Prologue

2006

Letty Fennimore entered the doors of Greenswick Library fearing she wouldn't make it out alive. Be invisible, she told herself and labored to keep the thud of her cane quiet against the checkerboard marble floors. Her bones ached and her heart thrashed, but she had to do this. Getting caught would mean losing everything.

Since this was Letty’s final visit, she briefly saw the library through a stranger’s eyes. She pretended she had never experienced the reverent hush that swallowed her upon crossing the threshold or seen the assault of shelved books beneath a soaring, ribbed ceiling. Even though this place and its secrets had cost her dearly, she still loved it and its portal-like ability to shut out the rest of the world. But there wasn’t time for sentimentality. She would stay focused and get what she needed for her granddaughter.  

Letty scanned the many faces she passed as she hobbled to the children’s section. Greenswick’s patrons were constantly buzzing and a bit distracted, not only by the building’s gothic grandeur, but by the fuss surrounding its mysterious owner, S.C. Falcon. Was he the mayor? A vampire? A wizard? A sad and lonely man with too much time and money on his hands?

Humph. If only they knew how wrong they were with their guesses and theories about Falcon’s identity. 

Arriving at the children’s section, Letty headed for the spiraled bookshelf at the room’s center and disappeared inside. When she returned, out of breath and weakened, she carried a stolen jar of ink, which she swathed in a scarf and tucked safely in her purse. It was wrong to steal it, but she needed this ink to make one last book for her granddaughter, Rose. 

Just the thought of Rose and of the fact that she had been forbidden to see her trapped Letty in a wave of panic, akin to the feeling of losing a child in a crowded, public place. Rose was a smart, compliant, I’m-shy-but-watch-me-do-cartwheels sort of girl. Letty ached to return to the sun-soaked memory of sharing watermelon slices on the beach, to watch Rose brush the dark strands of hair from her eyes and hear her say, “Grandma, I think water-lemon is my favorite fruit!” 

Letty could abandon Rose. She could return the ink and slump into her habit of helplessness. Part of her wanted to, despite the guilt. But she wouldn’t do that again. This time, she would fight for her family. 

On her journey back to the lobby, Letty was overcome with an urgent pain in her hips and knees. She leaned against the nearest wall and gritted her teeth. The jarred ink was a boulder pulling her toward the ground, and it threatened her collapse before she even made it to the hallway. A dark-haired girl ran past squealing, the chub in her small cheeks jiggling with each step. Oh, damn Daisy’s selfishness! Letty’s daughter, Daisy, had been the one to banish her, and Letty was afraid she’d die of cancer right here in the children’s section before she made the book for Rose. Letty had hidden a handful of books, as well as Rose’s inheritance in the library, but this book would be their only source of true connection once Letty was gone. If Rose was brave enough to dive into the world of dreamreading, her sad life would crack open with possibility and in a way, Letty could keep her promise to Rose.  

The pain subsided for a moment. Letty exhaled and adjusted her green glasses while holding back tears. No—this wasn’t Daisy’s fault. None of this was. How could she think that? It always startled Letty how ready she was to spit venom at her own daughter. She could only hope that such feelings came from a place of caring too deeply, that there was a pearl of love hiding inside the hate. Because there was nothing more terrible than a terrible mother. 

A veined hand grabbed her arm. Letty nearly cried out. He had found her, and soon he would find the ink in her purse. She turned with wide eyes to see Louis, one of the library’s janitors. She sagged deeper against the wall in relief. “You scared me,” she said, attempting a smile to conceal her discomfort. 

“Letty. You should be at home resting, young lady.”

“Young lady,” Letty muttered. She had known Louis since childhood. They had gone to school together, and she had been best friends with his sister, Gloria. In another life, they might have even dated, since she had always thought he was handsome and clever. What did he think of her, she wondered with unease. Had Gloria told him what she had done? What she was capable of? 

“Let me help you home,” he said in a gruff but kind voice.

“Nonsense. You’re on the job.”

“I’ll drive you. You won’t make it walking.”

