“That’s the other reason I keep going to church,” the garde-manger said. “So I can thank God I didn’t take that other job I was offered at the chophouse over on Columbus. They closed a year after we opened.”
She decided to go to the public library, where she could use a free-access computer to do some research on her mysterious boss. There was something else she needed to do; she couldn’t remember what it was but she was sure once she was online it would come to her.
On her way to the library Rowan passed a few shops she remembered from the old days: a secondhand clothes store where she’d traded a couple of shirts for a warm jacket, an old-fashioned candy store that still sold penny candy (the only kind she could afford back then), and a florist that specialized in exotic orchids. She was happy to see that all three were still in business, and even browsed around at the consignment shop for a while. She didn’t precisely need the Mets baseball cap she bought, but it was only a couple of bucks and she was tired of wearing a bandanna at work.
She’d didn’t think Stallworth’s would still be in business, but when she came to the block where the old bookshop had been, the old black sign still hung from a bracket above the narrow door. With a grin she stepped inside.
The shop had originally served as a small printing press before the Civil War. While the original Mr. Stallworth had gone off to fight the Rebs, his wife and young son had kept the business going by buying and selling books. Losing a leg at Gettysburg had finally sent Stallworth back to civilian life, but by then the business had been doing so well he decided to abandon his racks of type and ink for the pleasures of the book trade.
Together with his son he renovated the shop, installing rows of cedar bookcases and building shelved tables to better display their growing collections. Mrs. Stallworth had already scandalized other neighborhood merchants by having some comfortable armchairs and settees brought from her home to the shop, but she convinced her husband that offering their patrons a place to sit and read would entice them to buy, as would the afternoon tea and cakes she offered for a modest price.
Over the decades the handmade tables had been replaced with modern display stands, and the antique furn ishings had been traded for more durable seating arrangements, but many of the old books remained where they had been shelved, waiting patiently to be taken home by their next owner.
“I don’t carry magazines,” a cranky voice said from the back. “Or cigarettes, gum, or beverages. You can get them at the CVS around the corner.”
“How about Patricia Briggs?” Rowan called back. “I could use a little magic in my life.”
A wrinkled face framed by a helmet of salt-and-pepper spikes popped into view. “I know you.” The old man wandered out, his arms filled with a stack of leather-bound Dickens volumes. He looked her up and down a few times. “Rosie. Rolanda. Roberta. No, that isn’t it.” He frowned, muttering to himself before triumph lit up his face. “Rowan.”
“That’s me.” She grinned. “Your shop is still the coolest place in the city, Mr. Stallworth.”
“If only more shared your opinion, my dear.” He set down the books and came to give her a hug. “It’s lovely to see you again.” He stepped back with a new frown. “What are you doing in New York? I thought you’d gone off for good.”
“I changed my mind. How’s the book biz?”
“At the moment, it’s all about the young vampires.” He sighed. “One is either Team Edward or Team Jacob, it seems. But I live in hope that chick lit will enjoy a revival.”
Rowan chatted with him for a few minutes, and admired wallet photos of his newest grandchildren. He was happy to learn that she was working at D’Anges, but not surprised.
“I still remember those ginger cookies you would bring for me from the bakery,” he said. “You were so proud of them, and rightfully so. You ruined me for every other cookie on the market, young woman.” His expression turned serious. “A few weeks after you left for the god-forsaken wilds of the South, some men came around the neighborhood. They were asking questions about a runaway girl. They said they were detectives but I did not get the impression they were working for the NYPD. And before you ask, no, I didn’t tell them about you.”
Rowan felt her stomach twist at this confirmation of her worst fears. “I appreciate that, Mr. Stallworth.” She glanced at one of the display tables, featuring stacks of books for young adults with vampiric-sounding titles. “I am interested in finding some books about vampires, but not the Twilight knockoff stuff. I’d like to see whatever you have that’s nonfiction. Older books.”
“Stephen King old, or Bram Stoker old?”
“Stoker.”
He waved for her to follow him into the back of the shop. Once there, he went to a locked, glass- fronted case and pulled out his keys.
“I had to install this after I caught a girl attempting to shoplift some of the newer volumes. I’m sure she intended to resell them across town; the poor child looked half-starved.” He unlocked the case, opened the doors, and began pointing out shelves. “Early twentieth century, late nineteenth, early nineteenth, and so on. The oldest volume I have dates back to 1820, but I think it’s utter rubbish so you can have that one half-price.”
