#New England Bookseller

[wellesleybooks]

Pride Month displays around the store.

[wellesleybooks]

Let’s all go to the ocean and read.

[wigoutlet]

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Forty

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff

— WORDCOUNT: 3.4k

— A/N: Here it is 💚 Finally at an end. Thank you to everyone who's been following this fic, and thanks again to @localravenclaw for requesting it for @esolean. It was a great adventure taking this story from prompt up to this point. It's been almost one year to the day since I started writing it, so it is fitting that the final chapter is posted now. I hope you all enjoy it!✨

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir @thiefofthecrowns

I

Tom was on a train, riding back to England. It wasn’t a dream anymore. His cabin seemed more comfortable than it did last time and the view outside was decidedly serene. There was no sign of the chaos that was unfolding back in Italy.

A warrant had been issued for Ambrogio Oso and the Swiss authorities fell under criticism for their obstinate lack of cooperation. The Italian police were convinced he’d struck a bargain with someone so that he would not face extradition. He was clearly connected with the Roman underground and old rumours of his involvement with the Mafia surfaced once more. Since the conflict involved the French-speaking part of Switzerland — Oso was said to have settled in Geneva — the Swiss asked for mediation from France, who delegated Mr. Jean Monnet to solve the issue. An evening paper in Rome described it as “an underhanded excuse to leverage the authority of the ECSC”, of which Italy was a member but not a more important one than France. This opened the door for all manner of political and economic experts to weigh in and stoke the already bubbling dissatisfaction with the ECSC as a whole.

Support for law enforcement in Italy was already wavering and the amount of resources being wasted to chase the suspect in the murder of a controversial aristocrat was seen as an insult to the public in a time of economic strife. The exchange rate with most foreign currencies, especially the dollar, remained pitiful, which no doubt contributed to the influx of spoilt and noisy Americans among other undesirables. The fiery murder of Baron Agarda at the hand of either an elderly employee or — the second most likely suspect — a young French national with a record of public indecency, was considered an act of divine intervention either way.

It amused Tom, thinking back now to how keen the inspector was to resolve the case specifically because of his yearning for public approval. He bit his lip to keep from chuckling as he read the Corriere Della Sera. Perhaps he would clip the article and keep it as a memento of his fun little vacation.

He had a moment of compassion for Donatien… Fleeing to Switzerland in the hope of reuniting with his erstwhile protector and would-be sponsor, Ambrogio. As soon as the boy was seen standing outside Casa Ur that day, the Carabinieri knew they had their man. Tom had only helped them confirm it. He so loved hot-headed people, their brains as soft as pudding. And it had certainly taught him a new respect for the art of invisibility. Of course, him planting Donatien’s ring with the bloodied clothes of Clement probably had more to do with it.

He sighed in quiet satisfaction and placed the paper aside. Before him sat the cursed book, the cause of all that trouble. The intrigue, the heartache, betrayal, and death. He supposed it was only fitting. Books like that had a destiny, and a price, and the will of their maker prevailed above the petty wants of their mortal caretakers. It just so happened that the price of the Delomelanicon was not gold or silver or banknotes, but blood… and a couple of souls.

The view outside his window never changed. They had crossed a frozen Italy softly veiled in white and now he couldn’t say exactly where they were. Maybe it was France already. He could see frozen vineyards in the distance and a crown of crows above. There was a light over everything spreading like spilt milk but it came from nowhere, no moon, no sun, as if the very sky was a gaping hole revealing a void of white. Perhaps there was a sea of souls behind that firmament and only in days as cold as this would they appear… But Tom could never count himself among their number. He had made sure of it, in more ways than one.

He could only imagine the furore that was to come in the magical community among those in the know once Burke let spread the word he had the book. Buyers will be crawling over each other like beasts in a pit, and it would likely fall to Tom to skin the price off of their monstrous backs. What’s another heirloom or two compared to sacred knowledge? Yes, he would not let this opportunity pass him by, not after everything he’d been through… And he knew of more than one collector who would part with precious relics for a chance to own that book. After all, demonic tomes that the Ministry knew nothing of had many uses for many wizards, and he intended to milk those amateurs for everything they had. Perhaps, he amused himself, he might get Mr. Malfoy to pay for it again — and no forged folds of muggle bills this time… Tom estimated he might even squeeze three Horcrux-worthy items from the old fool.

“What are you grinning about?”

“Just thinking of all the things we’ll get up to in London.”

“No, no, it wasn’t that kind of a grin.”

“Oh, was it not? What kind was it, then?”

She smiled and, like a cluster of writhing snakes, uncoiled to leave her nest of fur and scarves behind and join him on his side of the cabin. Tom kept her comfortable and warm, weaving around her soothing spells of warm fumes that smelled like her favourite tea and conjuring for her the most luxurious and soft accoutrements. After all, she would find precious little of any of it in London, especially in his cheap one-bedroom flat. And as a reward, she pinched his cheeks and ruffled his hair and smiled with love and adoration at him.

“That was a very bad idea kind of grin,” she said.

“So? It’s not like I ever got us in trouble before.”

“You mean aside from theft and murder and giving false statements to the Carabinieri?”

“Those, I’ll remind you, are exactly the sort of things that got us out of trouble.”

“And breaking my heart?”

“That was only temporary…”

“Well, you certainly made it seem not-so-temporary.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment,” she grumbled.

Tom reached up and grabbed the back of her head, her hair soft beneath his fingers, and pulled her in for a kiss.

She understood why he’d done all of that. He knew she did… It was imperative that the Carabinieri have no idea they were together, especially if he wanted to make the inspector think he had been Donatien’s lover. He explained everything to her as he helped her hurriedly pack in the middle of the night before they made for the train station. It had been hours before she believed him but with that morning’s newspapers in their hands, she slowly accepted that Tom had done all of it for her. The lies he wove, once she saw them brought to completion, made as much sense to her as they must’ve done to the Carabinieri. An aristocrat running an underground network for rich old perverts, an illegal book trade, payments made in the form of boy flesh, love affairs and subtle murder, it was all easier to believe than magic and demonic books.

And although it hurt Tom to paint Ambrogio as the hero, he had to admit it was a neat little plan. It certainly worked well to draw suspicion away from her. The foolish inspector was only too eager to believe that a delicate lady like her would never hurt a soul. Of course, Tom knew better — poor Clement. She, however, still didn’t know that he knew about that. And that’s how it was going to stay. She may not have been blameless in her own mind, but she could at least imagine that her soul was still untainted in his eyes.

