ᴸᵒˢ Wᵉⁱʳˢ

“How much?”

The librarian looks up through thick, eggplant purple eyeglass frames. Her lips hardly move when she says, “How much what, or how many—pages, books?” She has a thick native accent. Her lipstick matches her glasses and blouse.

“Let me see that,” the librarian reaches for the book, noticing it.

The other woman pulls the book back with a grin. She has a dark red bob, sunglasses atop her head. “How much is this?”

“Ma’am, this is a library. You don’t buy books, you check ‘em out, like... Rent. And that book—”

“Rabbit book.”

“No, that’s—”

“Lewis Carroll.” The redhead opens the book carelessly, to the librarian’s shock. “1865. How much—about two, three million.”

“How did you—? Now, wait. That’s Beatrix Potter.”

“You’re right,” the redhead slaps the book shut with a hand. “It was just...around.” She sets it on the librarian’s desk.

Librarian’s mouth agape, the redhead is gone, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland in hand—unbeknownst to anyone, of course—the first edition.

But that’s not what the Weirs came there for. Right on cue, the redhead’s siblings pull up before the Morgan Library, a brown Dodge A100 full of first editions and then some. Not for sale but keeps.