Carries Book Reviews

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Title: Don’t Forget Me

Author:  Rea Frey

Publisher: Thomas & Mercer 

Publication Date: March 1, 2024

Page Count:  266

My rating: 4 stars

About the book:

When a body is presumed to be her missing husband’s, a woman must unravel the secrets of her own past to clear her name, find the truth, and put her conscience to rest once and for all.

All Ruby wanted was a fresh start. But after an early retirement and a relocation to a tight-knit community with her husband, Tom, and her daughter, Lily, her new beginning takes a turn.

First her troubled daughter and then her husband disappear without a trace. Unsure how to cope, grief-ridden Ruby turns to her neighborhood friends to find a way forward with new hobbies, including a murder club where they try to solve cold cases.

But just as unexpectedly as her family vanished, a body floats to the surface of the nearby lake.

And everyone is sure the body belongs to Tom…everyone except Ruby.

Determined to find out what happened to her family once and for all, Ruby digs into her neighbors’ lives, and her own, only to uncover secrets that raise more questions than they answer. And the biggest question of all—why doesn’t she recognize the body?

Don’t Forget Me by Rea Frey is a domestic thriller novel. The story in Don’t Forget Me is told by changing the timeline back and forth between a current time and one from the past. This is also one with an unreliable narrator but has small updates from a neighborhood chat involved too.

Ruby’s husband, Tom, had thought it was time for their little family to get out of the city and finally into their dream home. Ruby agreed and before long Tom, Ruby and their daughter, Lily, moved to Cottage Grove.

Not long after moving to this new peaceful neighborhood though Lily goes missing then shortly after so does Tom. Ruby being left alone in the new home joins a true crime group as a distraction to her own troubles but trouble shows up very close to home when a body is found in the lake nearby.

Rea Frey is an author that I continue to return to time and time again and have yet to find a book in her catalog that I didn’t like. Don’t Forget Me had that same pull that I’ve found in the author’s books before that I pick them up and simply do not want to put them down. This was yet again another twisty ride that while you may need to suspend disbelief a bit it certainly kept me guessing until the very end.

I received an advance copy from the publisher via NetGalley.

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon

About the author:

Rea Frey is the award-winning, #1 bestselling author of several nonfiction books and suspense, thriller, and contemporary fiction novels. Known as The Book Doula, Rea helps other writers birth their stories into the world.

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Title: The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone

Author:  Audrey Burges

Publisher: Berkley  

Publication Date: January 24, 2023

Page Count:  348

My rating: 3 1/2 stars

About the book:

A woman learns to expand the boundaries of her small world and let love inside it in this sparkling and unforgettable novel by Audrey Burges.

From her attic in the Arizona mountains, thirty-four-year-old Myra Malone blogs about a dollhouse mansion that captivates thousands of readers worldwide. Myra’s stories have created legions of fans who breathlessly await every blog post, trade photographs of Mansion-modeled rooms, and swap theories about the enigmatic and reclusive author. Myra herself is tethered to the Mansion by mysteries she can’t understand—rooms that appear and disappear overnight, music that plays in its corridors.

Across the country, Alex Rakes, the scion of a custom furniture business, encounters two Mansion fans trying to recreate a room. The pair show him the Minuscule Mansion, and Alex is shocked to recognize a reflection of his own life mirrored back to him in minute scale. The room is his own bedroom, and the Mansion is his family’s home, handed down from the grandmother who disappeared mysteriously when Alex was a child. Searching for answers, Alex begins corresponding with Myra. Together, the two unwind the lonely paths of their twin worlds—big and small—and trace the stories that entwine them, setting the stage for a meeting rooted in loss, but defined by love.

The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone by Audrey Burges is a magical realism fantasy novel with a touch of romance to the story. The story in The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is also one that is told by changing the point of view between the characters.

For years now Myra Malone has cared for the dollhouse mansion in her attic carefully curating new rooms nightly. Myra’s best friend found a way for Myra to make money on her activities with the mansion by setting Myra up online where she can share photos and the stories of each new room she creates and now has a whole community interested in the mansion’s progress.