She sighed into his kiss and wrapped her arms around him, clinging to his neck, her soft body melting against his. Tom held her tightly, claws sinking in, as the train carried them further and further away. She was all his now and nobody could come between them anymore. He would find a way to live forever with her — and having the Delomelanicon opened paths for him that weren’t there before. And if anything, her being a muggle should work in his favour. Her mind was innocent, a blank sheet with no preconceptions, and for her, magic was still a wonderful thing. There was no good or bad, no right or wrong, it was all beautiful to her, and Tom would be there to watch her discover all of it, to teach her as she went through the same waves of wonder as he did as a child. Hers was the perfect mind to accept what he suggested without fear or prejudice.

She pulled away after a lazy patter of kisses and he caught her licking her lips when he opened his eyes. He smiled and brushed his thumb against her cheek. She looked positively drunk on love, just as he liked it.

“I can’t wait for you to see London… It’s a ruin, and atrocity. You’ll hate it just as much as I do,” he said with a smile.

“Are you sure I won’t be a burden?”

“Having second thoughts?” he chuckled. “We’re a long way from Rome already…”

“I just…”

She struggled to find her words. Tom waited, but he already knew what was on her mind.

“It will be the first time I’ll be useless,” she finally said.

He cupped her face, the warmth of her skin so intense against his skin it penetrated him to the bone.

“You will never be a burden,” he said. “I’ll teach you potion-making, there’s no silly wand-waving involved in that. You can dabble in alchemy too if you want. I’ve salvaged some books on it from the Baron’s collection just for you.”

“Want me to discover the Philosopher’s Stone to prove my love? Is that it, Tom?” she laughed.

“Great minds do think alike,” he grinned. “But no. You can prove it in far simpler ways.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a giggle as he pulled her in his lap.

II

They arrived in Paris. From there, they would have had to take another train to Callais and then the ferry, a tedious proposition after everything they’d been through.

“Are you glad to see it again?” he asked.

“I don’t know… It looks different this time.”

He cast a subtle charm on their suitcases to make them lighter and carried most of them out of the train station, diverting their course without even asking. They would not leave Paris that night.

It was a dizzying feeling, being free… Between the Italy job and returning to England, Tom could do as he liked. As for her, this was the first time in years she’d been out of a job and with him at her side, she could go anywhere, do anything, at least for a little while. He booked for them a fancy room at a hotel with a view of the Arc de Triomphe and they decided to see none of the places they’d seen before together.

They explored Paris as if they were strangers to it, stopping at the first café they spotted, going into antique shops tucked between old streets, sitting by modest fountains in parks with no name and petting every stray cat along the way.

On their second day, he took her to Montmartre without specifically saying why, and she was so used to the mysteries that surrounded him that she didn’t even ask.

“Are we still using fake money, by the way?”

“We are. But not where we’re going.”

“Pity. That taxi driver was really nice.”

“He fancied you.”

“Do you think so?”

“Have you ever known a Frenchman to be polite without good reason?”

“Well…”

“And don’t mention Donatien.”

“But he always was nice to me.”

“He was a thief and a liar.”

“But Tom, so are you.”

“I suppose you have a type, then.”

He took her to La Place Cache where he bought her sweets and trinkets. They were hardly more than parlour tricks, but it was real magic she could hold in her hands. Passing through the statue made her dizzy, but actually seeing the place, hearing the sounds, tasting what he bought her, was thoroughly intoxicating. Tom smiled, remembering something of what it was like for him to first see Diagon Alley. It was a weakness of his to want to impress her, and magic sure did that… The whole day, she spoke of nothing else. The littlest thing mattered so much to her and it made his heart grow ten times over in his chest.

“Can we get some of those moving photographs before we leave?” she begged with a jumping chocolate frog clutched in her hands, melting away.

“Of course we can. What of?”

“Something wild… Something beautiful. A scene of nature with swaying trees and drifting clouds and bunnies and deer passing by.”

He got her a pretty landscape photo of a forest and she spent the whole way back to the hotel looking at it, her head resting serenely on his shoulder. It helped Tom decide what they should do on their final day there.

She wanted to see something untamed, entirely different from the marble monuments of Rome, so Tom took her to the Vincennes Woods on the eastern outskirts of the city. It was an overcast day and nobody else seemed to be travelling there, which suited them just fine.

They got blissfully lost after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly about and kissed between the grey shrubs by the lake. They found strange mansions tucked among the trees, and statues, and a marble birdbath with an owl cleaning its feathers in it.

“I saw a lot of owls there…”

“Where?”

“Yesterday, on the magic street.”

“You mean La Place Cache?” he asked with a cocked brow.

“That’s the one. Why do they have so many?” she asked as she hooked her arm around his.

“We use them to send letters.”

“Owls?”

“They’re highly intelligent. Best sort of bird for it.”

“So do you have a mailing owl at home?”

“No, not anymore. I used to when I was at school.”

“What was its name?”

“Morgana. She was a great horned owl with black and grey plumage.”

“Awww!”

“She was very noisy. And a glutton. She ate half a rabbit once that she caught out in the field and dumped the carcass on my bed.”

“I love her.”

“Sold her when I was about sixteen, didn’t need her anymore. Bought a diary with the money.”

“I want a pet owl…”

“Well, that can be arranged,” he smiled.

Fallen leaves bunched up around their feet, softening their steps. The sky was all but covered by the crowns of high trees and birds sang all around them. Tom created motes of light that lit the path when the forest grew the thickest, and they kept on walking.

He found a snake to speak to as well, an innocent green grass friend hidden in a winter burrow. Tom bent down and called her over as he invited the snake into his palm. Her eyes shone as she watched him speak in Parseltongue.

“Can I learn that?” she asked.

“Afraid not. It has to be inborn.”

“Not fair!”

“Here,” he said, holding out the snake in the cup of his hands. “Hold her, she won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know, Tom…”

“He said you’re very pretty.”

“Liar,” she mumbled, but took the new friend anyway.

It hissed and shivered pleasantly, its muscles coiling and relaxing.

Tom laughed. “She says your hands feel lovely. She wants to stay there.”

“Oh no… How can I ever put her down now? Poor snake, down in that cold, dirty hole in the ground…”

Tom hissed and told the snake to kiss her. It did, slipping its forked tongue out to tickle at her pinkie finger. She gasped and Tom could see her face light up with sweet affection.

“She is so darling! Tom, I want to keep her…”

“If only you liked my kisses that much.”

“I do. Shut up,” she smiled, gently starting to pet the snake’s small head with her thumb. “Tell her she’s pretty too. That she has lovely scales.”

Tom’s smile turned a little sharper. “I’m starting to regret introducing you two.”

“Tom, tell her!”

He sighed and with a toothy smile conveyed her praises to the snake. Its lithe body shivered in delight and it nuzzled the cushion of flesh beneath her thumb, tail curling around to hide its eyes.