She freed her arm from his grasp and stretched her spine taller. “Watch me.” The urge to prove him wrong was just the push she needed to get herself home. Louis stepped away.

“Alright then, but you be careful. And don’t hesitate to call the janitorial team if you need backup,” he said with a wink. 

The pain still at bay, Letty limped to the lobby, but she paused before leaving. Unable to help herself, she pushed a hidden button located behind a gilded frame near the front desk. Instantly, every light on the first floor turned red while “I’ll Be Seeing You” blasted from an unseen gramophone. Stifling a smile, she hurried out the main exit as quickly as she could manage, leaving the shrieks and surprised laughter behind her. “Falcon’s done it again!” a young man’s voice echoed from inside the lobby. It wasn’t a spectacular prank, but she still took a moment to enjoy it.

 “Goodbye, old friend,” she said as she tapped the side of the building with her cane.  

Letty plodded along the cobblestone streets of Greenswick, Missouri underneath a brooding sky, which grumbled as if threatening a punishment for her disobedience. After barely making it home, she immediately set to work at her bedroom desk as rain rapped at the stained glass windows. When she opened the jar, the wine-colored ink unleashed a flood of fragrance–a strange, spicy tang laced with lavender and licorice and a final note of rose. The scent had long since become a part of her, infused into the very cells of her skin, even though it had been quite some time since she had used it. How she had missed this smell. She dipped an old-fashioned quill pen into the jar and began to mark a stack of snow white pages edged in black. 

Letty poured out her story. Her fears, pleasures, triumphs, and regrets came out in a loose, undulant script that resembled the waves of emotion rippling through her. Day after day, she wrote late into the night despite the haze of drowsiness brought on by the ink’s odor. Shockingly still alive, she finished penning the final word and bound the book with a needle and thread then wrapped it in supple leather she had dyed a deep plum. She felt empty, but in a cathartic sense, like the grief of a lifetime had been scooped from her chest. She clasped the book shut and sealed it in a clear bag. 

Now, where to hide it? She could bury it in the yard, but she lacked the strength to dig a hole. There was a loose floorboard in the kitchen, but she worried Rose’s foot would find it too soon and prompt an inspection. Her eyes drifted to the oversized wardrobe in the corner. It was one of the few family heirlooms she kept in her home, and one of her favorites, though she never used it. It was a piece of jewelry rather than a functional piece of furniture. Letty opened its carved doors and lifted a loose shelf to drop the book inside. She fetched a hammer and after many attempts with shaking hands, nailed the shelf shut, slightly regretting the damage she was inflicting, but taking solace in the knowledge that the book would be safe.

Once she was gone, her home would go to Rose. It was Letty’s dying wish that Rose would accept the home, move to Greenswick once she turned eighteen, and find the gift she had hidden inside the library. And that Rose would find this book—her grandmother’s final work—and come to cherish it just as much as her inheritance. 

Letty collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Do bad people deserve love? she wondered. Do they deserve to tell their stories? She didn’t know the answer, but she knew at the very least, Rose deserved to know the whole truth. 

 Chapter 1

2023

Rose Fennimore swung open the solid, paneled doors of the children’s section, the scent of wood polish and old books breezing across her face. On her way to the checkout counter, she inspected her makeup in a compact mirror (flawless, especially the application of her dark cranberry lipstick, her top lip forming a perfect V in the center). It wasn't until after she checked her phone and greeted her grandmother’s photograph in a silver frame on her desk that she saw the letter.       

Her stiletto pumps glued to the floor and her chest piling up with heartbeats, she could only stare at it. The envelope was a beauty–the creamy color of Rubenesque skin, with the crisp edges and corners sharp enough to draw a bead or two of blood. Her name graced the paper in black calligraphy pretty enough for a royal wedding invitation, each letter a work of delicate art. 

Rose dared to pick it up. The paper was heavy, soft. She turned over the envelope and exhaled in relief to find that a dollop of crimson wax sealed the flap, stamped with the image of a spiral. Letters encircled the spiral, spelling out “Greenswick Library.” Her finger crossed the textured wax as she allowed herself to smile. This confirmed her suspicion.