Meanwhile across the country Alex Rakes works daily in his custom furniture business when Alex is approached by fans of the miniscule mansion website. When the customers show Alex what they are wanting to duplicate from Myra’s site Alex is shocked when he recognizes the rooms in the photographs. Everything Alex is seeing in a miniture version of his one life and he knows she needs to track down the owner of the website.

The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is the first book I’d read from author Audrey Burges so of course I had no idea what to expect going into the story. For me the book became one of those that I deeply appreciate the creativity of the story as this was definitely something I hadn’t read before and that can be hard to come by. However, on the flip side I found this one to also be a slow mover and that often leaves me wanting more as I go along in the story. So with my feelings flip flopping along the way between interest and disinterest with the pacing I finished this one rating it at three and a half stars but would return to this author again.

I received an advance copy from the publisher via NetGalley.

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon

About the author:

Audrey writes novels, humor, short fiction, and essays in Richmond, Virginia. Her presence is tolerated by her two rambunctious children and very patient husband, all of whom have become practiced at making supportive faces when she shouts “listen to this sentence!” She is a frequent contributor to numerous humor outlets, including McSweeney’s, and her stories and essays have appeared in Pithead Chapel, Cease, Cows, and lengthy diatribes in the Notes app on her phone. Audrey was born and raised in Arizona by her linguist parents, which is a lot like being raised by wolves, but with better grammar. She moved to Virginia as an adult but still carries mountains and canyons in her heart, and sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can still smell ponderosa pines in the sun. You can read more of her writing at audreyburges.com and by following her on Twitter at @audrey_burges, on Instagram at @audreyburges, or on Facebook at @aburgeswrites.

**This post contains Amazon affiliate links which will allow me as an associate to earn a small commission on any purchase made through the link of the products I share. This commission in no way changes the pricing of any items for the buyer.**

Another Side of the Heart
C.H. Lazarovich
Publication date: September 29th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary

One summer. One dog. One chance encounter.

When Mary Devere encounters a young woman the same age as her dead daughter, Mary connects with her, only to discover that the young woman’s father is Antonio, Mary’s first love. Mary finds herself questioning the sacrifices she made to live the life she thought she should, and the difficult choice she made as a teenager that changed her life’s course.

Easy to read. Easy to love.

In a touching, emotional and moving account of a woman in midlife, Mary finds herself navigating her grief surrounding the loss of her only child, questioning her sacrifices to live a life she thought she should, and confronting the memories of the choice she made as a teenager that changed her life’s course, all while placing her back in the arms of Antonio.

From Readers ’Favorite 5-Star author C. H. Lazarovich comes the moving story of a woman’s awakening.

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Outside a mourning dove cries in its new nest in the birch tree, at the same time a small fishing boat on the bay glides by. Before washing my hands, I remove my wedding band, put it on a saucer, and think of Mark, wondering where he is. Though I’m a little lonely, I don’t want him here. I think of the other night and seeing Antonio at his house. I know I’ve never felt the same feelings with Mark that I had with Antonio. I don’t remember feelings of wanting him badly to be with me. Did I trade true love for comfort?

Being with Mark has meant there’d always be safety, certainty, and security for me. But as Patsy said, Mark himself has not been a constant for me. He’s a man prone toward selfishness, a man not understanding of his partner’s essential nature. He has tried, but what that’s meant is giving me more things to replace the intangible cravings I’ve had: to be seen, heard, listened to.

I can’t say for sure what my life with Antonio might have been. But I can remember like yesterday the yearnings I had for him, those of both purity and lust.

Someone knocks at the door. “Carmen, the door’s open. Come in.”

Karma, wagging her tail, runs from the kitchen to our visitor, whining happily.

“Carmen?” I yell from the kitchen while chopping a banana. “I’m in the kitchen making a fruit salad. The hammer’s on the table. And thank you for the string beans.” The footsteps come closer, then stop.

“It’s not Carmen.”

I turn, see the dark-and-silver-hair. The square jaw. The unmistakable dimples.

It’s Antonio.

He wears faded jean, a black cotton T-shirt, scuffed black work boots. “I heard you say to come in … I hope you don’t mind.” Karma sniffs his boots, licks his fingertips. He smiles broadly, points at the knife I’m holding. “Or maybe I shouldn’t have. You’re not going to rush at me with that, are you?”

