“I think you’re going to enjoy The Moonstone very much indeed, Mr. Harper.” Fancy couldn’t help but believe that Mr. Sommersby would also enjoy the mystery and wondered if he’d read it.

“I’m looking forward to reading it, Miss Trewlove, which isn’t something I ever said before you taught me my letters.”

“You were a fast learner. I’m ever so glad you found the effort worth your while.”

Once the transaction was completed and Mr. Harper took his leave, she gave the shop a quick perusal. Two ladies had come in together and were browsing the area where they were most likely to find a story that involved a grand love, while a gentleman was searching through her travel books. She’d already offered to help each of them, but they preferred looking on their own. She certainly understood that. Before she had her own shop, she’d spent hours in bookshops or combing through bookstalls searching for the perfect story to take home with her.

Saturday was usually her favorite day of the week because she generally had a few more customers. Several people, including a mother with her three children, were upstairs in the reading parlor. Marianne was keeping a watch on things up there. Fancy needed to hire someone to assist her clerk during the hours when she, herself, might not be available. The notion of asking Mr. Sommersby if he’d like to take on the job flashed through her mind, but she quickly squelched it. She didn’t know why she was intent on making opportunities to have him about. Perhaps because, like the book she’d just sold, he was a mystery.

The bell above the door tinkled and an elderly gentleman carrying a large brown wrapped package secured with string wandered in, stopped, and glanced around to take in every nook and cranny. It always amazed her that people resided in this area whom she had yet to meet, but then as it was growing and expanding more were moving in. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

Swinging his gaze back to her, he removed his hat to reveal pale gray eyes. “Miss Fancy Trewlove?”

“Yes.”

He walked toward her with smooth, lithe motions, seeming to move quickly while giving the impression of not moving at all, his steps eerily quiet as though he loathed causing any sort of disturbance. When he reached the counter, he set his package upon it in the same respectful manner that one might place a present before the Queen. “A gift for you.”

As his hat began its journey back to his head, he turned on his heel and walked silently toward the door.

“Who is it from?”

He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate.

“Who are you?”