“Awww, she’s shy!”

“What a showoff.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Why not?”

She petted it a while longer then bent to put the snake back on the ground. As it slithered into its home she covered the entrance lightly with leaves, tucking the creature away for the winter. As for Tom’s jealousy, she soothed that with kisses beneath the swaying tendrils of a willow tree while he played at being angry for a few moments longer.

They eventually found the path that led out of the forest with the sunset and she gathered acorns as they went. The last bus took them to the hotel and Tom forged enough French banknotes for a feast. Her sense of honour protested again, at least until the first eclair touched her lips. Tom’s lips followed close behind to lick the chocolate from the edges of her mouth.

III

The North Sea was sleek and docile, swaying them in unfeeling waves like children being lulled to sleep. The sky had disappeared again, taking the sun with it, and they were left once more with a white void above. Everything had a feeling of finality about it akin to being doomed to death, but there was a hint of resurrection too. For Tom, it was as if returning from the underworld. For her, beginning a new life.

Surrounded by other passengers going about their ordinary lives, the two of them felt like the carriers of a great secret — which in a way they were. The story in the papers about the hunt for Ambrogio kept evolving but on pages further and further in the back. Nobody had been speaking of it in France, and now three days later it was as if it never happened.

They were still full of sweets and wine and lazy from the night before but they treated themselves to the snacks on the ferry as well and fed treats to one another in a hedonist repose. When she got tired, she slid down to lay on Tom’s lap as they sat beside the window atop red cushioned seats.

“Do you think we’ll be happy in England?” she asked.

“I never was,” Tom shrugged. “Were you happy in Italy?”

“I think so,” she said. “I had friends there, you know. And I had you.”

“And you have me still.”

She looked up at him, her eyes catching his upside down, and smiled. Tom held her tighter, feeling suddenly possessive in the way he got when he thought of his old diary or his grandfather’s ring.

“Well then, here’s one reason to be happy.” He leaned down to brush his lips over her temple. “Even if you won’t be happy in England, you’ll never be miserable on your own again.”

Her giggle was a crystalline chime and she reached up to kiss him. She curled her fingers in his hair and held on like they were sleek black reins to let him feel her possessiveness as well. Tom parted from her lips and sighed, but smiled. She was in his arms, soft and comfy on his lap, sweet on his lips, and filled with love. She smiled back at him as her hand still lingered in his hair, twirling a stray lock around her finger.

“I can’t wait for us to be alone,” Tom said.

“I’m sure,” she cocked a brow.

But that wasn’t how he meant it.

“We’ll have an eternity together. You’ll see. At the end of time, there will only be the two of us left.”

He could tell she couldn’t quite understand, and even if she did, he wasn’t certain she’d approve yet. But then again, she didn’t need to. Tom brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead and smoothed his thumbs over her brows. He’d clear a path in her mind, just as he’d carved a place for himself in her heart, for immortality.

“You’ll see. I’ll make you want to spend eternity away. With me.”

“Oh, silly Tom. I already do.”

[thearcaneuniversity]

Tagged by @sirenascelestiales for 2025 book bingo time [created by @batmanisagatewaydrug]

Literary Fiction: Many of the books from my BA studies list will probably make it here, I imagine. But if I had to pick one, I'd love to re-read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald or read The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.

Short Story Collection: I don’t think I’ve ever read anything in this category, so I’ll go with an internet suggestion - Dubliners by James Joyce.

Sequel: This one’s tough… I’m in the mood to re-read The Lost World by Michael Crichton.

Reread a Childhood Favorite: The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, for sure! Another goal connected to this is to read it in French.

20th Century Speculative Fiction: 1984 by George Orwell.

Fantasy: A Game of Thrones and the whole A Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R. Martin.

Published Before 1950: I’m itching to revisit some Shakespeare. I’d like to re-read A Midsummer Night’s Dream and finally read Hamlet.

Indie Publisher: I have no idea here - maybe someone could recommend something?

Graphic Novel, Comic Book, or Manga: Either some Darth Vader comic or my first try at manga.

Animal on the Cover: Life of Pi by Yann Martel.

Set in a Country You’ve Never Visited: Book’s Kitchen by Kim Jee-Hye, set in South Korea.

Science Fiction: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.

2025 Debut Author: Bochica by Carolina Flórez-Cerchiaro.

Memoir: Educated by Tara Westover.

Read a Zine & Make a Zine: I’m not familiar with this; I’ll need to do some research.

Essay Collection: On Immunity by Eula Biss.

2024 Award Winner: The Vegetarian by Han Kang.

Nonfiction, Learn Something New: The Plantagenets: The Kings and Queens Who Made England by Dan Jones.

Social Justice & Activism: Disability Visibility by Alice Wong.

Romance Novel: Outlander by Diana Gabaldon - or maybe something by Nora Roberts.

Read & Make a Recipe: Pierogi z kimchi. Kulinarna podróż po Korei by Wioleta Błazucka.

Horror: The Outsider by Stephen King.

Published in the Aughts (2000–2009): The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson.

Historical Fiction: The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco.

Bookseller or Librarian Recommendation: I haven’t picked anything here yet.

It was so hard to choose, but also so much fun! Thank you for tagging me!

I’d love to create a moodboard for some of my 9 upcoming books, but I think I’ll save it for later.

If you want to do this (though no pressure): @quietpainter @profiterole-reads @en-busca-de-mi-ikigai-blog + whoever wants to join!

[wellesleybooks]

Also New England! Yesterday, downtown Wellesley.

And YES, we are always reblogging @myjetpack Tom Gauld.

An autumn cartoon that feels appropriate in London today...

[nothwell]

Do you have time to read three romance novels?

Are you able to judge without bias?

Are you ready to have fun?

Serve as a judge for the New England Readers’ Choice Awards Contest!

Readers, librarians, booksellers, and unpaid bloggers/reviewers are all welcome to judge the NERW contest.

(Published romance authors and paid reviewers are not allowed to serve as judges.)

Judges will be asked to read and score 3 novels/novellas. Ebooks will be sent out one at a time; once judges have submitted their scores for their first book, they will be sent a second, and then a third, book to judge. If judges submit scores for all three books early, and wish to judge more entries, additional books will be sent out if they are available (up to a limit of 10 per judge).

Our contest coordinators will assign books based on reading preferences indicated by judges on the judging intake form.

Books will be sent out between March 2024 and April 2024, as they are received by the contest organizers. Judges will need to submit all scores by April 30, 2024.

Visit NERW dot org to sign up!

