"It is a subject," Ann says kindly, salvaging us. "The Order. They were a group of women who ruled the realms with magic--"
"Not real women, of course!" I break in. "It is but a story, after all."
"It's fiction you're after, then?" Mr. Day says, scratching at the bald spots between unruly white tufts of hair.
This is proving impossible. "Myths," I say after a moment's thought.
Mr. Day's face brightens. "Ah! I've some lovely books of myths. Right this way, if you please."
He leads us to a case in the back."Greek, Roman, Celtic, the Norse--oh, I do love the Norse. Here they are."
Felicity gives me a forlorn look. This is not what we're after, but what can we do but say thank you and at least pretend to look before leaving? The bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer and Mr. Day leaves us. His cheery voice asks if he can be of assistance. The customer, a woman, answers. I know that strange brogue. It belongs to Miss McCleethy.
Peering around the case, I see her at the front.
"Look there," I whisper urgently.
"Where?" Stupidly, Ann steps out from behind the cover of the bookcase. A strong yank and she's back beside me.
"Look through here," I say, pulling two books from their places on the shelf, giving us a peephole to the other side.
"It's Miss McCleethy!" Ann says.
"What is she doing here?" Felicity whispers.
"I don't know," I whisper back."I can't hear."
"Ah, yes. It's only just arrived," Mr. Day says, in answer to some unheard question on Miss McCleethy's part. "What's only just arrived?" Ann asks. Felicity and I shush her with our hands over her mouth.
"I won't be a moment. Have a look about, if you wish." Mr. Day disappears behind a velvet curtain. Daylight streams through the sooty windows, bathing Miss McCleethy in a haze of dust. She removes her right-hand glove in order to better thumb through the pages of some novels stacked upon a table. The snake ring catches the light, blinding me with its brilliance. Miss McCleethy leaves the table and moves ever closer to our hiding spot.
Panicked, we crouch low on the floor as books above our heads are slid from their perches. If she should look on the lower shelves . . .