“Crochet section?” I asked.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Janet said. “Follow me.”

I followed her to the very back of the library, the older part beyond the archive area. There, in the redbrick wall, was a door that I had not noticed before. Janet opened it with a key.

“This is a little treasure I found a few years back,” she said, opening the door to a tiny windowless room filled entirely by a shabby armchair and a small side table. It had a slanting roof where the stairs went overhead. “I call it the secret cupboard. I use it sometimes to make phone calls, or go through payroll, or do something where I don’t want to be interrupted. But I think perhaps you could use it more than me.” She handed me the key. “This is the only key that I know of. It’s yours now.”

I looked at the small gold key.

“Use it whenever you like. But don’t ever tell anyone of its existence. It’s too precious to be shared.”

I agreed. Far too precious.

I had been in the secret cupboard earlier this year when Janet had a massive stroke in Junior Nonfiction. Dead before she hit the ground, apparently. A perfect place for her to die, people said later. Surrounded by books, in the place she loved most.

All these months later, I can’t figure out if I feel guilty for being in the secret cupboard when it happened, or glad.

* * *

I spend most of the afternoon in the secret cupboard with Alfie. He is very happy. I set up some newspaper and his water bowl and he remains there cheerfully even during the short periods when I have to dart out and be seen by Carmel on the floor. I am doing one such trip when Gayle spots me.

“Fern, there you are! There was a man here to see you earlier, but I couldn’t find you.”

“A man?” This is most peculiar. “Wally?”

She shakes her head. “No. A different man.”

I frown. I don’t know many men and, apart from Wally, I don’t know any who would pop in randomly to see me at the library.

“Well … what did he look like?”

Gayle thinks about it. “Good-looking. Thirties, probably. Clean-shaven and nicely dressed.”

I’m stumped. “Are you sure he wanted to see me?”

“He asked for Fern. He said he was a friend.”

I assume it must be a mistake. He probably asked to see someone else. Or maybe wanted to borrow a book on ferns. “Did he leave a message?”

“No. He said he’d come back another day.”

“Oh. Well, then I expect he will.” If he was actually looking for me.

I’m distracted from the clean-shaven mystery visitor when I spot Wally walking into the library. He mustn’t see me, because he walks quickly past me, headed toward the shower room.

“How did the meeting go?” I say, running to catch up to him.

Wally keeps walking. “I can’t talk right now.”

He pushes through the door into the vestibule and I slow my step. I usually stay out of there in the afternoon, as it tends to get a little stinky. But today, I decide I’ll brave it.

Wally whirls around. “Are you planning to follow me into the shower?”

“No,” I say. “I thought you’d stop before we got there. And you did.” I grin. “How did the meeting go?”

“The meeting didn’t happen, okay?”

I frown. “Why didn’t the meeting happen?”

“I was going to take the train to the city, but I couldn’t find an all-day parking spot at the station. The most I could find was two hours. So I didn’t go.”

I stare at him. “Because you couldn’t find anywhere to park?”

He rolls his eyes. “You have no idea how difficult it is to find adequate parking.”

“I wouldn’t say I have no idea. Such a thing as moving a car around is actually very easy to imagine.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No,” I say. “Was that funny?” I am genuinely curious. But he doesn’t respond.

“Why didn’t you just pay for parking?” I ask.

“I didn’t have any money.”

“I thought you did have money. You’re not homeless, right?”

He’s red in the face now. “I didn’t have any coins.” He makes a noise like ugh and clenches his fist into a ball, like he is angry.

“Why are you angry, Wally?”

“I’m angry that I missed the interview, okay? I’m angry that you’re following me when I want to be alone. I’m angry because you keep calling me Wally!”

He’s the most upset I’ve seen him. I think of something Janet said to me once when a borrower had been very angry that a book they had reserved hadn’t been returned yet. The borrower said she had walked a long way in the heat to get to the library and she wasn’t leaving without the book. She had become quite aggressive indeed. Janet had apologized profusely and offered to personally drop off the book to the woman when it was returned. Then Janet had asked if there was anything else she could help her with. That was the moment the woman broke down in tears and confessed that it was the anniversary of her son’s death, and she’d been desperate to escape the day by losing herself in a good book. Janet had driven the woman home via the bookstore, where she’d purchased for the woman not only the one she’d reserved, but also several others.

“Why were you so kind to her?” I asked when Janet returned to the library. “When she’d been so rude to you?”

“Angry is just a pen name for sad,” Janet had explained. “In my experience, nine times out of ten if you are kind to the angry person, you will calm them down and find out what is really going on with them.”

“You know,” I say to Wally. “I have a parking spot, at my place. I’m a five-minute walk from the train station. You’re welcome to park there if you have another meeting. Or anytime, really.”

He frowns, his expression different again. Not angry, more confused. “That’s very generous.”

“Not really. I don’t own a car, so it just sits there empty.”

He appears to think about this for a moment.

“I do have one thing to ask in exchange, though.”

Wally crosses his arms. “Oh? What?”

He watches me through narrowed eyes. His eyelashes are long and dark and curled, like an old-fashioned doll’s.