It was my turn to shoo out subscribers, so I made the rounds. Meandering along the rows of nonfiction, I saw titles I never noticed during the day. (This evening, I found How to Boil Water in a Paper Bag.) In the reference room, I peered into the stacks and made the best discovery—Paul. He was perusing an English grammar book.

As he kissed me on each cheek, I tried to breathe him in. His skin smelled of tobacco, smoky like Lapsang souchong, my favorite tea. I supposed I should step away, but the books were indulgent chaperones.

“Is it closing time?” he said. “Sorry to keep you.”

“It’s quite all right.” Keep me. Keep me all to yourself.

“I’ve come in several times.”

“You have?”

“But you were busy with other subscribers.”

We stood centimeters apart, yet it felt too far. As I moved closer, his lips brushed against mine. I let my fingers graze his cheek. Yesterday, if someone had told me that we would be kissing in the stacks, I’d have accused the person of inhaling Gaylo glue fumes. Yet, this tender collision felt perfect and even right.

I’d read about passion—Anna and Vronsky, Jane and Mr. Rochester—and felt the shivering sensations, or I’d thought I had. No passage on a page could convey the pleasure of this kiss.

Hearing the clip of high heels along the parquet, Paul and I both took a quick step back. Though we’d barely touched, every part of me—my skin, my blood, my bones—still felt him.

“There you are.” Miss Reeder glanced from me to Paul.

“Thank you, er, Mademoiselle Souchet,” he said. “Now I know where to find information on, er, the past participle.” He held up the grammar book and rushed from the room.

The Directress’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Miss Wedd is expecting you.”

“Miss Wedd?”

“It’s payday.”

Of course! Payday. How could I have forgotten?

“What will you do with your first month’s salary?”

“Do?” My mind was muddled.

“Of course, you’ll want to save most of it—having a nest egg is important, but it’s equally important to mark the occasion, perhaps to give a gift to those who’ve encouraged you along the way.”

“That’s very considerate.” I wished I’d come up with the idea on my own. “Who did you thank?”

“My mother and best friend—I treated them to novels,” she said. “Now please don’t keep Miss Wedd waiting.”

I joined the cheerful bookkeeper at her desk. Only two pencils in her bun tonight. “You were right about that Greek philosopher Heraclitus. I loved what he said about how ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice.’?”

“The one thing we can count on is change,” she agreed.

She counted out my salary. Each franc represented victory when I answered a question, embarrassment when I floundered, days speaking a foreign language, nights reading in order to offer book recommendations. I knew I’d love my job but was surprised at how challenging it could be.

I tucked the bills into my pocket. This was the real reason I’d wanted the job: Money equaled stability. I refused to end up destitute and alone like Aunt Caroline.

* * *

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I went to the bank and deposited my salary, keeping a few francs as spending money. Next, I went to the train station to purchase two tickets to Fontainebleau, something for Rémy to thank him for his steadfast support. More than music and books, he loved tramping around the forest. I thought to give him the present at dinner, but he took only a few bites before slipping away.

“He doesn’t eat anything anymore,” Maman grumbled. “Doesn’t he like my cooking?”

Papa grasped her plump hand in his. “It was a fine meal.”

“These days, you prefer to dine out,” she said sharply.

“Now, Hortense,” he cajoled.

“Why don’t you go check on Rémy?” Maman told me.

He was at his desk, papers spread before him. I gave him the tickets, thinking he’d insist we go straightaway. But he just kissed my cheek absentmindedly. More and more, he was… gone. Even when he was with us, he wasn’t. I missed him. He didn’t say anything now, though he didn’t go back to writing his tract.

“Did you go to class today?”

“What’s the point of studying laws when no one respects them? Germany taking over Austria… Japanese soldiers marauding in China… The world’s gone crazy, and no one gives a damn.”

In a way, he was right. Skirmishes between subscribers felt more real to me than distant conflicts. Remembering the latest argument, I pinched a piece of paper in the middle and held it to my neck. “Here’s Mr. Pryce-Jones, with his paisley bow tie.” I moved the paper to my mouth. “And this is M. de Nerciat, with his woolly walrus mustache.”

Bow tie: “Rearmament is the way to go! We need to prepare for war.”

Mustache: “We need peace, not more guns.”

Bow tie: “Ostrich! Stop burying your head in the sand.”

Mustache: “Better an ostrich than a jackass. In the Great War—”

Bow tie: “Don’t know why you bang on about the war! The only thing that’s stayed the same is that awful haircut of yours.”