Prologue
SHE COULD SMELL HIM, STANDING this close. A fresh-wet scent brought in from outside, where it’d just begun to rain. Warm earth cut by an edge of ozone: the tentative odor of spring. Rose concentrated on keeping her hands steady. Christ. Whoever tied these knots had really outdone themselves. Digging with her blunt nails, she finally pried the strings free. As she unwrapped the linen that swaddled the stack of papers, another scent blossomed—the familiar dry aroma of disintegrating vellum. She slid her fingers down the loops of stiff thread that held the stack together. The top page was blank, patinated by a layer of grime. She lifted one corner, felt the threads putting pressure on the already cracking parchment. He leaned in closer.
“Tried to open it, but that paper looks ready to tear.” The remnants of a southern accent hung at the margins of his voice; she imagined woodsmoke and stars. “But I thought I saw a few drawings inside…”
“Well, I think we should cut these pages loose. Do you mind?” She looked up. His eyes were dark, iris nearly indistinguishable from pupil.
He shook his head. “Go on.”
With small scissors retrieved from the top left desk drawer, Rose snipped the binding. A glint of silver, and the threads lay sprawled and severed on the tabletop. She removed the cover sheet and surveyed the title page. Italian calligraphy swirled across the parchment, ornate designs inked into each corner.
“Trattato dell’arte della pittura, scultura, ed architettura. Di Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo.” She read the title out loud. “My Italian isn’t very good, but I think ‘pittura’ is ‘painting,’ so…treatise on the art of painting, sculpture, and architecture.”
“It’s a book about art?” He glanced back down at the page.
“That’s what the title says…”
“Oh—but that’s what I do. I mean, I’m an artist.” He scraped his fingers through his hair, then crossed his arms tightly, as if he didn’t know what to do next with his hands.
1
TIME HAD BEGUN TO LOOP in on itself. Rose Newlin realized this one day, on her bike ride to work, when she looked up and noted with some surprise that the red maple trees had budded. Her routine had become so fixed, so circular, that only the seasons seemed to change. First, always, came a bike ride. The wind pinked her cheeks and tugged a few curls loose from under her helmet as she wound her way through the university campus to her bookshop. Then, a quick walk to the café on the corner, with its familiar scent of roasting coffee beans. The barista there wore button-up shirts and had small tattoos on each of his fingers: an arrow, a compass, the figure eight of eternity. Slender tips of more ink peeked out from under his cuffs.
“Good morning, Rose.”
“Good morning, Joel. Latte for me, thanks.” She always gave her order, even though they both knew what it’d be.
Afterward, strolling back to the shop, she watched fragments of herself slip past in store windows: auburn hair twisted up in a knot, rangy frame she could never seem to add any muscle to. Faded jeans and her favorite knit sweater, a lightweight parka thrown on top. She reminded herself to work on her posture. Her eyes flashed back at her from the glare of glass, green flecked with gold. In certain lights their color seemed to change, tilting blue or nearly gray. Her father had called them “labradorite eyes,” after the gemstone.
Rose focused on the cracks in the sidewalk. She didn’t need to think about him today.
She reached the shop then and unlocked the door, flipped the sign to OPEN. Though she’d owned the place for two years, each time she stepped inside she still felt a swell of contentment, like a farmer taking in his crops at dusk. This parcel of life, this here, is mine and mine alone. She’d decorated the space carefully, filling each nook with well-padded reading chairs and antique lamps. A few months after she’d opened, a stray tomcat had arrived on the doorstep to complete the picture. Black and stocky with one eye gone, he’d claimed the burgundy chair by the front window as his own.
“Wake up, Odin!”
At his name, the cat jumped from his perch and padded over to rub a cheek against her calf. His empty socket was a tight-screwed slash of puckered fur, and when he closed his eyes it was hard to say which was missing. Rose bent to give him his morning scratches. She filled his food and water bowls, then took her seat at the register. Odin leapt to join her, circling several times in her lap before settling down, paws tucked under his chest. The hours passed in a sorting of bills and a shuffle of patrons, an occasional shift of position. Outside, it began to mist, draping a delicate silver beading over the windows, the cars parked outside. A hush settled through the shop. Rose’s bun slid loose; even the sturdiest elastic proved futile against her hair, thick and coarse as a horse’s mane.
Then the clank of the heater, the creak of the door.
Later, she’d research what had happened to her. She’d learn about the scientific intricacies of attraction, the complex chain of chemicals that flood the prefrontal cortex. She’d underline with blue ink a scholarly article on the way synapses and neurons firework the brain, inundating the mind with dopamine. How norepinephrine, a neurotransmitter, dries the mouth, shakes the hands, pumps the heart. How the body experiences obsessional thought patterns and cravings.
None of that could help her in the moment, though, as she floundered: half-standing then sitting again, frantically twisting her bun back in place as the man at the door made his way toward her. He wore a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black quilted vest, droplets of water hovering in constellations across its surface. His dark hair was wet, threaded through at the temples with early gray, and a canvas bag hung from his shoulder. Rose noticed his left thumb was bandaged; when he opened that hand, she saw her name written across his palm in blue ink, a small drop of blood penetrating the gauze.
He said her name out loud, then tucked his hand away in the pocket of his vest.
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“I’m Rose.” At her feet, Odin ventured around the corner of the desk to sniff at the stranger’s shoes.
“My name’s William.” He put his other hand to his chest. “I called up to the university library about restoring a book and they said to swing by here. Told me you’re exceptional, as a matter of fact.” He paused politely for her to say something.
Nothing came to mind.
He cleared his throat. “Do you still do restorations?”
She nodded, rubbing her suddenly damp palms on her thighs under the table, trying not to make any visible movements. It didn’t matter: he was too busy wrestling a stack of papers out of his bag to notice.
“Great. I was hoping you might be able to take a look at this.” He set the stack down on the desk in front of her. It was wrapped in gray and white striped linen, and tied with twine. She’d known what to do then, at least. As she picked at the knots, he bent to scratch the cat. His disembodied voice floated up from behind the counter.