He had spent his childhood discovering the landscape of each shop. He could have told you which one had the best corners for hide-and-seek or the best for browsing. By the age of twelve he could advise book hunters on the best store for ephemera and which ones specialized in history or philosophy. He’d devised his own tour, which took book hunters from shops infamous for their erotic literature to those famous for first editions, then down into the basement of Schulte’s store, and to the three-sided balcony where book-lined alcoves were lit by bulbs that browsers had to turn on. Theo had planned it carefully, through a labyrinth that escalated the mystery and excitement accompanying the journey into any new book. Each store was unique, and to Theo, and the others who lived and worked there, Fourth Avenue was a neighborhood made of books as much as it was of bricks and mortar.

“Look,” Ike said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk, palms clasped together, “I don’t want to make a big deal of this when we’ve got bigger problems, our boys bleeding in the Pacific, but it’s important. It’s New York’s heritage, our history—”

“I know, Ike. I agree. Which is why we’re going to do something about it. You leave it to me.”

“Thanks, Theo. I appreciate it.”

There were a few benefits to working at one of New York’s largest publishing houses, and having the ear of some of the city’s most influential figures and officials was one of them.

Virginia sat in a booth at the Blue Angel, gray silk dress flowing like a waterfall across her pale skin, diamanté necklace reflecting off the spotlights to create starbursts on the wall behind her. She leaned back in the chair, one hand resting elegantly in her lap, the other playing with the stem of her cocktail glass while she watched the band, legs jiggling with the rhythm.

Theo’s desire caught him off guard, and he stood admiring her for a moment, until she saw him and waved him over. He had offered to pick her up from the Red Cross sorting station where she worked, but she’d said she was having a drink with friends and would meet him at the Angel. Now he was beginning to wish they were at home and he had her all to himself, but he knew she’d been excited to celebrate here. It was Max Gordon’s latest venue, and they’d been lucky to get a table as Manhattanites flocked to try it. Max’s established club, the Village Vanguard, was already a New York institution, where you never knew what mix of poetry, cabaret or comedy you might be entertained by on any given night, but Virginia had said she wanted a new club with new artists to see in her twenty-fifth year.