Page 30 of The Battle of the Bookshops
It was cutting it worryingly fine, but the Cressida Cornworthy stock arrived from the warehouse with only a day to go before the launch. Jules laid the boxes reverently in the storeroom at the back of the shop. It was more than her life was worth to put them out before the publication date—bookshops had been blackballed by publishers for less. She didn’t even dare put copies in the window display until the day itself, but she had the children’s competition artwork in the window on one side of the door and stacks of the author’s previous books in the other, along with the publisher’s point-of-sale material. She had even dug out some Halloween decorations that Aunt Flo had stored in the loft, chucking most of them out but keeping some choice witchy props, such as a fabulous old-fashioned twiggy broomstick and some stringy stuff to simulate cobwebs. It all looked great. Jules wondered if she could persuade Merlin to add to the atmosphere by sitting in the window like a witch’s familiar, but he returned her considering look with a blank, unblinking stare, and she decided probably not.
Waking up early the next morning, Jules lay cozily in her warm bed, watching the sky outside fade from cobalt to cerulean blue. She must get up. From the feedback she had been hearing in the lead-up, she knew that a few families were planning to wake up early and queue. Everyone wanted to be the first to get their hands on the book, and there was much excitement about who would secure the two precious signed copies.
Jules had decided she would get downstairs early and provide hot drinks to keep up morale while people waited. It was still earlyenough in the year that it could be chilly first thing. She dressed quickly, performed minimal ablutions, and then—too excited to wait any longer—she tiptoed downstairs to the shop.
It was disappointing no one was queueing yet, but that was okay; it was barely dawn. After all, this was rural Devon, not Oxford Street, and getting up early was not a sought-after feature of being on holiday. She was confident the local media she had primed would get everything she had promised them: memorable vox pops and brilliant photos with the Capelthorne’s shop sign front and center. You couldn’t buy publicity like that.
Jules took a deep breath, putting her hand to her chest in the familiar gesture she used to calm herself.
There, at last! She could see a woman hand in hand with a child of eight years or so, and, bless them, the child was all dressed for the occasion in the purple witch’s hat and cloak the fans of the series loved to wear. Jules prepared her smile and rehearsed her offer to put the kettle on, but instead of arriving at Capelthorne’s at the bottom of the hill, the two of them peeled off across the road at the last minute. Jules watched in disbelief as they went toward the open door of Portneath Books and slipped inside. Barely six in the morning, and they were open? Outrageous!Andbreaking the embargo too. Jules was going to be more than happy to report the misdemeanor to the publisher.
With a sense of growing outrage, Jules watched as a few others arrived. A handful took up position outside Capelthorne’s, but even then, when they saw what was happening opposite, they were lured away. A lump formed in Jules’s throat. If she thought she could manage it without embarrassingly crying and screaming, she would have gone over the road and remonstrated, but pride stopped her from making an exhibition of herself.
Portneath Books didn’t have signed copies. Portneath Books hadn’t spent hours posting an enticing pictorial countdown onInstagram over the previous week... But it didn’t stop them getting sales. Stealing them.Herhard-earned sales.
Eventually, in a burst of energy, Jules said, “To hell with it.” Fumbling with the locks, she flung open the door, just as a bleary-eyed father, holding hands with two little girls, walked up the street from the direction of the harbor. The movement of Jules opening the door seemed to catch his eye, and he came into the shop, grinning tiredly.
“I’ve given up my lie-in,andit’s costing me money,” he told Jules, equitably enough. “My two love this stuff. It’s what got them reading independently,” he added proudly, as, clutching their books, they dragged him over to the till to pay.
After that, there was an intermittent flow of people into the shop, buying the Cressida Cornworthy and, some of them, buying other stuff while they were there: greetings cards, maps, the latest Dick Francis novel, which Jules had put out on the “New Releases” table. Overall, she would say Capelthorne’s got half of the early-bird sales. Far too many customers had disappeared through the door of her sworn enemy opposite, and every lost sale was like a physical pain.
Flo came into the shop just before nine thirty as usual and complimented Jules on the very healthy turnover she had already generated for the day. Feeling calmer, but still furious at Portneath Books’—Roman’s—underhanded tactics, she popped into Finn’s for her routine flat white in her reusable cup and took it—not back to Capelthorne’s but to Portneath Books, where Roman, seeing her approaching, came out to speak to her.
“Good morning,” he said, giving her a little courtly bow. He was looking particularly hot that morning, with a pristine white T-shirt and slicked-back hair, for all as if he had just rocked up, fresh from the gym shower. Jules couldn’t help checking out his muscly arms with their bulging biceps, but not ridiculously so,and how had he managed to get so brown? She, Jules, was still pasty white from long hours in a shady bookshop. Roman looked like he had already spent a whole summer surfing.
“That was a low move,” she said, dragging her eyes away and working hard to keep her voice level and calm.
“What? The early opening?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “The embargo said a minute past midnight, but that seemed a little extreme, plus I like to actually sleep at night—unconventional, I know... I mean, that’s noteverythingI like to do, when I’m in bed, but—”
“What do you mean?” Jules interrupted, furious now. She was talking about business and he was—what?—flirting? “Publication day isthis morning,” she raged.
“Indeed, it is,” he told her patiently, “and this morning started”—he glanced at his watch—“just over nine and a half hours ago.”
Jules narrowed her eyes at him. Was he right about the embargo? Either way, he seemed to feel the conversation was at an end as he turned to greet another gaggle of wizards with their parents in tow.
Back in the office, she scrabbled through the files, looking for the press release. Damn! He was right. There it was: today’s date, and then 12:01 a.m.—a minute past midnight. How had she not noticed? She had been so certain it had specified normal opening hours.
Okay, fifteen–love to Roman. With great reluctance, she would let him have that one, Jules told herself, her heart still pounding in her chest at their encounter.
“So, it’s quite a read,” said Charlie about the grimoire, when the three of them got together for their midmorning coffee the next day. “There’s something weird, though.”
Flo raised her eyebrows inquiringly, but Charlie demurred.
“I don’t want to say anything to direct you before I getyourfirst impressions,” he said. “I’d just be interested to hear your thoughts, both of you.”
“Thank you so much for typing out the whole thing,” said Flo, taking the proffered sheaf of paper. “I could never have made sense of the original, with that faded, swirly writing. Not with my ancient eyes.”
“It’s kind of okay, when you get used to it,” said Charlie, twiddling his lip piercing absently. Jules knew enough about Charlie now to know this was a sign that something was preoccupying him.
“I’ll def read it,” Jules said, “but whet my appetite. For example, do we know the name of the writer yet?”
“We do!” declared Charlie, attention coming back to the two women with a snap. “You’re going to love it. The author is a woman who refers to herself as Biddy, which I just thought meant ‘old woman,’ but it’s a shortened version of ‘Bridget,’ and—tada!—she’s a Capelthorne!”
“Bridget ‘Biddy’ Capelthorne, how marvelous!” exclaimed Flo, clapping her hands together delightedly. “An ancestor! I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised, seeing as it was found here, and the Capelthornes have owned this place forever.”
Charlie nodded. “And that point matters,” he went on. “The fact it was found here is quite an important part of its provenance. I need to look at local records, to see if I can find this Bridget Capelthorne in the births, deaths, and marriages. We might even find her gravestone in the graveyard at the top of the hill,” he added, referring to Saint Thomas’s Church, the old Anglican church adjacent to the ruined castle.
“But would she be buried in a Christian graveyard if she styled herself as a witch?” said Flo. “Wouldn’t she have been persona non grata to the church?”