Rowan took in some of the titles. “Wow.”
“One must strike while the trend is hot.” He smiled and patted her shoulder. “I have some shelving to do, but call if you need me.”
From the work she had done researching and compiling books for Matthias, Rowan had a good working knowledge of the subject matter. Most of the twentieth-century books were useless; they’d been inspired by Hollywood’s conception of the vampire. But the older books were more interesting, and ranged from scholarly studies of historic vampirism to histories of blood- rite cultures. She selected several to flip through and began setting aside the ones that looked the most promising.
It was the circa 1820 book of “rubbish” that intrigued her more than any of the others, however. The author had been chronicling the Romantic period in English poetry, and had obtained several letters that had been exchanged by some of the big names of the era. Among them he noticed a series of unusual metaphors and oblique references to a gifted young poet who had died of consumption before his talent had been fully realized, and opinions on later reports that his grave had been robbed.
We have ascertained through the authorities in Rome that remains were found in the grave, one poet wrote, but some of our friends were present at the exhumation, and they insist that the body was too fresh to belong to our friend. If he has indeed enjoyed the dark resurrection, would not the body in the grave be that of his first victim?
Rowan suppressed a shudder, added the book to the stack she had assembled, and carried them to the front of the shop. Stallworth joined her there and after casting a jaundiced eye at her selection rang up her purchases.
“I never imagined you would develop a fascination for the dark kyn,” he said as he bagged the books. “It’s a lot of superstitious nonsense, you know.”
“But interesting nonsense.” She handed over the cash. “Have you read much about them?”
“As much as I ever care to. The idea that plague victims in the Dark Ages rose from mass graves as vampires has been around as long as the legends of monsters in Loch Ness and animal attacks that result in one growing fur under the full moon.” He reached under the counter for a book and added it to the stack. “An advance reading copy of the new Patricia Briggs. No charge,” he added as she pulled out more money. “I’d have never pegged you for a lover of shape-shifter fiction.”
“She’s the only one who gets it right,” she murmured. She looked up quickly. “I mean, I love the way she writes it.”
“Well, if you come ’round again, I’ll introduce you to her new series about those of the moonstruck and fur persuasion.” He reached across the counter to take her hand. “Do take care, my dear.”
“I will. Thanks, Mr. Stallworth.” She felt an unwelcome but all-too-familiar sensation that had nothing to do with fur or the moon. With an effort she controlled the sudden urge to change. “Say hi to your wife for me.”
As she left the bookshop, Rowan felt an odd sensation, and looked over her shoulder. She didn’t see any familiar faces among the people walking around the shops, but that combined with the passage she’d read from the old book and what Stallworth had told her gave her the creeps. She gave up on the plan to visit the library and began walking back to the restaurant.
The man she hadn’t seen waited until she disappeared from view, and then walked up to the bookshop door and let himself in.
PART THREE
Trouvaille
September 29, 2008
Tanglewood Middle School
Biology Class
Mrs. Withers—Period Four
Total Makeover: How Recombinant DNA by
Nonbacterial Introduction Might Make Us All
Supermodels Someday
A Science Fair Project Proposal by Tiffany
Angela Ephram
My biology project for the school science fair this year is about recombinant DNA, and how someday doctors might be able to use it so that anyone who wants to improve their looks can, even if they want a total body makeover so that they can become as beautiful as a supermodel.
Recombinant DNA is already made in three ways. They are Phage Introduction, Bacterial, and Non-Bacterial Transformation. The bacterial and phage processes require alteration of the original DNA with things like restriction enzymes and antibiotic markers. New DNA is introduced which is designed to repair the existing, altered DNA while resequencing it. I would research one of these methods, but after having strep throat four times this year my parents don’t want me deliberately exposing myself to germs. For that reason I’m making my project about Non-Bacterial Introduction.
To make this type of rDNA (recombinant DNA) no germs are necessary. A doctor can give you a microinjection that adds new DNA to your preexisting DNA and the new genes take over and replace the sequences in your DNA that are not wanted anymore. Some scientists also invented a new process of introducing the new DNA with biolistics, or tiny particles of gold or tungsten that are coated with the new DNA, which is shot into the patient’s body like a thousand tiny bullets. They call that high-velocity microprojectile bombardment, but it doesn’t hurt the patient and delivers the new DNA in the same way the microinjection method does.