I look down. My knife is aimed at him. “No, no. I was making a … I thought you were my neighbor …” The words fade. I lay the knife on the cutting board, wipe my hands with the dish towel.

His eyes melt my being. He takes an easy step toward me and nods in a familiar way, a primitive way, pulling me in like the moon pulls the sea. He studies me, missing little and holds up a clipboard. He wears a watch with a black complex face and black leather band. “I told you I’d send someone over to take a look at your house.” In one swoop, he examines the cottage.

“My house?” I ask.

He bites his lip. “You said you need some repairs?”

“Oh right,” I say, heat rising in my neck.

“My crews are all over town,” he says. “So you get the boss today. Wanna show me around?”

“Sure.”

He follows me to the front door. I hold it open, giving him unsaid permission to exit first.When he steps over the threshold, the skin of his forearm skims my shoulder.

His movements, even and fluid, arouse me. I watch the braid of back muscles tighten when he descends under the house searching for the cause of a water stain.

Later, I walk him to the door, and i can tell that he, too, is feeling unsure what to do next. He follows up with a half hug, and then, “Are you going to the Fourth of July bonfire at the vineyard?”

I feel flutters. “I saw their flier, but haven’t thought about it, but yes, I’ll go.”

“Good. See you there. And I’ll be in touch about your house.”

I satay at the door and watch him step into his truck. My heart races as he leaves.

 

Author Bio:

C. H. Lazarovich is the author of “Another Side of the Heart.” The debut novel is sparking excitement with early readers: The story “is so much about marriage, motherhood, abortion, resurrecting an old love, decisions a woman makes about childbearing, youth choices … ” and “The novel owes more to literary fiction with its beautifully nuanced and multi-layered narrative … ” Lazarovich, who lives in southern New Jersey, has been a freelance journalist under her real name Catherine Laughlin for magazines and newspapers, and teaches writing at Temple University Klein College of Media and Communication. Lazarovich has said that she gravitates to stories that chronicle the experiences of midlife women, and that there’s a

complexity to the lives of older women that’s often underplayed in the arts. She hopes “Another Side of the Heart” fulfills some of that void.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok / Youtube

 

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Refuge from the World
Kim McMahill
(The Beartooth Chronicles, #1)
Publication date: March 19th 2024
Genres: Dystopian, New Adult, Young Adult

Ashley McPhee arrived in Beartooth with her mom, Sara, when she was three years old. Ever since Ash can remember, life has been simple and peaceful. She enjoyed a carefree childhood, tending honey bees with her mom and spending time with her best friend, Caleb Solomon. But, life in their idyllic mountaintop community is changing.

After learning of the government’s plan to use a geoengineering process to cool the planet, Ash and Caleb realize they need to step up and take an active role in the community. Along with fear for how the process might impact their food supply, Ash learns her mom’s health is failing.

Sara doesn’t want Ash to face an uncertain future alone and nudges her and Caleb into marriage. Even though they have known each other most of their lives, Ash and Caleb’s relationship has changed drastically in a short period of time. They embrace the challenges of learning about each other, dealing with tragedy and grief, protecting their community from deadly predators and ruthless neighbors, and experiencing epic adventures, while trying to find solutions to a rapidly changing environment and deteriorating world.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

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EXCERPT:

Ash fell into step next to Caleb without talking. They had known each other for so long that they could be together without saying a word, and it didn’t feel awkward. When they reached the lake, they sat down on one of the large boulders scattered around the shore and stared out at the water.

“The lake level goes down a little more each year,” Caleb said.

“I’ve noticed. It used to be up to that cluster of rocks over there when we would go fishing when we were younger.”

“Rain isn’t enough to keep it full. The last time I remember seeing snow up here was when I was seven, and it didn’t stick around. Seems kind of ironic that so much of the planet is flooded, yet many worry about having enough fresh water to drink and to irrigate crops.”

“Why did we stop fishing?” Ash asked.

“I didn’t stop fishing. I still go fishing at least once a week. When you started taking a more active role in the beekeeping and tree nursery, you were available less and less. I go first thing in the morning, and that’s when you and your mom do most of your work.”

“I miss going fishing with you. I’ll see if Mom cares if we change around the schedule a bit unless you don’t want me tagging along like I did when I was younger.”

