As the books pile up at the counter, I pick up the first one to advertise to the Lady.
I lifted the heavy tome titled The Count of Monte Cristo.
"Revenge, served not by fireballs or curses, but by meticulous planning, vast wealth, and the patient unraveling of a man's darkest secrets across decades. A tale of betrayal, transformation, and the cold, calculated feast of vengeance. It makes palace intrigues look like child's play."
Her eyes narrowed, captivated by the scope. "Edmond Dantès becomes a force of nature, sculpted by injustice, not mana."
" This one is called Pride and Prejudice," I continue as I offer the elegantly bound volume next
"The battlefield here is the ballroom and the drawing-room. With a wit sharper than any rapier, societal expectations as rigid as castle walls, and the perilous dance of finding love amidst pride and... well, prejudice. Miss Elizabeth Bennet navigates it all with intelligence and spirit, proving words can wound or woo far more effectively than enchanted blades."
A faint, knowing smile touched Lady Thorne's lips. She understood that battlefield intimately. I even saw Mira curious about the book.
" Next is perfect for young ones who dream of chivalry, The Three Musketeers," As I gestured to the vibrant cover.
"Swordfights! Daring rescues! Loyalty tested! But no magic carpets or lightning bolts. Just unmatched skill with a blade, unwavering camaraderie – 'All for one, one for all!' – and scheming cardinals in the shadows of Paris. Pure, exhilarating adventure fueled by courage and steel." Alfon and Garret inched closer, eyes wide. Even Jake seems to want to read this
" If you're looking for a gift for someone who has to fight many battles, The Art of War by Sun Tzu is the perfect": I tapped the slender, austere volume.
"Not a story, my lady, but wisdom. Ancient strategies for outmaneuvering opponents, understanding terrain (be it a battlefield or a marketplace), and winning conflicts through intelligence and deception, long before the first sword is drawn. Sun Tzu's principles govern men and empires, not elements."
Her gaze turned thoughtful, thinking to give this to her father in the north, her brother who's stationed at the border, and her husband. And maybe she could read this in her free time
" Next for the blood who crave adventure, Treasure Island": I pointed to the adventurous cover map.
"Pirates! Buried gold! Mutiny on the high seas! Young Jim Hawkins finds a map and is thrust into a world of cutlasses, parrots, and the terrifying, charismatic Long John Silver. It's a boy's dream of danger and discovery, powered by sails and treachery, not sorcery." Alfon, Garret, and Jake couldn't contain a small gasp of excitement.
" For the children the Aesop's Fables" / "Classic Fairy Tales is a perfect gift": I indicated the paired volumes, beautifully illustrated.
"Because inside lies much timeless wisdom and wonder for the young mistress," I said, nodding towards the girl looking at the book with starry eyes. "Talking animals teach cunning and caution. Woodcutters rescue princesses from thorns, not dragons. Morals learned through cleverness, courage, and kindness, not enchanted gifts." Lady Thorne's expression softened as she looked at her daughter, who was mesmerized by the book cover.
" Next, we have the practical books Basic Engineering Principles" & "Common Medicinal Herbs and Their Uses."
" Understanding levers, pulleys, and the flow of water – the hidden bones of our world. And knowing which leaf eases a fever or salves a wound, knowledge any wise household should possess. Power drawn from understanding nature's design, not bending it to one's will."
"And Finally, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" I held up the somber volume. "A chilling exploration of the darkness within the human soul, my lady. A respected doctor creates a potion – not a magical elixir, but a scientific concoction – that unleashes his own monstrous alter ego. It asks... how well do we truly know ourselves? Or our neighbors?" Her eyes locked onto the cover, a shiver of fascinated dread seeming to pass through her.
Silence fell again, thicker this time, charged with possibility. Lady Thorne stared at the array of books, her earlier aristocratic reserve replaced by genuine intellectual hunger. The sheer variety of human experience laid bare, devoid of the magical crutch her world relied upon, was clearly intoxicating.
"Three copies of Sherlock Holmes, I'll advertise that book at my next tea party," she repeated, her voice firm, "And..." Her finger hovered, then decisively tapped several spines. "The Count of Monte Cristo. Pride and Prejudice. The Three Musketeers for Alfon. Classic Fairy Tales Alsa. And..." She paused, her gaze lingering on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde with a mix of fascination and apprehension. "...that one as well. For myself. As well as three copies of Art of War"
Vale materialized, his usual stoicism replaced by reverent efficiency as he gathered the towering stack. The rhythmic clink of heavy silver coins hitting the counter—far more than the books' worth—was a symphony. Her servant paid without blinking.
