Lining the front of Pritchard & Potts were large bins filled with books so tossed about, they weren’t even in proper stacks. Grace could only imagine the interior of the shop was just as bad.

Perhaps even worse than Mr. Evans’s shop.

She suppressed a shudder and continued down Paternoster Row. One particular storefront was painted a beautiful eye-catching red. Its large glass windows exhibited a neat arrangement of only a few choice books. The name “Nesbitt’s Fine Reads” was proudly presented in a curling script of shimmering gold and glossy black.

While Primrose Hill Books may never reach the pinnacle of such grandeur, Grace was determined to glean what she could. While bearing in mind what Mr. Anderson had said of it, of course.

She pushed into the store and immediately noted how easily the door gave on its well-oiled hinges. A delicate tinkle above her head welcomed her.

While Nesbitt’s Fine Reads had several rows of shelving, there was by far more space as well as a definitive—and well-labeled—order. The taller shelves sat on the outside perimeter with tables at the room’s center, enticing readers toward brightly colored books on small stands. A second floor above offered walls set with white imbedded shelves all filled with an array of books.

Everywhere Grace looked, the store seemed clean and new. Wood was sharp cornered and polished to a high shine, glass gleamed with the reflection of good lighting and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. Even the jackets of the books appeared so crisp and clean, they might have just been removed from their packing boxes moments before.

Nesbitt’s Fine Reads was exquisite.

“May I help you find something?”

Grace spun around to find a woman with a sharp nose and steel-gray hair raked back into a severe bun.

“I was simply looking,” Grace replied. “Thank you.”

The woman didn’t move. Her neat charcoal suit made her appear painfully slender, and her dark eyes fixed on Grace with intent.

“You’re one of the new tenants in Mrs. Weatherford’s little rundown townhouse, are you not?” She enunciated the hard consonants as she spoke, as though biting them off along with her insult.

It was on the tip of Grace’s tongue to stand up for the woman who had so graciously taken Grace in when she had nowhere else to go. But though Grace had only just met Mrs. Nesbitt, she knew the woman’s kind. Her type was universal whether it be a small farm town or a big city. She would take any stalwart defense and laugh about it later.

Rather than give in to the need to protect Mrs. Weatherford, Grace edged her chin a bit higher and made her back squeeze upright a little straighter. “I am,” she replied. “What of it?”