His eyes narrowed as he studied the shelf behind her that housed her rare finds, some she had restored to perfection herself. They brought her such pleasure and joy, it took everything within her not to parade him on a journey through the extraordinary tomes, allowing him to carefully handle them in order to see how well preserved they were.

“Is that an early edition of Pride and Prejudice?”

“A first edition.” She couldn’t stop the bright smile from forming. “It was found in a rubbish bin of all places.” Outside of a house in Mayfair. With great care, she had removed the soiled, discolored leather binding and worked with it until it was once again supple. When the book was reassembled, it gave the appearance of being barely used.

“Sort through rubbish bins often, do you?”

“You’d be amazed by the treasures people toss out.”

“I suppose I would.”

“However, I don’t rummage through the rubbish, but some poor or orphaned children do, and they bring me their finds, in hopes of gaining a few coins.” Even when the book was beyond use and couldn’t be restored, she paid them to ensure they had a bit to see them through to the next day.

“You don’t think you’re encouraging them to steal from elsewhere?”

“Aren’t you a cynic? No, I’m encouraging them not to accept the harsh life they’ve been dealt but to know it can be improved upon with effort, hard work, determination, and a bit of ingenuity.”

“I wish you the best with that, then.” He tipped his head slightly.

But she couldn’t let him go without telling him more. “I once had a lad bring me a story written on bits of foolscap he’d collected here and there. He’d sewn the pages together with needle and yarn. I bought it for two pence. My hope was to encourage him so perhaps he’ll grow up to be a storyteller. You might have noticed it on display in the window.”

She’d taken great effort in arranging small shelves of knickknacks in the front bay windows as a means to entice people inside. Books, a statuette of a woman reading and another of a boy, book in hand, sitting with his back leaning against a tree. One of the windows exhibited an extremely tiny desk with paper, quill pen, and inkwell—all to signify a writer at his labors.

“I did notice it. I was intrigued and wondered what it was about.”

She offered him a warm smile. “Now you know.”

“I do indeed.”