“I’m Penny. It’s nice to meet you.” She had a lilting English accent, different from the upper-class one in Downton Abbey or even the accent of the actors who played the servants. “Let me help you with that.” Penny stepped down into the street, took my suitcase from me, and hauled it into the store before I could think to stop her.

Exhaustion made my reflexes slow.

“It’s heavy,” I said belatedly as I followed her inside. Penny was a sturdy woman, a good few inches shorter than me. Yet she was also, by my guesstimation, at least twenty years older than me, and I didn’t want her to throw her back out because of my luggage.

“You’re staying for four weeks; I didn’t expect anything less.” She threw me a smile as we halted in the middle of the store. She pronounced “you’re” and “you” like “yur” and “yuh,” dropped her g’s, and left the final syllables of her words unstressed and short.

“I like your accent.”

“Well, thank you. I’m a Geordie but I’ve lived here nigh on twenty years, so my accent has softened a wee bit.”

“What’s a Geordie?”

She smiled. “Someone from Tyneside. I’m originally from Newcastle upon Tyne.”

I vaguely considered how useful it would be to know more about the geography of northern England, but it was not the priority.

Tired. Bed. Sleep.

“The air is very fresh here.” I gazed around the store, dazed with weariness. “Our air isn’t as nice in Chicago, but I didn’t realize that until coming here.” On the far left of the room was a small counter. In front of the counter were little trays filled with tourist trinkets to buy, such as key rings and ornaments and candy. The large front window had a ledge with a display of books set up on it, and behind that ledge was a window seat for people to relax.

On the left, just in from the door, was a small, unlit fireplace and two cute old-fashioned armchairs set up on either side of it. Beside it was a wide bookcase filled with books. A sign on top of the bookcase stated they were new releases.

The right side of the room was taken up with stacks of oak bookshelves, each spaced apart with enough room for people to maneuver through them. Although the store was small, each bookcase had a sign on the side with a category on it: romance, crime, poetry, etc.

Just as I’d hoped when I saw the photographs online, it reminded me of the small bookstore in my hometown that my parents would take me to once a month as a kid. They’d let me pick out a new book or order one if the store didn’t have a particular title I wanted.