Poised to rip the penny-sized spiral in two, she heard, “Ms. Fennimore?” Rose jumped and spun around to see Marcy, the head librarian’s assistant manager. Marcy wore quiet, sensible shoes that allowed her to silently float in and out of rooms. “The docent for the morning tour called in sick. Could you fill in again?”

Rose turned to the letter. A wicked trick of fate to make her pine for what was already in her hands. She often leapt at the chance to lead a tour, since it gave her an unmatched opportunity to share her genuine enthusiasm for Greenswick Library. There were few things she enjoyed more, assuming she wasn’t excessively heckled by the natives who attended. But today was different. Today she held a treasure that, as far as she knew, no ordinary librarian had ever possessed. 

Today she had a letter from S.C. Falcon. 

She glanced back to find Marcy’s eyes round in a hopeful plea behind her tortoiseshell glasses. 

"Could you ask Charlotte?"

Marcy eyed Rose, who had never once turned down a tour. "I was going to ask Jeffrey next."

"No," Rose said, her tone sharp. Jeffrey was a nasally reference desk worker whose droning voice and lack of relevant knowledge left visitors yawning and bleary-eyed, praying for some sort of emergency or accident to abruptly end the tour. She couldn't allow that to happen. 

Marcy nodded as if she understood. "I'll ask Charlotte." She pivoted on her heel to leave. 

"Wait.” Rose remembered overhearing Charlotte complain that her six-month-old was sick and struggling to sleep at night. Asking her to lead a tour––an hour on her feet bearing an onslaught of questions––would be cruel. Rose released a burst of pent up air. "I'll do it."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." She tucked away the letter in the desk’s top left drawer, out of sight. S.C. Falcon and her wild curiosity would have to wait. 

Rose descended the grand curved staircase to the lobby where a throng of patrons gathered on the black and white marble floor, miniature playing pieces clustered on a giant chessboard. She smoothed her dark hair and checked her bun for flyaways. It would take extra effort to focus with her usual level of intensity today. S.C. Falcon, whoever he was, had written her a letter, and she could only hope it contained the one thing she was desperate to know.

“Almost there, Grandma,” Rose whispered. She could feel it. Right after this tour, she’d read the letter and finally…

The tour group was waiting for her. Rose adjusted her starched white cuffs and tugged on the lapels of her black blazer to find the optimum intersection of comfort and attractiveness. She cleared her throat, and a mass of eager faces turned toward the sound of her cue. As much as she yearned to read that letter, she still had a job to do and was determined to do it well.

“Welcome to Greenswick Library. I’m Rose Fennimore, your guide for today. Food and

drink are prohibited, as well as photography and video recording. Come please, let’s begin.” Rose led the group under one pointed archway after another, divulging information with the rhythm and intonation of a well-rehearsed speech, each word chosen with care and a great deal of pleasure. At least, that’s how she began, until her mind involuntarily flicked to the cream-colored treasure in her desk, and she tripped over her words. The first mistake was forgivable, but by the second, her face flushed pink and caused further stumbling.

“What’s with you today?” said Marge Davis, an elderly Greenswick native. “Your bun twisted too tight, Rosie Cakes?”

Rose grimaced at the nickname. No matter the authority she pretended to have, Marge always managed to deflate it with those two little words. If only her audience could be tourists alone. Rose knew why these natives repeatedly showed up, and it wasn’t to bask in her knowledge of the library. “Forgive me,” she said and moved on quickly, hoping to glide past her lapse in performance. “This room was originally used—“

“Up too late? Oh I know, you met a man, is that it?” An impish smile filled Marge’s face. 

Heat crept up Rose’s neck. Discussing her love life in front of a crowd of people was her idea of torture.

“Cause the only way to get over a broken heart is to go get yourself a new lump o’ sugar.” 

