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“And you’re under-thinking!” Izzy snapped, and Cassie looked at her in surprise, seeing for the first time how serious Izzy was. “I know you walk around in this daydream all the time like nothing matters and nothing can hurt you, but this is giving me the creeps! You need to go to the police, get them to investigate that Mr. Webber...”

Cassie pulled a guilty face that Izzy interpreted straightaway.

“Cassie,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“I might have visited his apartment this morning,” she said.

“Cassie, someone might have seen you! And how did you get in... oh...” Izzy cut herself off, and Cassie nodded confirmation. “I am not sure you should be using it like that. Not until you know more about it. It could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t find anything,” Cassie said, narrowing her eyes as she turned her face to the wind. “It was just the apartment of an old man. I didn’t rummage through his drawers or anything, but it just felt like there was nothing there.”

Izzy was shaking her head, looking at her feet as they walked, obviously unhappy.

“Come on, I’d better get back,” Cassie said.

They reached the end of a block and started to head back. As they turned something caught Cassie’s eye, a figure, a familiar face. Across the street a man was watching them—a dark-haired man with a gaunt face, dressed in a dark suit, and Cassie realized she had seen him before. He was the man from the previous night, the man sitting on the terrace at the Library Hotel. She held his gaze as she walked, craning her head to keep him in view.

“What is it?” Izzy asked.

“Nothing,” Cassie lied, smiling at her. “Nothing.”

She glanced back and the man was no longer visible through the traffic.

“We’ve taken longer than I thought,” Cassie said, suddenly uneasy. “I’m going to use the book to get back.”

Izzy’s face crumpled in unhappiness. “Cassie...”

“Please, Izzy, just trust me.”

Something in her tone halted Izzy’s protestations. They turned down the next street and found a large deli. Moments later they stepped back into Kellner Books, away from Second Avenue, and away from the man who had been watching them.

Book People

In New Orleans, in her townhouse in the French Quarter, Lottie Moore, the woman better known as the Bookseller, received a message she had long expected, providing information about the Book of Doors.

She read the email carefully, feeling her pulse quicken, and then she read it again to make sure she had the details secure in her mind. She got up from her desk and walked out to the balcony. She leaned on the metal railing under the shade of the cypress tree that stood in front of her house and stared down the length of Orleans Street, toward the spire of St. Louis Cathedral in the distance. It was a warm day for the time of year, but not too humid. The breeze pleased her, and she let it wash over her as she contemplated things for a while. Then she pulled out her phone to call the book hunter Azaki. She’d had a long time to think about who to ask for help, and Azaki had been the one she had settled on.

“Madame Bookseller,” Azaki said, when he answered.

“Thank you for taking my call,” Lottie said. She knew that Azaki was not a fan of hers. The only time they had previously had contact had been several years earlier, when Azaki had sold her a book. He had done it out of necessity, to survive, rather than because he was happy for a special book to be sold on the open market.

“What can I help you with?”

“Where are you?”

Azaki didn’t answer immediately. “Let’s say South America.”

“I understand your caution, but this conversation is strictly confidential.”

“South America,” Azaki said again. He was a cautious man. Lottie didn’t blame him.

“I am going to be honest, Mr. Azaki,” she said. “I need someone trustworthy, someone careful.”

“For what?”

“I have intelligence about a special book that has emerged in New York.”

“I’m listening,” Azaki said, his voice briefly obscured by the sound of traffic and street noise.