[mercerislandbooks]

Book Notes: A Natural History of Dragons

Many of us had big hopes for future employment when we were younger. Some of us aspired to being astronauts or veterinarians. I was convinced that I was going to be a mermaid fairy princess (that's a real job, right?). Now I'm a bookseller, which is honestly about as close to little Becca's dream job as I could have gotten, other than playing a mermaid at an aquarium or something similar. By working at a bookstore, I'm constantly surrounded by little enclosed worlds of endless possibilities. One of my newest favorite possibilities is in A Natural History of Dragons, the first book by Marie Brennan in a series set in a fantasy version of Victorian England. In fact, this may have unlocked a new childhood dream job for me: dragon naturalist.

Isabella is determined to live life her way. And living life her way means studying dragons. But she is the only daughter of a well-to-do family in Scirland (fantasy England). As such, she's expected to compose herself accordingly, find a husband, and lead a proper life as a member of the aristocracy, hosting parties and raising children. But her fascination with dragons pulls at her, and she yearns for something more in life. When a fateful encounter (engineered in part by her usual partner-in-crime, her closest brother) leads her to a like-minded man who doesn't mind her eccentricities, a match is made. Parents placated by her new husband's respectable title, now all she has to do is convince him to take her on a sponsored research expedition to an unfamiliar and survive the adventure that follows. In a small village full of superstitions and wary of strangers, surrounded by dragons that are going after travelers in unprecedented attacks, and fighting for her place in a male dominated field -- what could possibly go wrong?

Reminiscent of Dragonology (the book I always longed for at my childhood book fairs), A Natural History of Dragons is written as a mix between a naturalist's research journal and the memoirs of an adventurer, and is full of gorgeous illustrations of the dragons they find along the way. If you're intrigued by the natural world or are a lover of fantasy (or just dragons), this series will capture you the way it has me.

-- Becca

[theanarchistscookbook]

No Copyright Law: The Real Reason for Germany's Industrial Expansion

Fotostrecke

Photo Gallery: The Power of the Book

3 Bilder

Foto: Topical Press Agency/ Getty Images

No Copyright Law

The Real Reason for Germany's Industrial Expansion?

Did Germany experience rapid industrial expansion in the 19th century due to an absence of copyright law? A German historian argues that the massive proliferation of books, and thus knowledge, laid the foundation for the country's industrial might.

Von Frank Thadeusz

18.08.2010, 16.52 Uhr

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Dieser Beitrag stammt aus dem SPIEGEL-Archiv. Warum ist das wichtig?

The entire country seemed to be obsessed with reading. The sudden passion for books struck even booksellers as strange and in 1836 led literary critic Wolfgang Menzel to declare Germans "a people of poets and thinkers."

"That famous phrase is completely misconstrued," declares economic historian Eckhard Höffner, 44. "It refers not to literary greats such as Goethe and Schiller," he explains, "but to the fact that an incomparable mass of reading material was being produced in Germany."

Höffner has researched that early heyday of printed material in Germany and reached a surprising conclusion -- unlike neighboring England and France, Germany experienced an unparalleled explosion of knowledge in the 19th century.

German authors during this period wrote ceaselessly. Around 14,000 new publications appeared in a single year in 1843. Measured against population numbers at the time, this reaches nearly today's level. And although novels were published as well, the majority of the works were academic papers.

The situation in England was very different. "For the period of the Enlightenment and bourgeois emancipation, we see deplorable progress in Great Britain," Höffner states.

Equally Developed Industrial Nation

Indeed, only 1,000 new works appeared annually in England at that time -- 10 times fewer than in Germany -- and this was not without consequences. Höffner believes it was the chronically weak book market that caused England, the colonial power, to fritter away its head start within the span of a century, while the underdeveloped agrarian state of Germany caught up rapidly, becoming an equally developed industrial nation by 1900.

Even more startling is the factor Höffner believes caused this development -- in his view, it was none other than copyright law, which was established early in Great Britain, in 1710, that crippled the world of knowledge in the United Kingdom.

Germany, on the other hand, didn't bother with the concept of copyright for a long time. Prussia, then by far Germany's biggest state, introduced a copyright law in 1837, but Germany's continued division into small states meant that it was hardly possible to enforce the law throughout the empire.

Höffner's diligent research is the first academic work to examine the effects of the copyright over a comparatively long period of time and based on a direct comparison between two countries, and his findings have caused a stir among academics. Until now, copyright was seen as a great achievement and a guarantee for a flourishing book market. Authors are only motivated to write, runs the conventional belief, if they know their rights will be protected.

Yet a historical comparison, at least, reaches a different conclusion. Publishers in England exploited their monopoly shamelessly. New discoveries were generally published in limited editions of at most 750 copies and sold at a price that often exceeded the weekly salary of an educated worker.

London's most prominent publishers made very good money with this system, some driving around the city in gilt carriages. Their customers were the wealthy and the nobility, and their books regarded as pure luxury goods. In the few libraries that did exist, the valuable volumes were chained to the shelves to protect them from potential thieves.

In Germany during the same period, publishers had plagiarizers -- who could reprint each new publication and sell it cheaply without fear of punishment -- breathing down their necks. Successful publishers were the ones who took a sophisticated approach in reaction to these copycats and devised a form of publication still common today, issuing fancy editions for their wealthy customers and low-priced paperbacks for the masses.

A Multitude of Treatises

This created a book market very different from the one found in England. Bestsellers and academic works were introduced to the German public in large numbers and at extremely low prices. "So many thousands of people in the most hidden corners of Germany, who could not have thought of buying books due to the expensive prices, have put together, little by little, a small library of reprints," the historian Heinrich Bensen wrote enthusiastically at the time.

The prospect of a wide readership motivated scientists in particular to publish the results of their research. In Höffner's analysis, "a completely new form of imparting knowledge established itself."

Essentially the only method for disseminating new knowledge that people of that period had known was verbal instruction from a master or scholar at a university. Now, suddenly, a multitude of high-level treatises circulated throughout the country.

The "Literature Newspaper" reported in 1826 that "the majority of works concern natural objects of all types and especially the practical application of nature studies in medicine, industry, agriculture, etc." Scholars in Germany churned out tracts and handbooks on topics such as chemistry, mechanics, engineering, optics and the production of steel.

In England during the same period, an elite circle indulged in a classical educational canon centered more on literature, philosophy, theology, languages and historiography. Practical instruction manuals of the type being mass-produced in Germany, on topics from constructing dikes to planting grain, were for the most part lacking in England. "In Great Britain, people were dependent on the medieval method of hearsay for the dissemination of this useful, modern knowledge," Höffner explains.