Rose’s confidence wobbled. Is that what everyone thought of her? That she was still heart-broken years after the breakup? She was used to dealing with Marge’s outspokenness, but never before had she dug into Rose’s personal life. This is what happened when a professional lost her focus. “Ms. Davis,” she said, trying to regain composure, “it would do us well to stay on topic.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying–”

“You ever seen S.C. Falcon, Rosie Cakes?” Marge asked, followed by soft snickering from the group. And there it was, the real reason Marge and a few others had returned: to indulge in the folklore of Falcon.

“S.C. Falcon is the owner, right?” a deep voice asked from the back.

Marge assumed a broad stance in front of Rose. “Oh, he’s not just the owner! He’s a man o’ mystery. A ghost, a shadow floatin’ all through these very halls.” She gazed saucer-eyed at the crowd and stretched out a sprawled hand as if telling an urban legend. “He lives here in the library, I swear it. Caught a glimpse o’ him once back in my prime.”

“Wait, who is he? A ghost?” a young woman asked, her brows knit in skepticism. 

“Not a ghost,” Rose said, exasperated. “He’s simply the owner of Greenswick Library and chooses to keep his identity confidential.” The words almost felt dishonest in light of the secret letter. Rose guided Marge by the shoulders back to the group and, pretending not to notice the old woman’s glare, tried again. “This room was originally used–”

“Good grief!” Marge said. “You’re as dull as dishwater. We all wanna talk about Falcon, not hear you prattle on.”

Rose hated that she absorbed the insult, let it sink into her center and burn. Was it true? Was she too boring, too straight-laced, too impersonal to ever be interesting? Rose waited a few beats too many to respond, and she knew how that looked to those watching. “Ms. Davis, please–”

“Ms. Fennimore?” Mr. Frost, the head librarian, stood in the doorway dressed in his self-important tweed. Rose swallowed. “I came to check on the tour group.” He gave her a look that asked, Is there a problem?

A long silence unfolded that only deepened Rose’s humiliation. While it had always been clear that Mr. Frost did not fully approve of someone as young as Rose running one of his precious departments, she had never given him a reason to question her competence. Until now.  

“Marge was causin’ trouble, Mr. Frost,” said Carol Binchy, another gray-haired regular. 

“Was not!” said Marge. “There’s something goin’ on with Rose, Mr. Frost. Her head is someplace else.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Frost said, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. 

“Oh, shut your hole, Marge,” said Carol. “Marge has shingles down south, so she’s on one today.” 

Marge’s mouth popped open. “How did you–” 

“People talk.” Carol turned her attention back to Mr. Frost. “Rose has been a fine tour guide.”

Rose nodded her thanks to Carol, even though Carol’s defense made her feel like a child in need of rescuing.

Mr. Frost pulled Rose aside and spoke in a low tone. “You should get back to your department. I’ll take over from here.”

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Frost. I promise I can handle this.”

“That wasn’t a request, Ms. Fennimore.”

Rose suddenly felt dizzy. She glanced back at the whispering group, trying to read their faces. Could they hear their conversation? Did their second-hand embarrassment match her own?

Left with no choice, Rose exited the room. “I’m so sorry,” she heard Mr. Frost say to everyone. “Our usual docent wasn’t available this morning. Sometimes we must make do with our other staff.” 

Rose could scarcely believe she had been dismissed, despite her fumbles. The tours were her specialty, her delight, the medium for her strengths to shine. Unless, that is, she had built up her abilities in her mind. And knowing Mr. Frost, he would likely catastrophize the incident and find a way to punish her. 

But if nothing else, she was finally returning to the children’s section, to the letter waiting patiently in her desk. She could only hope that it would reveal the whereabouts of Grandma Letty’s gift. She had concealed it somewhere within the walls of Greenswick Library just before her death, never explaining why it had to be hidden, just that Rose should be diligent and unbending until she found it. Until she did, that gaping hole Letty left behind when she died would never heal, leaving Rose forever split open, unsewn. It would be a place for Letty’s I love yous to fester, for hellish memories to haunt her, like the day of Letty’s funeral when Rose’s mom went bar hopping and Rose was left alone to clutch the bedsheets and cry until she fell asleep.

But the letter could put an end to all of that.