and then omit such important details? Unless the omission had been intentional. But why?

Lured by the promise of a literary mystery, Ashlyn laid the book open. She had just turned to the first chapter when a jolt of what felt like current surged through her fingers. Startled, she jerked her hand back. What had just happened? A moment ago, the book had been silent—pulseless—until she opened it and roused whatever lay within, like the flashover that occurs when a door is suddenly thrown open and a small fire erupts into a fully involved blaze. This was a new experience, and one she definitely intended to explore.