The German proliferation of knowledge created a curious situation that hardly anyone is likely to have noticed at the time. Sigismund Hermbstädt, for example, a chemistry and pharmacy professor in Berlin, who has long since disappeared into the oblivion of history, earned more royalties for his "Principles of Leather Tanning" published in 1806 than British author Mary Shelley did for her horror novel "Frankenstein," which is still famous today.

'Lively Scholarly Discourse'

The trade in technical literature was so strong that publishers constantly worried about having a large enough supply, and this situation gave even the less talented scientific authors a good bargaining position in relation to publishers. Many professors supplemented their salaries with substantial additional income from the publication of handbooks and informational brochures.

Höffner explains that this "lively scholarly discourse" laid the basis for the Gründerzeit, or foundation period, the term used to describe the rapid industrial expansion in Germany in the late 19th century. The period produced later industrial magnates such as Alfred Krupp and Werner von Siemens.

The market for scientific literature didn't collapse even as copyright law gradually became established in Germany in the 1840s. German publishers did, however, react to the new situation in a restrictive way reminiscent of their British colleagues, cranking up prices and doing away with the low-price market.

Authors, now guaranteed the rights to their own works, were often annoyed by this development. Heinrich Heine, for example, wrote to his publisher Julius Campe on October 24, 1854, in a rather acerbic mood: "Due to the tremendously high prices you have established, I will hardly see a second edition of the book anytime soon. But you must set lower prices, dear Campe, for otherwise I really don't see why I was so lenient with my material interests."

[studiolemonboy]

This is a background color test (using CMYK halftones) for with one of locations in my comic.

Atomic Video is a location in the town of Cherry Creek from my new YA cosmic horror comic set in 1990's New England. "Cherry Creek Paranormal Club" (formerly Peach Creek Paranormal) follows Paranormal Club Members Louise, Jean, Alejandro, Christine, and Sam as they uncover the dark secrets bubbling up to the surface and threatening to destroy their town, all while navigating their last year of middle school.

Atomic Video is the video store where Alejandro's horror-buff older brother, Francisco, works, and it becomes a frequent meeting spot for the Club outside of school. Francisco, in his infinite movie-trope related wisdom, sometimes acts as an esoteric guide to the weird world of movie monsters and high-concept sci-fi shenanigans that the Club may face on their quest for the truth. He also lets them hang out and play on the arcade cabinets. Don't ask about his break-up with the goth bookseller at Black Cherry Books across the street; it's still pretty fresh.

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday

Happy National Dictionary Day!

Although the day was introduced to honor the birthday of American lexicographer Noah Webster, we are more interested in his innovative predecessor Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). Johnson was an English writer with credits as a poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic, sermonist, biographer, editor, and lexicographer. In 1746, he was approached by a group of publishers to create an authoritative English dictionary and agreed, boasting he could complete the dictionary within three years. In the end, he single-handedly completed the task within eight years utilizing only clerical assistance. 

Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language was first published in London by noted Scottish printer and publisher William Strahan on April 15, 1755. While certainly not the first dictionary, it was groundbreaking in its documentation of the English lexicon providing not only words and their definitions, but examples of their use. Johnson accomplished this by illustrating the meanings of words through literary quotes, often citing Shakespeare, Milton, and Dryden. He also introduced lighthearted humor into some of his definitions, most notably describing a lexicographer as “a writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words”. Of equal amusement, oats are defined as “a grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people”. 

A Dictionary of the English Language was published in two volumes with volume one containing A-K and volume two L-Z. Its pages were 46 cm tall and 51 cm wide, and it is said that outside of a few special editions of the Bible no book of this size and bulk had been set to type and that no bookseller could print it without help. Johnson’s dictionary was the pre-eminent dictionary for over 100 years until the completion of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1884. Despite some criticism about his etymology and orthoepic guidelines, Johnson’s dictionary was tremendously influential in its methodology for how dictionaries should be constructed and entries presented, casting a shadow over all future dictionaries and lexicographers. 

Several of the words in Johnson's dictionary were painstakingly defined. "Take" has 134 definitions running 8,000 words over 5 pages.

Woodcut tailpieces adorn the dictionary interspersed between letters.

Special Collections holds a facsimile reproduction of Johnson's dictionary, published in 1967 by AMS Press of New York.

View other Milestone Monday posts.

-Jenna, Special Collections Graduate Intern 

[wellesleybooks]

Friday night sunshine in Wellesley Square.

[the-dust-jacket]

Hello. I've already read the Kingston Cycle, Half a Soul and I'm about to finish the Stariel books. Do you have more recommendations? Thank you in advance.

Oh absolutely!

A Matter of Magic, by Patricia C. Wrede (for cross-country Regency romps, rogues, magicians, spies, and Ladies of Quality)

A Marvellous Light, by Freya Marske (for murder and mystery and secret Edwardian wizardry, romance, grand old houses and creepy curses)

Spellbound, by Allie Therin (for forbidden love, found family, and frightening magic in 1920s New York)

Shades of Milk and Honey, by Mary Robinette Kowal (for frothy and impeccably evocative Regency magic)

Sorcerer to the Crown, by Zen Cho (for schemes both magical and mundane and the world of fairy crossing into the world of the tonne)

To Say Nothing of the Dog, by Connie Willis (for laugh-out-loud time travel shenanigans and questionable Victorian aesthetic choices)

Soulless, by Gail Carriger (for vampire assassins, werewolf aristocrats, interrupted tea time, and other terrible inconveniences which may beset a young lady)

A little darker:

The Magpie Lord, by KJ Charles (for semi-secret magical society, creepy family estate, steamy romance all in an Extremely Victorian Gothic setting)

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke (clever and deeply atmospheric tour of a magical 19th century England, but definitely not romance)

Salt Magic, Skin Magic, by Lee Welch (for curses and magical bonds and frightening fairies)

Widdershins, by Jordan L Hawk (for Gilded Age mystery and romance featuring Lovecraftian horror and humor)

More fantasy:

Uprooted, by Naomi Novik (for fairytale magic and whimsy, adventure and romance and creepy trees)

Seducing the Sorcerer, by Lee Welch (for wizard fashion, romance and humor and whimsical magic)

Stardust, by Neil Gaiman (for wild romps in the fairyland next door, alternately humorous and haunting)

More historical:

The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting by KJ Charles (for saucy Regency romance and determined social scheming)

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons (for dry humor, wacky hijinx, and extended family shenanigans)

Hither Page or The Missing Page by Cat Sebastian (village and manor house mysteries respectively, featuring lots of queer romance and found family with a dash of jaded post-war espionage)

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith (for yearning and laughs and first love and an eccentric family living in an increasingly run down castle)

A little farther from the brief, but might be worth checking out On Vibes:

The Left Handed Booksellers of London, by Garth Nix

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, by Diana Wynne Jones

His Majesty's Dragon, by Naomi Novik (more Regency fantasy, but full on Age of Sail adventure rather than comedy of manners, romance, or secret magic)

Among Others, by Jo Walton

Arabella of Mars, by David D. Levine

A Natural History of Dragons, by Marie Brennan

It also sounds like a Georgette Heyer or Jeeves and Wooster binge would be really fun right now!

