My Fake Rake

Grace and Katie mounted the stairs leading up to the Benezra Library. Pleasure rushed through Grace’s body as she climbed higher and her fingers itched with the knowledge that soon she’d be thumbing through the pages of the latest books in natural philosophy.

She reached the columned portico, then pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the marble-floored foyer. The smell of paper and leather and the faint musk of aged vellum filled her lungs.

Her smile widened with genuine happiness. Far more than any ballroom or parlor, this was her home.

Leonidas Benezra was an extraordinarily prosperous textile merchant with a fascination for the sciences, and his personal collection of natural philosophy texts was so substantial that he’d opened a private circulating library. Its members were vetted by Mr. Benezra himself. Once a person gained entrance, they had access to both ancient tomes and current volumes, covering topics as varied as botany, astronomy, anthropology, and zoology, with occasional forays into mechanics, mathematics, and folk dance, because Mr. Benezra proclaimed himself to be inordinately fond of dancing.

The best part about the library was its policy of admitting anyone, male or female, white or black, young or aged, impoverished or wealthy, provided that the person seeking entrance displayed a genuine love of the sciences.

Grace moved into the library itself, a former house that had been renovated to contain thousands of books. The walls between the rooms had been taken out, with columns added to bear the weight, so that the main chamber was the entire ground floor. Rows of bookshelves lined the perimeter, and stacks took up half of the room. Long tables where one could read undisturbed made up the rest of the chamber’s furnishings.

Upstairs, the living quarters now held specialized subjects, which patrons could either peruse themselves or request a librarian to fetch particular volumes.

“Good afternoon, Lady Grace.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pagett.” She nodded as she passed the library assistant, wheeling a cart down the central aisle.

“Greetings, Lady Grace,” Mrs. Sanford murmured from where she sat at one of the tables.

Grace paused and smiled at the older woman, whose freckles dotted her fair skin with little rosy constellations. In a lowered voice, Grace asked, “How fares your inquiry into orthogonal trajectories of curve families?”

“I’m beginning to believe that Bernoulli wasn’t entirely correct.” Mrs. Sanford patted the open book in front of her. “But I’m not concerned. I know I’ll get to the bottom of it. Won’t we, Khayyam?” She petted the library’s orange tabby cat, curled up on a nearby stack of papers.

“I’ve every confidence in your abilities.” With that, Grace moved on, eager to reach the circulation desk.

“Your parents want you home for supper with Lord and Lady Pugh,” Katie said in a whisper. “Shall I fetch you at three?”

“If you must.”

Following their usual routine, Katie veered off to find a place to read the novel she pulled from her reticule. Grace pressed her lips together to hide her smile when she saw that the author was the Lady of Dubious Quality. Grace herself owned four of the unknown author’s works, but she kept them in her bedside table for late night—solitary—enjoyment. If Katie wanted to read erotic tales in public, well, that was her business.

“Lady Grace.” Chima Okafor, the head librarian, smiled at her from behind his desk. His whispered words were lightly accented with the music of the Igbo language. He bowed. “What a pleasure.”

“You always greet me as though I’ve been away for twelve months, not twelve hours.” She set her reticule on the desk, pencils and the edge of a small notebook poking out from the top.

“Because I am always glad to see our most dedicated patron.”

She laughed quietly. “Somehow I doubt that I hold that honor.”

Mr. Okafor inclined his head. “Perhaps there is a small cadre of individuals who vie for the title.”

“Biggest Bookworm. That’s what the trophy shall read.”

“Don’t mention bookworms here. Mr. Benezra is most particular about the health of his books and has a hatred of anything that feeds upon paper and bindings.”