In this library, too, Nory had discovered the works of artists like Jan Davidsz. de Heem and Rachel Ruysch. Books too large for her to carry filled with still lifes of twisting foliage, flowers curling around one another like lovers, and petals so lifelike you felt you could reach into the page and brush their velvety frills. If her natural interest in plants grew out of her family’s business, then her love of art was born in this library. The botanical artist Serena De-Veer had once lived in this house. The family had rented it for a short time after they moved back from India, while they waited for their house in Surrey to be renovated. Nory wondered if that was how Isaac had come to have one of her prints in his sitting room. A retirement gift to his father from the marquis, perhaps.

She checked her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. Pulling the sherpa blanket around her shoulders, Nory slipped out into the entrance hall and called Andrew. The log fire was doing its best, but this was still the chilliest place in the house.

“You’ve been gone a day, Nory. One day. What do you think is going to have happened in one day?”

“All right, shirty! I’m just ringing to see how everything is. That’s what good shopkeepers do; they check in with their staff.”

“Everything is fine. We sold two of the books in the window . . .”

“Not The Snow Queen?”

“You really are the worst bookseller in London.”

“But was it The Snow Queen? I really wanted one more look at the pictures before I had to part with it.”

“You need to marry a rich man so that you can curate a library and never part with any books again.”

“Obviously.”

“The Snow Queen is safe . . . for now. It was the 1940s edition of The Night Before Christmas with illustrations by Leonard Weisgard and the vintage How the Grinch Stole Christmas!”

“Oh, come on! Not the Leonard Weisgard! That was one of my favorites.”

“They’re all your favorites, Nory.”

“Yeah, but that was a proper classic.”

“Which is why we sold it for such a good price.”

Nory pouted.

“I can hear you pouting!”

“How can you hear me pouting?”

“You breathe differently when you’re sulking. I recognize the post-sales brood breath.”

“Well, that’s really very rude, I may have to fire you.”

“Go right ahead. Good luck getting another manager who puts up with you.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“I thought as much.”

“What else did you sell? A piece of my soul, perhaps?”

“The illustrated works of Shakespeare.”

“Oh my god!”

“Would you like to hear what else we sold?”

“There’s more? Hells bells, there’ll be no books left at this rate!”