“I miss it too. I would love for you to tag along even though you always out-fished me.”

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. Ash laid her head on his shoulder and stared out at the lake. They sat like this sometimes, not as much as they used to, and she missed this too. She loved the feel of his arm around her and the warmth of his body next to hers, but never read too much into the gesture. Today, especially, she was in no hurry to break the connection.

“Are you going to the community meeting tonight?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes. I keep getting these unsettling feelings, and I hope to find out if it’s just my imagination or if there is something I should be worried about. First, I find out you’ve been tasked with building weapons, then I had an odd conversation with your dad, found out we’re having an off-cycle community meeting, and all of a sudden Mom is all over me about marrying Tyler Hewitt.”

“What!” Caleb shouted as he scooted away and turned his body to face her. “You’re not seriously considering marrying that old man, are you?”

“No, but apparently, they’ve talked about it. I pointed out to Mom that he’s eleven years younger than she, but eighteen years older than me. In Tyler’s defense, I can only think of a couple of other eligible women between his age and mine.”

“He has no defense. For him to even be thinking about it, is wrong. When he moved here, you were what? Three? Four? Why now?”

“I think Mom is worried about getting old and leaving me alone. I don’t think she’s been feeling well, but I don’t know if it’s anything serious.”

Caleb stood up and paced. Ash watched him, confused by his reaction.

“I don’t plan to marry Tyler or anyone else not of my choosing. But, I’m not sure why you would care anyway since you’ve got eyes on Evelyn.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Apparently, her mother has been telling people that you two have been spending time together.”

“That’s not true. She tagged along when I was delivering deer meat the other day to the storehouse, but that was it. I most certainly didn’t ask her to come with me, and all she did was ask me questions about Dillon. Besides, she’s just a girl.”

Ash chuckled. “If people are happy to pawn me off on a man eighteen years older, a mere four years between you and Evelyn is nothing.”

She watched as Caleb retreated to the water’s edge. He picked up a flat stone and skipped it across its glassy surface. Ash walked to his side and stood next to him.

“We’d better get back. The meeting starts in a couple of hours, and I should help Mom with dinner,” Ash said as she turned to leave.

Caleb grabbed her arm and pulled her back until she was facing him. “Let’s hear what they have to say tonight. If there is some reason why everyone needs to get married, you’re marrying me.”

“And, what if there is no need?” she asked softly.

“Well, maybe we should anyway.”

Author Bio:

Kim McMahill started out writing nonfiction, but her passion for adventure, stories of survival against the odds, and speculating about the future of humanity and our planet, soon turned her attention towards fiction. She has published eleven novels, over eighty travel and human-interest articles, and contributed to a travel story anthology. Growing up in a beautiful mountain west community, traveling the world, and enjoying a twenty-year career with the National Park Service, has given her the opportunity to live in amazing places, experience incredible adventures, and witness many changes in our world, all of which have helped shape her stories.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Bookbub

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Title: The Library Thief

Author: Kuchenga Shenjé

Publisher: Hanover Square Press

Publication Date: May 7, 2024

Page Count: 355

About the book:

The library is under lock and key. But its secrets can’t be contained.

A strikingly original and absorbing mystery about a white-passing bookbinder in Victorian England and the secrets lurking on the estate where she works, for fans of Fingersmith and The Confessions of Frannie Langton 

1896. After he brought her home from Jamaica as a baby, Florence’s father had her hair hot-combed to make her look like the other girls. But as a young woman, Florence is not so easy to tame—and when she brings scandal to his door, the bookbinder throws her onto the streets of Manchester.

Intercepting her father’s latest commission, Florence talks her way into the remote, forbidding Rose Hall to restore its collection of rare books. Lord Francis Belfield’s library is old and full of secrets—but none so intriguing as the whispers about his late wife.

Then one night, the library is broken into. Strangely, all the priceless tomes remain untouched. Florence is puzzled, until she discovers a half-burned book in the fireplace. She realizes with horror that someone has found and set fire to the secret diary of Lord Belfield’s wife–which may hold the clue to her fate…

Evocative, arresting and tightly plotted, The Library Thief is at once a propulsive Gothic mystery and a striking exploration of race, gender and self-discovery in Victorian England. 

