The bell’s chime carries on travelling when it changes.
It reaches an end at last. For an ear-piercing split second, it behaves as if it understands what an echo is. The sound comes back with a different pitch, cleaner and harder than their ears expect, where the warped wood may have swapped itself for marble. It reaches only a higher register before it stops dead.
Meg lets the book she was shelving slip from her hand. She doesn’t react when its hard spine strikes the floorboards with a thump. Her back straightens, and with her shoulders pulled taut, chin held high, she spins towards the door in a single motion.
Eli halts by the trapdoor. The donation box forgotten under his arm slides down a notch. He pushes it back into place with a hand underneath it as its sharp edge starts to dig into his ribs.
His gaze stays glued to the glass pane.
That wasn’t the bell. No. It was. I did hear it, for once, and that… Still, no bell’s supposed to sound like that. How come it works now for this sharp-dressed guy, though?
Behind the counter, Maz’s hand presses against her ear to muffle the bell’s phantom ring that continues to screech in her head. She snaps her attention to the door.
What the… Don’t worry about the bell. Not your problem. Just deal with this customer who apparently likes to wear black like a standing order.
The man steps inside.
His height threatens the top of the doorframe as his dark hair, slicked back and frozen in place, clears it by a mere breath. The coat resting on his shoulders holds unswaying despite his steps. Its dense fabric looks as if it could choke the warmth from a room on its own.
His scent, intense and too clean to be unpleasant, reaches the counter first.
Three dogs wait outside the glass, their sleek fur the colour of unbroken black ink. Each stands as broad as a pillar, wearing plain leather collars more by habit than restraint.
Their eyes divide the shop between them. One pair, a fiery red, fixes on Eli with intent, while another, a striking green, directs a blank stare at Maz. The third’s molten gold keeps a guarding lock on the gap in the threshold.
Meg’s brow bunches into a trembling knot. She looks at the dogs first as her hand clamps around the serpent cuff at her wrist. She never takes her eyes off the man from then on, even when she sinks to a crouch to pick up the book she has dropped.
Eli retreats for half a step. The backs of his boots align with the seam of the trapdoor hatch. He watches the man as a synthetic pulse starts seeping through his headphones. The melody that follows curdles into a stutter.
His chest squares before his brain files an objection.
‘Everything in Its Right Place’ is it? I recognise that walk. He thinks he already owns the place and everyone in it. I know that walk. I know that smell. From where, though?
Maz squeezes her fringe back up into her messy bun. Her hands rush to the nearest stack and press it straight.
Possibly dangerous. Probably harmless. Don’t you know him from somewhere?
She glances from him to the dogs, to the door, trying to shape the outline of a pattern. Nothing lines up.
The dog outside with the red stare remains focused on Eli through the window, giving clicks against the glass with one paw. When the man raises a single finger without turning to the panes, the dog stops and sits.
He surveys the shelves with a courtroom’s patience. His eyes skim the dark wood and study its cracks and dips longer. Any dust it holds proves to be of no interest to him.
The man moves towards the counter, and the strip lights overhead flare brighter, buzz louder, and flicker before returning dimmer with his next step.
Darkness in the gaps between the bookcases grows wider as the shadows beneath the shelves lengthen. They stretch towards his shoes, mirror-shined to the point of judgement.
A deeper sound takes over the air conditioner. It replaces its constant whirring with a note that presses against the eardrums.
The damp cold that has been sneaking through from below all morning turns ice cold as leftover raindrops on Eli’s jacket seem to freeze in place. It spreads with such persistence that it would convince anyone that this had always been the temperature within the shop and everything earlier was a misunderstanding.
Each of the man’s steps lands with a firmness that should demand a creak from the floorboards, but the wood never dares to make a noise. His gaze stays pinned on the bookstacks as he casts his shadow over the counter.
“Inferno.” The word leaves him in clear syllables.
“The complete, unabridged work, if you have access to it. Translations can transform a soul, whereas nuance carries the bone.”
His accent hints at being from somewhere ancient where the consonants click like keys in a lock.
Maz gives a stiff smile.
You had it behind the stacks. He can’t have seen it. Probably a coincidence. Go on. She hands the copy to him.
His gloved thumb runs along its spine before he cracks it open. His hand spreads across the front page as if the dedication itself were once in debt to him.
“I could start again.”
Maz’s chin pulls down and backwards with a tilt.
Philosophy. Flirtation. Joke. Pick one.
“Start again?”
The smile he wears only stretches enough to stay polite.
“The descent is instructive.” He rifles through the pages to the middle of the book.
“One should return to old thresholds sooner or later, especially in the absence of oversight.”
He glances down at Maz’s neck, where the corner of an old scar peeks out at the side.
“Perspective is an expensive thing. Hard-earned. Rarely shared truthfully.”
His gaze travels from the trapdoor’s padlock to Eli’s boots and, for a brief instant, to Maz’s twitching hand on the counter.
“I will peruse further if the relevant records also remain accessible.”
Maz’s mouth shrivels when the man remains unmoved.
Do you even know what he means? Accessing the bits you’ve forgotten would be a good start anyway.
He closes the book before sliding it under his arm.
“Tell me.” His face never lifts from the title.
“Have you been here long?”
“Long enough.” Maz’s words sound steadier than her hands.
“Mm.” A single note, which sounds neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with her answer. He tilts the spine towards himself as he mouths a word to it.
“Time has a way of becoming irrelevant in certain conditions.”
Maz throws a quick glance at the corner of the book under the man’s arm.
It can’t really be about the bookshop employment anymore. What’s any of this got to do with you?
He looks at her, and the grey of his eyes carries an ashen flatness.
“You don’t precisely remember how long.”
Maz rests her hands on the counter.
He’s met every answer to every question and found most of them wanting, hasn’t he? Just maybe don’t say exactly that.
“I remember enough.”
Stop saying ‘enough’.
“Without a doubt.” He gives a perfunctory smile.
His gaze casts a wide sweep across the shop floor, skimming the inventory until he drops anchor on Eli.
Eli, standing by the trapdoor with the donation box still under his arm, keeps his feigned undivided attention on a pile of books behind the counter. His free hand reaches for his phone in his pocket, and the headphones fall silent.
The Inferno customer draws away and heads towards the maze of aisles with silent steps.
Eli’s glare latches onto the man’s coat as he goes.
That obviously wasn’t the casual face of a bloke browsing Dante. But then why did my gut just take the stairs two at a time? Why was he looking at me like he was… counting me? I should file that under ‘eccentric customer’ and move on.
He catches sight of the dog with the golden eyes beyond the window, who hasn’t stopped observing the gap in the door with patience.
Right. Okay. I could understand the bell might be working now, but at least the door’s still doing its ‘not closing properly’ thing. Even the dog’s noticed it. Why the ‘mission for life’ stance, though?
As the Inferno customer makes his way towards the gap between one shelf and the next, Meg lets out a heavy exhale. Her eyes narrow into a restless focus on Ron’s empty spot by the till. The crease in her brow dissolves. A shaky smile appears in its place.
Maz picks up on the tail end of it.
Was that… fear?
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