[wellesleybooks]

We hear it, we live it, we love it.

My cartoon for this week’s Guardian Books. #books

p.s I have made five new prints of my cartoons, visit www.tomgauld.com for details.

[fatehbaz]

One of the tasks of the European voyages around the globe from the sixteenth through the eighteenth century was to discover new environmental resources. In 1578, in the Strait of Magellan [...], the English traveler John Winter found a new plant, which was officially named in his honor: Drimys winteri. Nowadays, the ground bark of the species is actively sold as a “Mapuche pepper from the canelo tree.” This is a popular commercial product, which represents one of the recent gastronomic symbols of modern Chile.

In Mapudungun, the language of the Mapuche people -- one of the Indigenous communities [...] in central and southern Chile and southern Argentina -- the tree is called foye. The Mapuche [...] have used it for funerary rituals and medicinal purposes [...]. In the seventeenth century, the Chilean writer Francisco Núñez de Pineda y Bascuñán and the Spanish Jesuit Diego de Rosales [...] reported [...] [medicinal] Indigenous uses of the plant. Nevertheless, their manuscripts were not published until the end of the colonial era. [...] [S]ailors considered Drimys winteri a food spice, since it had a similar taste to pepper (Piper nigrum) or cinnamon (Cinnamomum verum). The tree’s bark was also used as a remedy against scurvy [...] during long travels. At the same time, European scholars did not report any use of the plant among the Indigenous communities [...].

The exclusion of Indigenous and local knowledge was also supported in the Natural History of Chile [...], published [...] in 1646. According to sailors’ reports, Ovalle stated, there is a tree [...] called canelo, similar to pepper and cinnamon. European descriptions of Drimys winteri were primarily based upon the records of navigators, who emphasized analogies with cinnamon in order to boost sales of the product. [...] Colonial botanists mainly stressed the similarity of Drimys winteri to cinnamon. French botanist and traveler Louis Feuillée, among others, classified the specimen within European plant taxonomy as Boigue cinnamomifera, consciously evoking the taste and color of cinnamon. [...]

In the Natural History of Chile, Jesuits presented canelo to a European audience, stressing the analogy to the European knowledge system. [...] At the end of the seventeenth century, the British physician William Salmon and booksellers Thomas Passenger and Ebenezer Tracy began to sell a special product by the name of “Balsam de Chili.” The remedy was advertised as being similar to “Balsam de Peru,” a famous panacea in that period.

The miraculous ingredient in this balsam, reported to be a “small tree of Chili,” was probably Drimys winteri.

In the same period, the studied plant, known in England as Winter’s Bark or Winter’s cinnamon, was used by English apothecaries in many recipes (Figure 4).

Nevertheless, the Chilean native plant was often confused with cinnamon and Canella alba (Canella winterana). After [...] 1693 [...] Balsam de Chili gradually disappeared from the English market.

During the colonial period, Indigenous and local environmental knowledge about Drimys winteri was partly ignored by European voyagers. The constructed knowledge system circulated in the European written sources was mainly based on travelers’ reports [...]. [E]xclusion of Other ecological knowledge might represent [...] the inability to give specific meaning and importance to plants for the European audience. The environmental ignorance surrounding Drimys winteri supported the European epistemic hierarchy, entrenched coloniality, and promoted the persisting unbalanced relationship between different forms of knowledge. The Drimys winteri sold nowadays with the Spanish name canelo, as a food spice similar to pepper and related to Mapuche culture, represents one of the outcomes [...]. Consequently, [...] [this] was not a temporary process. It [...] has long-term effects and still affects contemporary knowledge circulation about Drimys winteri in Chile.

---

Images, captions, and text by: Matteo Sartori and Julia Prakofjewa. "Drimys winteri: Circulation of Environmental Ignorance in European Written Sources (1578–1776).” Environment and Society Portal, Arcadia (Summer 2023), no. 15. Rachel Carson Center for Environment and Society. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Six

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none, it's just cute

— WORDCOUNT: 3.2k

I

One enchanting benefit of Tom entering her life, even if it was to be temporary, was to remind her that somewhere out there, outside the walls of her profession, the world went on. She was jealous for a moment that others got to travel, away from their boss and family. Just be a new person in new places, a stranger in the crowd. But it also filled her with some optimism to know that there were other people of her age invested in rare books, not just venerable aristocrats or obsessives like dear Fred.

And it, most shamefully of all, made her look up with a smile whenever the bell to her shop chimed. It wasn’t always Tom — but today, it was.

It was the third time he had come, the second since they put Torchia’s infamous work on display, and last time he hadn’t even mentioned it. She was so relieved… But that wasn’t the only reason she was smiling.

“Welcome back,” she grinned, getting up smoothly to greet him. “Happy with The Lost Word?”

“My employer is happy. Which means, I am happy,” said Tom with a rigid curling of his lips.

“Oh. Is he searching for the Philosopher’s stone?” she teased.

“Certainly hope not. Merlin forbid that he should live forever...”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his silly wording. Tom had a way of being funny that made it look like he wasn’t even trying…

He strolled through the shop as surely as if he owned the place, but his eyes now scarcely strayed to any of the books. They were mostly fixed on her.

“So, how can I help you today?”

“Oh, in many ways,” he purred, coming close enough to lay on her desk a sheet of paper, right beside her hip.

His closeness made her tremble, left her breathless, chilled her hands and warmed her face quite shamefully. She picked the paper up and her easy smile tensed. It was a list.

“These are quite the names,” she said.

“Do you have them?” asked Tom silkily.

“We do. Wait here.”

“No. I’ll come and help you.”

The stack piled high on her desk. They were as heavy as they were expensive. She looked at Tom from the corner of her eye as he checked his list against what she had brought with him, his gaze impassive and cool.

“Are you sure you can afford these, Mr. Riddle?”

“Please, call me Tom,” he smiled.

She smiled back but waited for him to answer. Her pleasure at seeing him had given way to business.

“How much?” he asked.

“For all of them? I’d estimate seven million lire.”

“So around ten thousand pounds…”

“At least.”

“I could send a telegram to my employer, but I doubt he would be willing to part with such a sum.”

She nodded and without a word began to pick the books up to return them to their shelves.

