I rubbed my arms against the frigid, stagnant chi she’d managed to stir up and quickly turned a corner. I felt better and breathed easier once I was out of Minka’s eyesight. Strolling briskly down the wide hall, I entered the suite of business offices. Wylie, Ian’s current assistant, greeted me and told me to go right in. I knocked, then opened Ian’s door.
“Hey, you,” Ian said, jumping up from his chair and rushing to greet me with a hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been itching to get your opinion on what to do about this book.”
Shaking off the last of my Minka-induced negativity, I smiled and hugged him back. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“I’ll warn you beforehand that the outside is less than impressive. It’s in horrible shape, but I know you can make it shine. The inside is exquisite.” He led the way across the room to his lovingly restored Chippendale conference table. We sat, and I watched him slowly unwrap several layers of white tissue paper to reveal a rather nondescript book.
The book was big, probably twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, and it was less than an inch thick. The leather cover was green, or it had been at one time; now it was nearly faded to a dull gray. The front cover was frayed along the outer hinge and would probably have broken apart at the least bit of movement.
It was disturbingly familiar.
“I know it’s ugly,” Ian reiterated, misreading my reaction. “But the paper is still in excellent condition and wait until you see the illustrations.”
“Okay.” I picked it up carefully, not only because it was old and falling apart, but because I was afraid of what I would find when I opened it. I stared at the spine. Beauty and the Beast, it read, as I knew it would.
I opened the front cover and stared at the inscription written inside. And ached with memories.
“It’s very rare,” Ian said in a rush. “First edition. Look at the interior pages. They’re fantastic. I just need you to fashion a new cover and do some clean up, and we’ll have a masterpiece to display in the children’s gallery.”
I ran my finger over the dried ink and reread the sentimental inscription. The scrawled penmanship had a beauty all its own.
“Earth to Brooklyn,” he said. “What’s going on? Can you do the work or not?”
I shook myself out of my melancholy and glanced up at Ian. “I’m not sure I can.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You could do this restoration in your sleep.”
“Oh, yeah, I can do the work.” I turned the book over to see if the damage extended to the back joint, but it was still smooth and unfrayed. “But I don’t think I can do the work.”
He frowned, pushed away from the table, and stood over me. “Okay, you’re speaking in riddles. What’s wrong with the damn book?”
I met his gaze directly. “I think it was stolen.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I bought it fair and square from Joseph Taylor.”
“I’m sure you did,” I said through clenched teeth. “And I’d like to find out who sold it to him in the first place because they’re not the rightful owner.”
Frustrated, Ian scratched his head, causing his hair to spike wildly. “What aren’t you telling me, Brooklyn? How do you know this book was stolen? Who did it belong to?”
Tears threatened, but I brushed them away with a fierce swipe of my hand. “Once upon a time, this book was mine.”