Page 25 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“What are you two up to?” called Flo as she limped up the stairs, customer satisfied at last.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, after Charlie explained. “How extraordinary...”
“‘Reumatickes,’” read Jules aloud, peering at the faint text on the page. “Something about ‘muftard’—oh, ‘mustard’... some sort of mustard poultice—rather them than me. Not very witchy,” she added, disappointed. “It’s more like a recipe book than magic spells.”
“Or a medicine textbook,” suggested Flo. “You know, thatwasprobably considered magic a few hundred years ago. And weren’t women often the ones providing health care, such as it was? Basic remedies and probably midwifery too—most people wouldn’t have been able to afford doctors. How old do you think it might be, o antiquarian book expert?” she asked of Charlie, bowing obsequiously in his direction.
“Not an expert yet,” Charlie replied, smiling, “but I really don’t know... maybe sixteenth century? Or seventeenth maybe, looking at the paper? It’s vellum, I’m pretty sure—that’s calfskin, pounded very thin. And it would have been a precious resource, fairly expensive. How old is this building?”
“Oh, ancient,” said Flo. “Don’t be fooled by the Victorian facades. Most of the buildings on this side of the street date back to the seventeenth century—sixteenth even, some of them.”
“Well, it looks as if it’s been jammed into that crevice for a pretty long time,” suggested Charlie. “Ooh, and I’ve just remembered—the name for a book of spells is a ‘grimoire.’ This is a grimoire!” he declared.
“How fabulously Harry Potter,” said Flo. “I wonder if the writer was an ancestor of ours. I’d like to think so, given where it was found.”
“It was definitely someone educated,” observed Jules, “although I don’t think much to their spelling.”
“Shakespeare had a very relaxed attitude toward spelling,” Charlie reminded her. “He couldn’t even decide how to spell his own name.”
“True. And it looks like a personal notebook, so I suppose they can spell stuff however they like.”
“Exactly. After all, literacy is impressive in itself—not many people could read and write that long ago. There’s maybe a clue in here somewhere—who wrote it and when. I think I’m going to tryand do a complete transcript,” Charlie declared, gently closing the book for now and peeling off his gloves.
“Is it worth your time?” asked Jules, acutely aware Charlie was only receiving income from his commission on the books being sold.
“Totally,” said Charlie. “Also, I really want to, it’s fascinating.”
“Value?” asked Flo shrewdly.
“You and Jules both!” said Charlie, making Jules feel embarrassingly venal. “Hmm, probably not very,” he went on. “But kinda cool, though, don’t you think?”
Jules took a sip of the perfect flat white she had collected from Finn’s—an integral part of her new and delightful morning routine, especially when she could avoid Roman—and allowed herself to feel a tiny bit smug.
She was sitting in the office with bright, late-spring sunshine slanting through the window as she compiled her daily Insta post. Merlin was purring in her lap, Aunt Flo was minding the shop, and Charlie, she knew, was upstairs ostensibly uploading stock onto BookFinder.com, although Jules suspected he was probably poring over the grimoire, which was his new favorite obsession.
The schedule of events and promotions she had been compiling to celebrate the centenary was filling up nicely now with mostly low-cost activities that would give Capelthorne’s a boost. This was their working pattern now, Jules behind the scenes and Aunt Flo up front where the action was. It suited both of their personalities. Having Charlie there felt great too. He fit right into the little team, although Flo and Jules agreed they both felt bad not paying him a salary for the work. It wasn’t just the grimoire either—they didn’t have high hopes for it—but the trickle of income from the used books upstairs was growing steadily and gratifyingly.
At this precise moment, Jules observed, Aunt Flo was having a gently flirtatious chat with the cookbook man. There was nothing salacious going on, Jules had to admit; she could just about make out his soft voice diffidently describing his recently acquired skills in making hollandaise sauce, and Flo was extolling the virtues of the season’s first asparagus to go with.
Idly, Jules examined their body language. They were standing at a forty-five-degree angle to each other, each with one foot pointing directly at the subject of their preoccupation. Very promising. He was much taller than Aunt Flo, making it necessary for him to stoop down to her a little, leaning in solicitously. Every now and then, Jules would hear them both chuckle in tandem, and once Aunt Flo reached out and touched him lightly on the forearm.
“You should ask him out on a hot date,” she told her aunt when he had, at last, left.
“No need,” Flo said, looking smug. “Graham happens to have already requested that I join him for a light lunch next Thursday.”
“Wow! Go you,” said Jules. “Graham, eh? That’s progress. Where’s he taking you? Freya’s hopefully.”
“Better than that, he’s going to cook for me.”
“What? You’re going to his house?” snapped Jules anxiously. “Isn’t that a bit dodge? He might be an axe murderer. Should I maybe chaperone you?”
“No thank you,” said Flo firmly. “I do not require a third wheel tagging along, and you’ve got enough to do here, especially with me out. It is perfectly proper that we should have lunch at his house. Dinner would have been another matter, naturally, but he would never do anything as inappropriate as to ask that anyway. Graham is the very soul of propriety. He’s got a little cottage just north of Middlemass, at the top of the hill. I think I know the one. I’ll have to get your mother to give me a lift.”
“Good luck with that,” muttered Jules. Surely Flo knew betterthan anyone that Maggie did no good deeds for anyone if she could help it, and they hadn’t seen her for dust over the last few weeks. She had, remarkably, persuaded the council to give her an admin job that paid better than the pub, allowing her—just about—to go part time. “Finally, some me time,” she had improbably declared, it apparently not occurring to her that Flo—or even Jules—might need some help. Jules had already decided she would book and pay for Terry the local taxi to get Flo to her hot date. Bless her, Aunt Flo deserved a treat, and this Graham bloke did seem lovely.
Jules’s phone pinged:Free for a quick meetup at Belinda’s after closing?Freya’s text asked.Got something to show you.
Jules texted a thumbs-up. What else did she have to do that evening? Her and Flo’s idea of an excellent evening was supper on their knees and Netflix, and Jules liked it that way. A minor adventure with Freya at Belinda’s, the local pre-loved clothing shop, would be the event of the week. Just then, the bell on the door announced an arrival, and Jules came out to find Flo greeting a slick young man in a shiny suit that was too big for him and with hair that looked as if it had been plastered flat by an overzealous nanny.
