Rémy laughed.

“If you think that’s funny, you should catch a live show at the Library.”

“I’ve got a tight deadline for this article.”

“Come,” I cajoled. “You’ll see people do care.”

* * *

ThursDAY WAS STORY HOUR, my favorite event of the week. I loved watching little ones immersed in stories, the way I had with Aunt Caro. On my way there, I peeked into the reference room, hoping to see Paul. He wasn’t there. The Death of the Heart, 823. I told myself that he couldn’t visit the Library every day. Remembering our kiss, I touched my fingers to my lips. But maybe one day soon?

In the children’s room, I moved to the hearth, where a few mothers had gathered. Most chatted together, but one stood off to the side.

“Hello,” she said, fiddling with her pearl necklace. “Lovely to see you again.”

It was the lonely Englishwoman. Margot? No, Margaret.

“The Priory was wonderful,” she continued. “I liked it so much that I checked out three other books by Mrs. Whipple. I wasn’t much of a reader before, but now I’m determined that my daughter and I will read together every day.”

“Which one is she?” I asked.

Margaret pointed to the blonde, who was sitting next to Boris’s little girl, Hélène. The girls spoke animatedly while waiting for Bitsi to begin, any moment now. I squinted at the clock above the doorway and was surprised to see Rémy enter. He skirted around the children to my side.

“I’m glad you came,” I told him.

“How could I resist after your one-woman play? I wanted to spend some time with you in your favorite place. We’ve both been so busy.…”

“You’re here now, that’s what counts.”

Perched on a stool, Bitsi flipped through the pages of a book. She cleared her throat, and the room went silent. Twenty tots inched closer to her. As she read Miss Maisy, Bitsi’s tone deepened, and her gaze hypnotized the audience. Enthralled, a boy touched her skirt, which billowed about her ballet slippers.

Glancing at Rémy, I saw that Bitsi had another fan—his eyes never left her face. When she finished, he clapped, and others joined in.

“So that’s your ‘bookmate,’?” he said. “Is she really as well-read as you?”

“Probably even more.”

“She’s talented,” he said.

“She made the characters come alive.”

“No, she became the characters.” He strode to Bitsi’s side.

I followed.

“Vous êtes magnifique,” he said.

“Merci,” she whispered, gaze now glued to the floor.

Wanting to introduce him to Mr. Pryce-Jones and M. de Nerciat, I tugged on his sleeve. He didn’t notice.

“You must be parched,” he told her. “Would you like to go for a citron pressé?”

It was the first time I’d seen him intent on a woman. At least six classmates had befriended me in order to meet him. Whenever I introduced him to a girl, he was polite, he listened, but never initiated a conversation.

I hoped Bitsi would accept his invitation. It wouldn’t hurt if she left work early, this once.

Bitsi placed her hand in the crook of his arm. He closed his eyes for a fraction longer than a blink, a silent Merci, before he escorted her out. Feeling forgotten, I tried to tell myself it was natural that Rémy was taken with her. They didn’t mean to leave me behind.

Boris tapped me on the back. “The good news,” he said, “is that we’re donating books.”

“What’s the bad?”

“There are over three hundred, and your job is sorting them.”

He handed me a list, and as I read the titles, I returned from the land of feeling sorry for myself. So Rémy’s visit hadn’t ended up as I’d expected. There would be another time.

“When I learned that the Library distributed thousands of books to universities, I found it admirable. Of course, that was before I was the one who packed them!” I joked.

Boris laughed. “Better you than me.”

The back room was bursting with empty crates and jumbles of books. “Safe journey,” I said to a hardcover as I placed it in the crate for the American College of Tehran, Persia; another went to the Seaman’s Institute in Italy; a third, fourth, and fifth would travel together to Turkey. I kept on for what seemed like hours, but when I consulted the clock, only ten minutes had gone by. It would be an endless, lonely afternoon.

There was a rap at the door. “I asked the man at the front desk where you’d disappeared to, and he sent me up here,” Margaret said.

“I’d love some company. Would you mind lending a hand?” I said, then noticed her pink silk dress. It would be covered in dust if she stayed, and anyway, women in couture didn’t work.

“Why not? I’ve nothing better to do.”

I offered to fetch her daughter, but she said Christina had seemed happy to make friends with Hélène and her father. I showed Margaret how to find the destination for each volume. She weaved between the crates gracefully, packing the books with care. “Bon voyage,” she whispered to each one.

I stared at her.

“You must think I’m crazy for talking to books,” she said.