The City of Crows by Bethany Lovejoy (great books to read .txt) 📕

Ten minutes and I’d be in the Heights, ten minutes and this could be just another day. My hand tightened around the baggie in my coat pocket, eyes clenching shut even tighter. Somehow, I didn’t believe it. I could feel change in the air.

The bell rang behind me as I entered the bookstore, pulling the zipper quickly across my pocket so that my morning activities would not be discovered. I whispered a silent plea under my breath, praying that their contents would not be discovered.

Emma was at the front desk, twirling a piece of her thin, brown hair around her finger as she noisily chewed gum, splotches of her lipstick smearing across her chin. I debated telling her about the lipstick, but then she opened her mouth, “you’re just in time, lots of ‘interesting’ characters around here today,” she said pointing at the shelves to the left of her, not bothering to lower her voice. “Boss told some guy he can do space studies of the stacks, whatever that means. And, well… you’re going to have to talk to that old woman near the cookbook section, if you know what I mean. Don’t know why she thought she could come in here, she practically has the word written across her head.”

“Don’t you think we could just leave her be?” I asked, stepping behind her to pull my apron off the coat rack. A dark green apron to cover my street clothes, Able’s books written across it in white letters. I knew that just asking was a futile thing, but still.

“Right,” Emma’s bubble popped and I saw a hint of teeth as she dragged her chewing gum back into her mouth, “and then we’ll start letting in all of the other freaks as well; brilliant idea, Lyra.” She shook her head, withdrawing her phone from her pocket as she dismissed me, “c’mon, you know they’re practically useless when it’s raining. Just take off your nametag and that bat can’t do anything, she’s still a little soaked from getting here. She’s not going to curse you or anything,” she lowered her phone, looking me in the eyes as she quipped, “and if she did, just take a shower and wash it off.”

“Yeah but,” I said awkwardly, my eyes drifting to the row of bookshelves that the cookbook section lay in. “I always do it.” Anything to stall just a moment longer. I felt good about myself from helping the little girl earlier, just a little bit; couldn’t Emma let that feeling stay a while longer?

“Seniority,” Emma replied, once again pointing to the aisle, “duh.” She rolled her eyes, as if just asking such a question made me stupid. Nevermind the fact that her perceived seniority shouldn’t have counted since she’d only started a week before me. “Listen,” she took pity on me, “you can shelve some of the new stock, make sure our ‘artist’ isn’t stealing anything, and then kick her out. Just do it before it comes time to check out, you know how I hate dealing with them. It’s always so awkward, like we’re really going to let a witch walk around with a bag with our logo on it. Puh-lease.”

Oh the irony.

I kept silent, taking the large stack of books that sat behind the desk and throwing them onto a book cart. There were things I wished I could say to Emma but I never did, and it was good that I didn’t. Emma was Able’s favorite and when it came down to it, the old man would choose her over me.

Especially if I let a witch stay in his store.

Still, as I worked my way through the stacks and shelved book after book, I wished that it would never end and that I would never have to face her. Emma could tell she was a witch by the way that she looked, I wondered what features she counted in that description. What traits defined one as a witch?

I pushed my cart, the wheels squealing in protest. It was brand new, but somehow louder than the one before it. That’s the funny thing about book carts, there’s never been a quiet one. Still, the regulars didn’t mind. I suppose that was how it was in libraries too, the wheels seemed louder and more intrusive to you while you were shelving, but not to anyone else.

Or maybe not. I felt eyes on me as I entered the next aisle, my eyes trained on the ground as a faint blush spread across my cheeks. I always hated the idea of disturbing someone at Able’s. Much like a library, a good bookstore was a quiet one. My eyes drifted up to catch a peak at the customer, a glance just out of the corner of my eye so that it didn’t seem so obvious.

The angle wasn’t right, I only saw the edge of a dark green cableknit sweater and something, a firm, gray blob that looked to be putty, in a decidingly male hand. The artist. His hand didn’t move anymore, and I had the embarrassing realization that he could likely see me, even if I couldn’t see him.

I tucked my head down, shoving the last book into the shelf without properly aligning it with the other books. I decided as I pushed the cart away and skipped the artist’s aisle that I’d lie and say it must have been moved by a customer if Able questioned it, which he likely would seeing as how he walked around the shelves every night with the eyes of a hawk. Something about just the man’s hand reaffirmed what I felt on the platform, a strange, breathless feeling, as if I was anticipating something.

Truthfully, the only thing I should have been anticipating was the appearance of the florist from across the street later today, seeing as how the book he ordered finally came in. I tried to focus on him instead, daydreaming about Oliver