Overhead Milton flew: her chaperone, her minder, a streak of black-and-white who seemed to know where Emily was headed. To a bookshop in the neighboring village. Not the main one, that sat in the center of the High Street, surrounded by hairdressers and charity shops. This particular shop was hidden away down a side alley, a chalkboard sign hanging above a painted door. Emily had spent much of her childhood there, protected by the make-believe words of people she had never met. Including those of her grandmother, who wrote stories about a girl named Ophelia whose only friend was a pale, gray duck. The two of them traveled all over the world in search of fairy tales and adventure. They had been adventures Emily had never dared to know in real life.

As she cycled close, Emily saw that the door was open. The air around its frame speckled with light that trailed to the floor then seeped inside. It was Thursday. The shop would normally be shut up tight, all a-slumber. Only today was not a day like any other—Emily could sense that now.

With her bike propped against the wall and Milton keeping watch, she crossed the threshold, felt the air settle on her skin as the door swung to, sealing her in.

The space was both familiar and strange. Every surface was covered with books. Shelves that stretched to the ceiling, side tables and chairs that sagged under the weight of all those words. The comforting scent of paper and ink hung in the air.

But there was something else as well, something Emily couldn’t quite put a name to. At the far end of the shop, a trio of steps led down and through an archway to a small space dominated by an ancient leather chair. On either side stood a tower of books that looked sure to topple if ever they were bumped. Sitting still was the bookseller, a paperback open on his lap. His hair was the color of winter’s frost, his buttercup waistcoat undone, and one finger traced over the letters as he read, thin lips moving in silent recognition.

His head raised only a fraction as she approached.

“Ah, Emily,” he said, blinking through the smudged lenses of his spectacles. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

4

PEACOCK

Pavo cristatus

In her lap, Emily held two documents that the bookseller had procured from a drawer and handed over with a flourish, like a magician lifting the rabbit from his top hat. One was the Last Will and Testament of Catriona Robinson. The other a letter from her grandmother’s solicitor. Both were typed on thick, embossed paper with an elegant signature at the bottom of the final page.

But neither of them made any sense.

“You are the sole heir,” the bookseller said, seemingly oblivious to the way in which Emily’s hands were shaking. “All you have to do in order to inherit your grandmother’s estate in its entirety is follow the clues.”