“She-Wolves? It was excellent. Conversational and not quite history-history. But fascinating to see the way women in power have always been treated.”

“Rad,” said Imogen. “All right, let’s see if we can find the new one.”

They found it, eventually. Not under history. Not under India. Someone had decided that it went under women’s studies. Which, Imogen got. That wasn’t wrong per se. But it wasn’t exactly where you’d go looking for it, either. And it certainly wasn’t where Imogen would have shelved the book.

Not for the first time did Imogen wonder who had originally shelved all the books. The system seemed to have gotten more chaotic as she worked there, rather than more refined. As though the inventory was being shelved in its third or fourth category, rather than its primary one.

But at least Charlene had found her book. She practically bounced when she made her way over to Little Miss Perfect at the register, and Charlene on the whole was not someone who bounced.

The bell on the front door jangled as it opened and then slammed shut. Myrna—Imogen didn’t know her last name—was about eighty years old, carrying her usual homemade pastry in a brown bag that she reused for a whole week before she threw it out. She was carrying her one little luxury—a coffee from the café next door. She liked to come into the store and sit in different stacks. She would sit and then stand all across the store for an entire morning.

Imogen loved the ritual of it.

Plus, it made Imogen almost happy that Wild Nights was a place the little old lady went every day to get out of her house. “What is it today, Myrna?”

“Danish,” said Myrna, waving her brown bag so that it made a rustling, crinkling sound. “Cheese Danish.”

“You enjoy,” said Imogen, enjoying the casual exchange herself.

“Always do.” Myrna headed straight for the only chair in the gardening section.

There was such a vibe to the mornings at Wild Nights. It was a quiet kind of bustle. The people in the store really wanted to be there—either for the quiet as they browsed or to pick up a specific book—and there was something so calm and industrious about the store and its customers right around nine o’clock.

As she passed by the checkout stand, Little Miss Perfect called out to Imogen. “Are you all right?” She had one of those worried creases in the middle of her eyebrows, like she cared a lot and wanted to help.

Imogen didn’t need her help, thank you very much. She didn’t need anyone’s help. And right now she was just floating around the store, making sure people were finding what they were looking for. “I’m fine.”