“But that was so not what Stowe wrote.” Anna looked lovingly at the book, closing it and letting her palm rest reverentially upon the tattered cover. “Those of us who love old books live for moments like this. These volumes,” she said, “are definitely worth investing in to get them restored.”

“May I see it?” asked Gordon. He picked it up and leafed through the pages, then brought the book to his nose. “Yes, definitely mold and mildew. But not too bad. I think you’re right, Anna. It can be restored.” He looked at Linnea, whose gaze questioned how he knew this. “My parents have a library full of old books,” he explained. “They strive for climate control, but they’re always checking for mold.”

“It’s a massive library,” Pandora chimed in. “Quite impressive.”

Linnea shot Pandora a look. “You’ve been to Gordon’s parents’ house?”

Pandora cast a furtive glance toward Gordon. “Yes, once,” she said in a casual way. “Ages ago. My parents know his parents. Socially, you know.”

Gordon looked at his shoes.

Linnea considered how Pandora’s parents, very well connected socially in England, would know the parents of a university professor.

“Anna,” Pandora asked, adroitly changing the subject, “how did you get into old books?”

Anna stretched out her leg with a soft groan. Her yoga pants were smeared with dirt and dust, but she looked as happy as a pig in a mud bath. “My mother didn’t exactly have a library,” she said, casting an amused glance at Gordon. “More like cartons of books she kept piled up in the attic or under beds. We had as many bookshelves as you could squeeze into a rented house or a trailer… so, not a lot.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “Mama didn’t have one dime to rub against another, but she loves her books. Truth is, she’s a hoarder of books. She volunteers for organizations that collect old books—libraries, schools. Her role is to spot the rare one, the find that they could auction off. She taught me everything I know.” She laughed mirthlessly with memory. “I’ve spent many hours at her side, leafing through books. Now I love it too—the history, the feel of the eras right under your fingers, authentic and true. Like this book,” she said, reaching up to take hold of Uncle Tom’s Cabin again. “This is the real deal.”

“I don’t know about books,” Linnea said, opening a box that was filled with bolts of fabric. She lifted several out, revealing vibrant patterns. “But I know fabric. Take a look! Sea turtles, dolphins, jellyfish, like the murals. And here, coral.” She picked up bolt after bolt. “These blues and greens are gorgeous cottons.”

Linnea’s mind spun with possibilities. She could sew almost anything. She especially loved to make her own clothing. This trove of vintage fabric was a gold mine. Suddenly another idea struck. “Hey, Anna, Pandora. We can use this fabric to make face masks. We can donate them to organizations, like the aquarium.”