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon  /  BookShop.org / HarperCollins / Barnes & Noble 

Excerpt:

The story starts with a scandal that I thought would end my life. Fortunately, my scandal didn’t kill anyone. In fact, it pales in comparison with what I went on to discover at Rose Hall. 

Thus far, the way I see it, in any good life you need to die several times to really lead a life worth living. There are little deaths and there are big deaths. My tale has both—and the real tragedy would be if this story were to die with me. 

I was lying when I swore I would take this secret to my grave. I had no right to promise that.

*

Granger’s Bookbinders,

143 Long Millgate,

Manchester,

Rose Hall,

Lancashire,

November 20, 1896

Dear Mr. Granger,

I trust this note finds you in good health and that business is as steady as when last we met some years ago.

I write to you with an unusual commission. I will not trouble you here with the details of my current circumstances. Since the untimely death of my beloved wife, Lady Persephone, it seems the fates are in conspiracy against me. Suffice it to say that I find myself now in need of your excellent services and on a far grander scale than before.

The library at Rose Hall is, as you are aware, extensive. I am proud of the rarity and quality of the books it now houses, a collection that I have painstakingly curated over many years. I now find myself in the unhappy position of seeking a buyer for my collection. Many of the books, due to their age and mishandling by less cautious owners, are badly in need of restoration. There are perhaps some two hundred such artifacts. The nature of my circumstances make it necessary that this work be carried out to the highest quality and with the greatest rapidity. Since no bookbinder in the North West possesses skills equal to yours, I thought of you at once.

Please inform me as soon as you are able whether it is within your means to accept such a commission.

Your obliged and affectionate friend,

Lord F. Belfield

1 

I fell in love with the feel of the cotton before I fell in love with the books. Leather felt too masculine and reptilian. Cloth was so much warmer and didn’t slip out of my hands as easily. As a child I played underneath the tables and made toy families from the scraps that fell at my father’s boots. 

He would never talk to me about where the cloth we used came from, nor the contents of the books we worked on. There were a lot of things my father wouldn’t tell me, and rather than keeping me ignorant, his silence made me more curious. And fortunately, I was surrounded by the means to nourish that curiosity. 

Most of the time we spent together as I grew up was in silence, folding, beveling and smoothing. I sometimes wished my fingers could be as thick as his; he didn’t grimace when schooling leather and cloth into precise lines under his digital tutelage. I tried to be like my father, but all the books he left lying around gave me opinions.

* * *

I arrived at the front door of Rose Hall looking more ragged than I would have liked. My breath was far from fresh, and the hair pins and clips I had used to imprison the frizzier strands had been loosened by the bumps of the rickety carriage. I had been dropped at the top of a tree-lined drive that was at least a quarter mile long, if not more. The December mists obscured my vision, and I could only just make out the shape of a grand house, the likes of which I had only really seen on biscuit tins in the windows of Manchester’s new department store, though I had imagined them as I read Brontë, Austen and Radcliffe. Even with the curls of mist in the air, I could tell this was a very English dwelling. As I approached it my feet slipped and shifted on the gravel, unused to navigating such terrain after only walking on cobbled streets and across wooden floors.

Lord Francis Belfield of Rose Hall had been my father’s long-standing customer. He was the only man I’d ever seen look luxurious without any air of pomposity. The men of Manchester were not known for wearing velvet, so the sheen of his jackets always marked him out as distinguished. It felt completely fitting that Rose Hall was an ode to symmetry and a more tasteful example of the grandiosity of the mid-eighteenth century. It was an early Georgian home of Lancashire sandstone. Even though my father hadn’t mentioned it, the period of the building’s erection and the mercantile success of Lord Francis Belfield were all I needed to know to deduce that the building and its grounds had been purchased with plantation wealth.

I knocked on the forest-green door and left my suitcases on the ground, hoping that looked more elegant than being strained down by the weight of my clothes, books and binding tools. In my pocket, my fingers found the folds of Lord Belfield’s letter. I inhaled, recalling once more the story I had so carefully rehearsed.

The door opened and a pair of prominent blue eyes glared at me through the crack. “Well?”