“Unless,” he quickly added, his susurrous voice lingering around her, “you would be interested in a trade.”

She paused. He looked more seductive than he had any right to be, bartering for books with his eyes so dark and his smile childishly expectant.

“W-what kind of trade?”

“Back at my hotel room, I have a number of manuscripts I acquired in Paris. Beautifully illuminated, tightly bound, and with the most tantalising marginalia. I’m sure at least some of them would catch your eye.”

“Would your employer not mind their absence?”

“Not as much as he would mind these,” he said. “I doubt he’d even notice. We don’t appreciate the French that much in England, you know.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself quietly.

“Would you consider it?” Tom asked.

She did. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she thought about it. This is a bad idea…

“Let me help you,” he offered again, picking up half of the books behind her.

She thought about it as she followed him, her eyes scanning that taut back, those thighs that arched beneath his trousers smoothly with each step. She nearly moaned looking at him. Did he dress so tartly just to tease her?

“Not too much, is it?” he asked, casting an easy smile over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Your books. You’re not carrying too many?”

“Oh, not at all,” she giggled, “I’m used to it.”

She felt a little guilty, undressing him with her eyes like that… But then it was her turn to feel naked as she climbed the ladder once again to put the books back one by one. Tom waited at the bottom, his hands on either side of the ladder and his dark eyes trailing up. She smiled to herself — secretly, and sadly. Nothing could ever come of it.

“I’m afraid I have to refuse you, Mr. Riddle,” she said once she was back down before him.

“It’s Tom,” he frowned. “And why?”

“It would be wise not to trade books in such a place.”

“What sort of place would that be?”

“Private.”

Tom nodded and, to her relief, smiled.

“I see. A clever move.”

She breathed a grateful sigh.

“How about a public place, then?” he asked.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Go out with me.”

Her lips parted but not a sound came through. Tom took advantage of it to continue.

“Would you have dinner with me tonight? I know a very nice restaurant…”

“Oh, well, erm, you can just bring the books here…”

“I could. But what would be the fun in that?” he said with a half-smile.

He looked at her as hopeful and expectant as a little boy, and in turn, brought out the careless little girl in her. It had been so long since she’d gone out with someone on a real date… Longer still since she enjoyed it.

“Alright,” she chuckled. “Alright. I finish at six. Shall we meet in front of the Fontana Trevi?”

“Sounds wonderful,” he said, his head held high in something like victory. “I will be there.” He bent and kissed the soft and dusty back of her hand, gaze meeting hers for one long moment.

What did I just get myself into?

II

Compared to the odium of charming Burke’s rich elderly clients, this was as fresh as a wintery morning and twice as bright. The sight of Rome at night took away whatever other bitterness Tom harboured.

He hadn’t been charmed by the city when he first arrived, but he got fonder of it the longer he stayed. The wide-open piazzas on which intimately narrow streets converged like the threads of a spider’s web, the hard white buildings, the lazy cafés, the ruins… They had the charm of eternity about them that always fascinated Tom.

So he stood before the Trevi fountain with a real smile on his face, a relaxation of the features he didn’t often get to have. In his leather messenger bag were several muggle books, perfectly ordinary, but enchanted to look like ancient tomes he’d seen during his studies. The transfiguration would not wear off for another two months.

He heard the sharp patter of heels he knew so well by now and turned to see her walking straight toward him. Right on time… Tom secured the strap of the bag around his shoulder and greeted her with a warm smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello again,” she murmured shyly, stopping before him.

“Did you change clothes? You look so different outside of that place…” he asked, allowing his gaze to trail transparently down her figure.

“Oh no,” she chuckled, “it’s much too far.”

Tom smirked. He knew that too.

“Well, you look lovely. Shall we go? The restaurant is this way.”

It was recommended by a concierge at the Gallienus as a ‘solid’ place to eat. It was quite central with a view over the Tiber and was frothing full of young and noisy people when they arrived. Tom felt relieved he had a reservation, but when he turned to her, his heart fell. He’d seen that look before on Abraxas or Rosier whenever they saw him do something decidedly middle-class and muggle.

“You don’t approve.”

“It’s not that! It’s… a nice place,” she said timidly.

“But?”

“It’s a bit of a cellar, you know?”

“I… don’t, actually.”

“It’s where men go to meet… women,” she whispered.

Tom slowly understood. He’d have to choke the life out of that concierge and find somewhere to hide the body…

“I’m… sorry. We can just call this off. I —”

“No,” she said quickly, her hand closing on his elbow in a small and warm embrace. “No, no, really, we can still go somewhere… I know a good place. A really good place. You want me to take you?”

“Please do.”

They took a tram to Via del Corso, and passed through a long and narrow street filled with little places — record stores, wineries, antique shops — until they reached the end of it. There, on the corner, was Othelo’s. He wondered if it was the same place Clement had talked about…

They took a table outside, beneath wide umbrellas, far from the entrance. Nobody would hear them, nobody would look at them.

“You’ll love it here,” she grinned as she settled down and took the menu. “Their seafood is the best in town.”

“Is that what you’ll have?”

“I think so,” she hummed happily. “Maybe some spaghetti with frutti di mare.”

“I’m more drawn to this, I think. Nero di seppia…”

“I’d recommend against it,” she chuckled.

“Why? Is it not good?”

“Oh no, it’s very tasty…”

“Then I’ll have it.”

She grinned in a deliciously impish way.

Although her gaze slid to his bag where the square shape of hefty volumes bulged, she made no mention of them. He found himself nervous for the first time, and burdened with the instinct to impress — a natural and manly sentiment, but no less bothersome.

She took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine to go with their meal.

“A whole bottle?”

“It’s alright. What we don’t drink, we can take home,” she said, without specifying whose home that would be.

They drank it, and after a few glasses, Tom found himself confessing things that would have made him cast Oscausi on his own mouth.

“And I loathe that… putrid bundle of bile, bald-headed bastard, with his greasy eyebrows and wart-crusted mouth.”

“Oh, Tom,” she sighed sympathetically.

“I swear on my grandfather’s ring,” he hissed, caressing the Horcrux with his thumb, “one day I’m going to gouge out his eyeballs, and piss in his skull.”

“I know, I know…”

“Everyone thought I was mad to go to work for him — and that syphilitic stoat, Borgin. I could’ve had a top position at the Ministry, I could have —”

“So why work there?” she asked, lips stained red around the edges from the Arrabiata sauce. Her elbows were braced upon the table, her body drawn toward him.

“Because of what it allows me to find,” said Tom. “The oldest, most rare and forgotten relics most people couldn’t dream of seeing, let alone touch.”

“I understand…”

“Do you?” Tom smiled, reaching forward with a napkin to wipe the corners of her mouth.