"Understand, Master Eamond," Lady Thorne said, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of possessing the exclusive, the novel, "these are not mere books. They are weapons for the salon. Conversation starters. Gifts that declare discernment."
"Perfectly, my lady," I replied, the cold weight of her signet ring in my pocket now counterbalanced by the warm solidity of coin. "Discretion is paramount. Your circle will find these perspectives... uniquely sourced."
She swept towards the door, children and a laden servant in tow. Pausing on the threshold, sunlight haloing her, she delivered her final blow: "Expect visitors. Influential ones. Be ready."
The door shut. The sudden silence wasn't empty anymore; it vibrated with the rustle of expensive paper and the heavy scent of ink and possibility. Garret stood frozen, dust cloth forgotten. Jake's mouth hung open. Mira clutched the ribbon box, her knuckles white.
Outside, the bustling street seemed to hold its breath. Then, drawn like iron to a lodestone, Master Elrin—the cloth guild's most notorious gossip—pressed his face to the window, eyes bulging at Vale wrapping a small fortune's worth of books. Beside him, Lady Arisayne's sharp-faced footman appeared, noting the Thorne crest on the departing carriage.
A genuine smile, sharp and satisfied, cut across my face. Let them come. The Marquess's secret had cracked the door. Now, stories of human cunning, resilience, and darkness would flood through.
"Jake," I said, my gaze locked on the growing cluster of curious faces beyond the glass. "The 'Grand Opening' sign. Outside. Now. And Vale?" The old man met my eyes. "Polish the display case. We have standards to maintain."
As Jake fumbled with the sign, Vale's cloth moved with new purpose over the wood. The first strains of chaos—chaos-the beautiful, profitable chaos I'd craved—began to hum in the air. The spectacle wasn't just beginning.
But no one else came.
The heavy shop door closed on an afternoon that never saw another customer. Garret and Jake's shoulders slumped as silence reclaimed the space, the hopeful buzz after Lady Thorne's departure fading like the dying light. Vale locked the till containing the Marquess's wife's substantial payment, his expression unreadable. The 'Grand Opening' sign outside felt like a hollow joke.
Back at the orphanage, amidst the familiar chaos of supper, Alfon bounded over, eyes wide. "Did hundreds come after Mama bought the books, Big Brother Eamond?" His sister, Alsa, lingered nearby, clutching a worn doll but listening intently. Lysandra had told me they want to play in the orphanage for a few days and that there are may of their guards surrounding the perimeter.
Jake started to grumble about the empty street, but I cut him off, placing a hand on Alfon's shoulder. "Your mother bought enough books today to keep stew on every plate here for weeks, Alfon," I said, meeting Lysandra's gaze. The coins were real, tangible security.
Mira lingered, worry creasing her brow. "But no one else came," she murmured, voicing the doubt hanging in the air.
I pulled out the extra copy of Pride and Prejudice I'd brought, its fine binding incongruous on the scarred table. "Not today," I conceded, watching the orphans eye the book with fascination. "But your mother, Lady Thorne, wasn't just buying stories. She bought exclusivity, Mira. A spark of novelty for her salons. A topic no one else possesses." I met her eyes, my voice firm with the cold certainty of strategy. "By tomorrow, or the day after, whispers of these strange, magic-less worlds will spread. Curiosity will itch at every noble and merchant who hears. They will come. Not for a sign, but because Lady Thorne came first. She didn't just open our door today – she set the tide in motion. It just needs time to reach the shore."
The stew was warm in my bowl. The silence of the shop was a temporary retreat. Lady Thorne's ring was heavy in my pocket, her children were proof of influence, and the stories were weapons primed. Patience wasn't hope; it was the calculated pause before the inevitable flood. They would come.
Yet that night, back in the cramped room above the old orphanage, Eamond wasn't discouraged.
He sat by the narrow window, the candlelight flickering across the spines of books he hadn't yet sold, and smiled. Not the sharp, hungry grin of a merchant with something to prove—but something quieter. Certain. Like a fisherman who knows the bait has already sunk, and that the ripple just hasn't reached the surface yet.
Because Lady Thorne didn't just buy books.
She lit a fuse.
And Eamond knew—no matter how silent the shop was now—those volumes were already whispering through drawing rooms and over teacups, their pages opening mouths and minds in places magic had long monopolized. He could almost hear it: the sharp laughter of a baroness quoting Elizabeth Bennet, the hushed debate over whether Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde was the more honest man, the stunned silence after someone muttered, "Sun Tzu would've never marched on snow."
So he closed the ledger without frustration, banked the fire, and turned in for the night.
Tomorrow, or the next day, they would come.
And when they did, the door wouldn't just open to a shop.
It would open to a revolution.