“Miss Florence Granger for Lord Francis Belfield, please.”

I took in the lines, too many for the face of someone who was still clearly a young man. The hand holding the door open was rough and calloused.

“He is expecting me,” I added.

“No ’e is not.”

I blinked, having not expected resistance this soon.

“I assure you I arrive here at the request of Lord Belfield himself. I am from Granger’s of Manchester.”

The door widened and there stood a long-limbed boy of no more than twenty. His movements were almost feline. The way he handled the door without effort despite its apparent heaviness was quite a marvel.

“We are bookbinders. I’ve been sent to care for your master’s collection.” I retrieved the letter from the pocket of my coat and held it out.

He made no move to take it, but instead chewed his bottom lip, realizing there was truth to my words but clearly unconvinced by me. A female tradesperson at the door to Rose Hall was probably not a common occurrence.

“Young man, I excuse you of your impertinence, but I have been traveling for some hours and would like to rest,” I told him, trying a sterner approach. “Please fetch your master.”

“’E don’t rise before midday most days anymore. You can wait in the kitchens, if you like.”

Now it was my turn to falter. I had no way of assessing how appropriate this was. Should I be seated in the parlor? If I allowed myself to be taken to the kitchens, was I aligning myself with the downstairs staff? I was an artisan, not a servant. But a sharp ripple through my stomach made the decision for me.

“Very well, so long as your offer comes with a cup of tea.” I sighed and crouched down to pick up my suitcases.

“No, m’lady. I’ll tek those.”

He ushered me into the reception hall, lifting my bags up to his sides as if they weighed nothing at all. The door chuffed itself closed behind us with a low groan. The darkness of the perimeter indicated that there was no draft coming through, nor a single sliver of light. A curtain hung to the right of it and the man gave it a sharp tug. It concealed the entrance entirely once pulled across, an odd choice. It gave the sense of being sealed into the house somehow—not being able to see where one could escape.

Stepping into the hall, I was compelled to look up. It was a huge atrium, with dark green textured walls and candles placed at regular intervals which gave the illusion of a warm, close space. He led me over a black-tiled floor, underneath a vast yet delicate brass chandelier aglow with coppery bulbs. At the back of the hall, under the bifurcated staircase, he opened a hidden door which led down to the kitchen. Before I had reached the bottom the herbaceous and deeply woody smells of the kitchen came wafting up to greet me. It was divine. But when we reached the flagstoned room I saw there was nothing on the stove; I could only imagine that months of cooking in a room with such small windows had baked the scent into the walls.

I was seated at a wooden table facing an array of copper pans and white jugs with the high windows behind me. It was clearly a kitchen intended for many staff, but there was none of the expected bustle. Where was everyone? I shifted uncomfortably as I cast about for something to say, before realizing that I didn’t know the young man’s name.

“What is your name?”

“Wesley.”

“Wesley what?”

He gave me a strange look. “Bacchus. Wesley Bacchus. I’m the footman.”

He was telling me that as a footman, his surname did not matter. Of course there was no reason that I, as a craftswoman, should know the intricacies of these hierarchies, but I sat in silence, not wanting to betray myself further by speaking again.

I was grateful when the cook came in some minutes later—from a pantry, I imagined—but she barely looked in my direction, merely banging a pan of water onto the stove. My stomach growled something fierce when she entered, almost as if my belly knew that I was meeting the person in charge of feeding the house.

I waited for her to acknowledge me, while Wesley continued to look on with a smile playing about his lips. But she only retrieved a mug and a caddy, before placing a steaming tea in front of me with a snort. My shoulders slumped. I hadn’t expected to be treated as a lady, but had hoped for at least some respect. Would my father have received such a poor greeting? I sipped the tea, grateful for its sweetness and warmth as the cook clattered about with her back to me. As I finished, she returned to the table with a thick slice of ham sandwiched between two slices of bread. There was also a large apple on the plate and in her other hand was a pewter cup of water. She’d clearly heard my stomach. But her face showed no compassion as she laid the blessed offering on the table.