She blushed and mumbled a thank you before leaning back into her seat.

“Do you feel the same?” Tom asked.

“W-what?”

“About your employer.”

“Oh! Well, I…”

Tom smiled and listened, feeling genuinely curious.

“The Baron is a different sort of person from your Mr. Burke. In fact, I don’t think he’s like anyone you’ve ever met. He isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met either. But…”

“Yes?”

“I suppose I don’t know how I feel,” she laughed skittishly, her arms coming up to wrap around her. “I respect him, but I fear him too.”

“Why is that?” asked Tom, leaning back and sipping his wine. “Has he threatened you?”

“No,” she said quickly, “he’s quite harmless, in a way…”

Tom cocked a brow. It was certainly the oddest way he’d heard anyone be described.

“But it’s just that…”

“Yes?”

“You’ll think me insane,” she laughed.

“Never.”

She leaned forward, her eyes darting around as if the very shadows could have ears, and then she fixed her gaze on him with utter seriousness.

“I think he might be a wizard,” she whispered.

Tom tried hard not to laugh. “No…”

“He’s obsessed with magic and weird rituals and such…”

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t believe her, but, well, he didn’t believe her. It would’ve been a convenient explanation for why the shop was charmed, but no real wizard would operate that openly in muggle society, even in Italy. Besides, if this Baron were a wizard, Burke would certainly have known — wouldn’t he?

“Really, Tom. He’s involved in all sorts of weirdness. Him and all of his crusty old friends…”

Tom nodded as he listened. “So you’re afraid he’ll turn you into a toad if you resign, is that it?”

“Not funny! And… maybe?”

He laughed, and leaned forward in an utterly uncharacteristic show of consolation to place his hand upon her own.

“He won’t curse you,” he promised her. “He’s just a weird old man with more money than sense. Just like the rest of them.”

She smiled back weakly at first, but her smile grew as his hand chilled and calmed her own.

“Why don’t we look at your books, Tom? I’ve been yearning to all evening.”

“Have you?” he winked. “Alright, as soon as they take the plates away.”

And once their table was cleared, he presented them to her with all the reverence befitting the venerable tomes they were masquerading as. To his relief, she did not leaf too much through them or read long lines of text. She was satisfied by checking the binding and the sound of the pages between her fingers.

“Tom… These must fetch quite a price.”

He smirked.

“But…”

His smile died. “But what?”

“I don’t think I can authorise their sale. You should probably speak to the Baron before we can accept them, and then discuss the trade for the other books you wanted.”

Tom leaned back in a contemplative manner, but inside his blood was singing. He brushed a black lock away from his forehead, fingers threading through his hair, and watched as her eyes followed the movement. I have you now, he thought, you and your obstinate Baron.

“Are you quite certain? After all, your expertise is —”

“I’m certain.”

“Alright, alright. Well,” he sighed, “I suppose if I have to…”

III

They packed up the books rather quickly after she finished reviewing them, just in case they spilt wine on them, and soon they were safely back in Tom’s messenger bag.

As they walked back together to the main street, he offered to walk her home.

“Oh, no,” she laughed, “I know the way, really.”

“Come on, it’s —” he checked his watch, “half past ten. What sort of gentleman would I be to let you walk the streets alone at night?”

He only had to flash a smile at her in that practised way for her to yield.

The ride on the tram was pleasantly cool, the evening breeze caressing their cheeks, playing in their hair, rustling the edges of their shirts. It cleared away the wisps of wine still swirling through their heads.

Tom kept a soft and harmless smile throughout the ride, but he let his eyes linger quite openly. He wanted her to feel desired, wanted her to be seen in a way that was more appreciative, more personal, than whatever crass wolf-whistling and leering she was usually subjected to in Rome.

Their hands rested side by side on the worn seats, not touching except when the jostling on the tracks swayed them briefly together. He could see her lips fight back a smile whenever it happened.

The walk to her building was slow, and they barely spoke, except to arrange for his meeting with her employer. Tom made passing note of the information, but his attention was mostly fixed on her. She seemed less happy the closer they got to her street, even though he thought his company might be enough of a tonic. It usually was for women…

He made a point to look around, pretending to see it all for the first time. She only looked ahead, or at the ground.

“I’ll have to call him in advance, of course. He has an unpredictable schedule.”

“Of course,” said Tom.

“I’ll speak with his secretary… She will know when he’s available.”

“Hmm.”

“Will you speak to Mr. Burke in the meanwhile?”

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t think so. He entrusts me with everything.”

“That must be nice,” she said with a faint smile.

“It’s not because he trusts me,” said Tom. “He’s just not clever enough to make such decisions. Only clever enough to realise it.”

“Even better,” she laughed. “A dumb employer might be a blessing.”

“You would think so,” he scoffed. “But it’s a burden. Any sort of boss is a burden.”

The scenery was no more pleasant than the last time he’d followed her home, but now Tom found his steps easing as he walked, his shoulders falling back, body disarmed. It was… nice to talk to someone so openly. He never would have imagined he needed it.

“Well, this is it,” she said as they stopped in front of her building. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, her girlish joy forgotten. “Not all that glamorous, I know.”

“Compared to my hotel, it’s palatial.”

She chuckled. “So I suppose by now you’ve seen everything Rome has to offer, good and bad.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve seen everything yet,” said Tom with a subtle smirk.

She looked into his eyes and understood enough to blush. He held her gaze, ready for the slightest opening, anything she was willing to give him.

“Erm, do you know your way back?”

His eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to invite him upstairs? But he’d been so good to her… And he was certain she was attracted to him. The whole reason why he’d asked her on a date and walked her to her squalid home was to seduce her. And she wasn’t even interested?!

“Yes, I… think I’ll be alright.”

“Good, well… Good. So, erm, good night,” she smiled. “Thank you for walking me home. And for dinner.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” said Tom, taking her hand and bending for a kiss.

“Y-yes. Good night,” she said, again. “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he nodded.

She cast him a parting glance before entering her building, the door closing with a wicked scratch of rust behind her. Tom waited until she was out of sight to sigh. So, no seducing her to make the whole process easier, no getting her on his side… He hadn’t dealt with bookish girls since Hogwarts, and he’d forgotten what a handful they were. She really was going to do everything by the rules.

IV

When he finally arrived back at his hotel and started to get ready for bed, he realised why she’d laughed at his choice of dinner. He parted his lips in a grimace and stared at himself in the mirror, an angry frown and shameful blush crawling on his face. He looked halfway between horrid and hilarious. His teeth were stained black as if he’d just crawled out of a swamp. The nero di seppia. The squid ink from his spaghetti had made his teeth black.