Page 31 of The Missing Pages

I BOUGHT ALL OF THE BOOKS THAT BERNARD ALFRED HAD put aside for me that afternoon. Not only the Dickens, the Malory, and Addington Symonds editions, but also a few others he pulled from the bookshelves and back room of the store.

“Please pack these and have them shipped home to me,” I requested. “But the Bacon is so little, it can fit in the pocket of my dinner jacket. I think I’ll take that one with me.”

Both Ada and Bernard Alfred laughed when I said that, but my intention was true. What better way to hold a book—particularly one that had brought Ada and me even closer together—than to carry it next to my heart.

“You’re a wise man,” Bernard Alfred declared, smiling.

“I like to be prepared for all things,” I said. “This way, if I’m shipwrecked on my way home, I’ll have something to read.”

“Good idea!” Ada chimed in. “How dreadful it would be not to have a book with you.”

“And to otherwise be all alone.”

Bernard Alfred’s thick eyebrows lifted. Even he could sense the chemistry between Ada and me.

“Well, the Little Bacon will serve you well. It’s a marvel in printmaking. Setting the type alone on something so small would be a triumph even in today’s time. But the fact that it was created in the sixteenth century.” He shook his head. “It’s a feat.”

“Yes,” Ada agreed. “It truly is.”

Bernard Alfred took the book and handed it to Ada. “Will you wrap it for Mr. Widener and add the books he is taking to his account?”

She nodded, taking the Bacon before slipping out the door.

It was a curious thing. The room changed once the book was removed, and after Ada had departed as well.

I felt like I was standing in a painting that had been suddenly drained of its beauty. The colors that had seemed so alive moments before were now muted. The remaining figures—Bernard Alfred and me—held little interest. I could not wait for Ada to return.