Lady in Waiting: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

of age and neglect. The first one I drew out was a 1902 copy of
David Copperfield
with the title page missing. The next four were in better shape and slightly less aromatic. One was a book of poetry by John Keats, dated 1907. Another, a slim copy of Rudyard Kipling’s
Just So Stories
, and still another, Chaucer’s
The Canterbury Tales
—the oldest one yet in the box, dated 1756. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in burlap, was a metal lockbox tarnished to a marbled, sooty green. It was no bigger than a toaster, with melted hinges turned gangrenous. It was locked. I shook it gently, and I could hear something moving inside. I reached into a drawer in my work desk where I had a key ring of tiny picks that Thea and Wilson had used to open many an old lock.
    I worked at it for several minutes, prying and prodding. When at last the lock sprung free, the corroded hinges clattered to the table in pieces. An audible sigh seemed to escape the box as fresh air crawled inside for the first time in who knows how long. Wilson had rejoined me, and he heard the sigh too. It was as if the box was whispering, “At last …” I lifted the lid and peeked inside. The contents were covered in filaments of straw that disintegrated at my touch.
    Inside the folds of a loosely woven bit of fabric was an onyx rosary, a small hand mirror blackened with age, and a book in such decrepit shape, its back cover hung by fibers in several places. I lifted the book from the box and gently opened it, but the pages threatened to fall away from the spine. I gently laid it on the acquisitions table, wishing I had put on a pair of gloves before attempting to pick it up.
    “Good Lord. That book must be three or four hundred years old!” Wilson squinted at the script. “Look at the lettering!”
    I peered at the first page, but the ink was too faint. I couldn’t make out anything other than its title:
Book of Common Prayer
. “You think so?”
    “Definitely. This should have been in a museum somewhere, instead of some farmhouse attic,” Wilson grumbled. “Where did Emma say she found it?”
    “At a jumble sale in Wales.”
    I touched the edge of the spine that was halfway connected to the back cover and ran my finger along the inside. It felt like finely stretched leather. A bump under the lining caught my attention, and I rubbed my fingertip back over it. The raised portion was about the size of an American nickel, slightly round and lumpy. Whatever it was, I knew it would have to be removed if the book was to be repaired.
    “Think you can fix it?” I asked Wilson.
    He shrugged. “Maybe a professional could do something with it. They will charge you a pretty penny, though. And no one will likely pay what it’s worth with the shape it is in. It’s too bad, really.” He fingered the rosary. “This is in lovely shape, though. Not as old as the book, I’m sure.”
    He held up the dangling crucifix. The black beads shimmered under the recessed ceiling lights, practically calling out for hands to touch them in prayer, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had touched them. I looked at the shiny black stones in Wilson’s hands, and I pondered for a moment what it might be like to hold them in my fingers, the tiny form of the obedient Christ dangling from my palm.
    Stacy returned to the back of the store. “So what did I miss?”
    “This lovely rosary. A hopeless hand mirror. And a very old prayer book that someone should’ve taken better care of.” Wilson laid the rosary next to the tattered
Book of Common Prayer
.
    “Wow,” Stacy rubbed a finger over the rosary’s beads. Then she leaned over the book, gently turned a page, and her eyes widened. “This thing is ancient. And it’s a Protestant volume. Look. It was printed by the Church of England. And omigosh, did you see this date?”
    Wilson and I leaned in, but the ink was too faint for me. Stacy’s young eyes were bright. “Sixteen sixty-two! It’s, like, three hundred and