With one last assessing glance at me, Wesley left, and the cook returned to the stove, making it clear she had no intention of speaking to me. I decided I could forget my manners just as she had hers, and devoured the most delicious meal I’d had in weeks. Salty ham on pillowy bread, with a delightfully sour apple and water that tasted like it came from the purest spring to cleanse my palate. After greedily wiping the crumbs off the plate with one of my fingers, I took out A Christmas Carol from my coat pocket and started reading until the words on the page began to blur. The beast of a carriage I had traveled in overnight had creaked with the strain of being drawn up even the slightest incline. Combined with the cold that jolted me from slumber, I had only been able to sleep in fits and bursts.

I awoke, suddenly, with my head on my crossed arms in front of me and my wrist soaking wet from my dribble. The plate and pewter cup had been taken away and Wesley was standing above me, a mocking smile about his thickish lips.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Miss. Lord Belfield says he’ll see you now.”

Wesley led me back upstairs, and down a corridor. As we passed a tall, gilded mirror, I stopped, horrified by my reflection. My hair, after only days left to its own devices, was now once again completely untamed. My eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and my skin was pale, making my freckles stand out. Hastily, I tried to force my frizzed hair back beneath its pins as Wesley stopped too. He watched me with amusement until I had done the best I could, and we continued on our way.

I thought back to the last time I had seen Lord Francis Belfield. His best features were his long fingers, which were always encased in tight kid gloves that he never took off. Oh, and the smell of him! Rich pepper with a botanical soapy undertone, which always impressed me. Not in a way that would make me swoon. He’s not the kind of man a girl like me is meant to fall in love with. No, what I felt was awe. A man of his fortune had surely seen more of the world than most. He’d have tales of Saint Petersburg, Constantinople and Siam. If only I could ask him. The need to convince him of my employability made doing so inappropriate.

The door opened onto the parlor, and immediately I could see that the man I remembered from our shop was very different from the man who sat in front of me. He was wearing a turmeric-colored silk waistcoat embroidered with indigo plants, paired with dark trousers. He had clearly dressed hastily, and a thread toward the bottom of his trousers was loose and trailing on the floor by his feet. I inhaled deeply but could not catch the spiced vegetal scent that usually accompanied his presence. He was much thinner than when I had last seen him, and his eyes drooped as if he had suffered many a sleepless night. He stood up from his seat to shake my hand but returned to it quickly as if he couldn’t bear to hold himself up for too long.

“My name is Florence Granger, sir,” I began, but he waved a hand.

“Yes, yes, I remember you. But why has your father sent you all this way without an escort? It must have been a frightful journey.”

“Oh, no, Lord Belfield. The journey was fine.” I cleared my throat to make space for the bigger lie. “My father sent me to complete the work on your collection that you requested.”

He looked at me aggrieved. Offended, even. The way his forehead crumpled made me more aware of the thinning hair at his temples. Even disheveled, he was no less handsome. However, I pondered whether he might feel a sense of loss for the way he used to look. On my previous viewings of him, he looked like someone who was used to being seen and spoken of as a very handsome “young” man. Although he wasn’t superbly weathered, he now had the face of a man who had endured. A sad wisdom brought the tops of his eyelids a little lower. His jawline was a bit less tenderly set because his teeth were more used to being gritted together from stress. I supposed it was grief. He had lost his wife less than a year before, after all, leaving him with only his son.

“Why on earth would he do that? This hasn’t even been discussed. Had he accepted the commission, I would have had the books sent to Manchester.”

Ah. This I had not considered. I remembered the words on the letter. I was sure that it was an invitation to stay and restore the library. My mouth was dry as I prepared my next lie.

Excerpted from THE LIBRARY THIEF by Kuchenga Shenjé. Copyright © 2024 by Kuchenga Shenjé. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

About the Author:

KUCHENGA SHENJÉ is a writer, journalist, and speaker with work on many media platforms, including gal-dem, British Vogue and Netflix. She has contributed short stories and essays to several anthologies, most notably It’s Not OK to Feel Blue (and Other Lies), Who’s Loving You and Loud Black Girls. Owing to a lifelong obsession with books and the written word, Kuchenga studied creative writing at the Open University. Her work is focused on the perils of loving, being loved and women living out loud throughout the ages. The Library Thief is the ultimate marriage of her passions for history, mystery and rebels. She currently resides in Manchester, where she is determined to continue living a life worth writing about.

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