“Oof, that’s harsh,” said Surinder.
“I know!” said Nina.
“But you can’t risk getting Marek in trouble! I thought you liked him.”
“I like to think of it as evacuating the books to safety,” said Nina. “Letting them fly free into the world, don’t you see? It’s a good thing.”
“Only it’s against the law. What if Marek was secretly transporting dynamite?”
“Books aren’t dynamite.”
“What about Mein Kampf?”
“Surinder!”
“What? I’m just saying. You’re asking him to do something bad.”
“I don’t think he’d mind.”
“He wouldn’t mind because of you asking him. Which is worse.”
“Okay,” said Nina. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I am right!”
“I just wanted to ask him. I thought he wanted to do it.”
“I’m sure he does. You still can’t ask him. Neens! I know you’re a major successful businesswoman now, but I’m telling you, this is wrong.”
Nina paused.
“All right. Okay. I won’t. I’ll try and figure out another way.”
“Fine.”
“What are we doing tonight?”
Surinder turned away looking slightly embarrassed. “Actually,” she said. “Actually, I’m going out. Kind of. I kind of have a date.”
Nina stood up. “No way! I knew it! No way.”
“What? No one would ask me on a date?”
“Of course they’d ask you on a date, you idiot,” said Nina. “Who is it? Fat Tam, I hope.”
“No. He was really a Highland gateway drug. Angus. Or Fergus. One of the Gusses, anyway.”
“You don’t even remember which one?”
“Big sturdy forearms. Broad manly chest. Thick curly hair.”
“You sound like you’re dating a tree! What was wrong with Fat Tam?”
“Oh, I was just warming up,” said Surinder. “No. It’s another lovely boy from the ceilidh. I can’t understand a word he says, up to and including his name, so it barely matters.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“A Michelin-starred restaurant followed by a top West End show,” said Surinder. “JOKE! We’re going to the pub, of course. Where else would we go?”
Surinder got ready while Nina felt mildly jealous. She would have gone and tidied up the books, but Ainslee had already done that for her, and the stock was looking decidedly low anyway. Instead, she decided to heat up some soup and reread something—anything—set in a boarding school, which rarely failed to cheer her up.
“I mean it. Don’t go and see Marek. Don’t do anything bad,” Surinder said once she had finished getting ready.
“I wasn’t going to! And don’t you do anything bad with someone WHOSE NAME YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean the delivery thing. Just because you’re quite good at losing jobs doesn’t mean everyone else is.”
“I won’t.”
Then there were lights on the gravel driveway and a large car drew up.
“Ooh!” said Surinder excitedly. “It’s the Hogwarts Express.” She kissed Nina on both cheeks and danced out of the door, even as a tall outline stepped down from the SUV to open the door for her, and they drove away into the misty evening, not the slightest bit dark at 8 P.M.
Nina tried to read, but for once she couldn’t concentrate. The words swam in front of her eyes as she was distracted by the baaing of lambs in the fields and wondered if any of them were her own personal lambs. Then she thought about stock for the shop, but there wasn’t anywhere in Scotland that could provide what she needed; she’d checked online, almost falling down a rabbit hole of beautiful first editions and ancient manuscripts for sale in Edinburgh.
No. She knew where there was a source of great and saleable and almost free books that would be greeted with joy and really enable her to get the business moving. And she knew how to get at them. All she needed to do was . . .
She decided to make some shortbread to take her mind off it. Just butter, sugar, and flour, all creamed together, simple and delicious and easily done. She made far too much. She looked at it sitting there and decided to wrap some up in a pretty bag she happened to have. And a gift box Surinder had bought her. It was only nine fifteen, and still light outside. She would just take a walk. She wouldn’t run into the train, it wasn’t due for hours yet. Just a walk.
She put her wellies on and walked up the side of the field, looking at the wind turbines spinning slowly far away and the lambs bouncing along beside the fence, playing and prancing with one another.
She took a handful of sweet meadow grass and held it out to a lazy-looking ewe, who came over and munched on it calmly as the little ones underneath her sucked milk steadily. It was a tranquil scene, and she smiled. Then she trudged onward. She needed the exercise after sitting in the van all day; the air was fresh, and she pulled her jacket closer.
She was amazed, truly, by how much she wanted the Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After to work now that she had seen it could, now that she knew there were people—people everywhere—who cared about and loved books as much as she did. How on earth would she build her stock up?
She saw it on the tree before she got to it. It was high up; if you weren’t specifically looking for it and didn’t already know the exact—and slightly sickly—tree, you might never have seen it, even if your feet had led you almost without your knowledge all the way to the train crossing.
It was a stone-colored cloth bag, rough, with a square bottom, carefully thrown over a branch with a counterweighted rope; the train would barely have had to slow down.
She shinnied carefully up the tree, mindful of what Lennox had said about it, and peered inside the bag. It was utterly overflowing with wildflowers: sharp yellow gorse, bluebells and daffodils, lily of the valley and baby’s breath. It was glorious. Without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she tied the bag with the shortbread and a book around the tip of the branch. If they slowed the train, they ought to be able to simply lift it down, or fish it off.
She slipped back down the tree again. It was definitely getting darker now. She plunged her face into the bag of flowers and inhaled. There was plenty of lavender deep down in there, and rich thick heather, as well as the lighter, sweeter tinkling smells of the bluebells. It was heaven, and she swung the bag all the way back home.