Wedding at Walden Pond: Snowdrop Valley Series

By Vivien Mayfair

Pay a visit to picturesque Vermont at harvest where persimmons brighten tree limbs, colorful leaves fall from branches, cerulean skies bring a vibrating wind, and sidewalks overflow with classic fall reads. Let autumn in Snowdrop Valley remind you that when it comes to love, every day is a fairytale in a sleepy little book town. 

It's harvest season in the picturesque book town of Snowdrop Valley, and things are really firing up. Sweet, dreamy, Mirabelle Martine may be about to lose her beloved French bakery and fairytale bookshop, but a turbulent family history in France taught her to rely on her own wit and depend on no one. Yet when the reclusive horror bookshop owner with a crush across the way tells his visiting mother that they're engaged to be married, she decides to go along with the ruse in exchange for his help designing the first literary harvest festival to earn enough money to save her business. What she didn't expect was that love can exist in the most unlikely match.

Only one thing can put Zeph Davis into a state of paralysis, and his mother coming to visit was it. He'll do anything to keep her from finding out that he dropped out of his MA program in gothic literature, using his inheritance to open a horror bookshop. When he finds out that his sister told a little white lie so their mom would stop worrying about him, she shows up at the front door of his dream woman's bakery across the street with the belief that they're engaged to be married. The problem is that the sweet French baker doesn't even know Zeph's name, much less that he has feelings for her. What he doesn't count on is her passion for fairytales prompts her agreement to a make-believe wedding meant to appease his mother, which pushes them all the way to the metaphorical altar.

A delightful fall season, small-town romance where exotic sweet treats and the vibrant foils of New England trees pull you into a humorous world where imagination takes the cake and lonely hearts unite. Ideal fiction reading for fans of sweet and clean contemporary romance authors such as Debbie Macomber, Sheila Roberts, Holly Martin, Tilly Tennant, and Debbie Mason.

SNOWDROP VALLEY SERIES:

My Christmas Darling

A Sleepy Hollow Kiss

Wedding at Walden Pond

Once Upon a Thanksgiving

Dreams of Mistletoe

PROFESSIONAL REVIEWS:

"Vivien Mayfair's creation of Snowdrop Valley isn't new, and prior romance readers who choose her latest will be happy to see this quintessential small town return. The backdrop of autumn, one of New England's most famous and picturesque seasons, is very nicely done, as are the touches of Vermont culture and personalities that stem from Mayfair's personal familiarity with and affection for New England. Romance and cozy novel readers interested in a gentle tale of tangled lives, entwined fates, and growing passion will relish the fine feel of small-town America that Mayfair cultivates in one of her best romance stories yet."

-Midwest Book Review

"This is my favorite book in the series so far. Zeph and Mirabelle are two wonderful quirky characters that are well suited balancing each other out. Both are hiding their real lives from their parents only to have life seemingly implode on them. The secrets and lies are not just between Zeph and Mirabelle but basically the entire cast of town characters. Towards the end of the story it twists and turns and surprises you with how far the extent of deception went. Very well done! This was a really enjoyable and fun read."

-Goodreads top 43 reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bramble House Books
• Release date: Sep 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733226189

Vivien Mayfair

About the Author Vivien Mayfair is a highly acclaimed author of sweet, clean, contemporary romance, with a central focus on the theme of books and holidays. After years of raising children as a single parent from a young age and various dismal jobs with no direction on what she wanted to do with her life, Vivien decided to indulge her passion for books by earning an MA in English before turning to writing romance full-time. Vivien always dreamed of being a writer. Before her novel days, she wrote homeschool curriculum, magazine articles, resumes and suspense stories, all while teaching English in college. One day, nearly twenty years after a brief obsession with Zebra historical romance, she picked up a western romance novel with an enticing cover. She became hooked on the genre once again and never looked back. She now creates sweet, wholesome, heartfelt romance that leaves readers feeling toasty on the inside and laughing on the outside. Her trademark sarcasm, themed holidays, and vibrant settings have gained her fans from all over the world. When not reading or writing, Vivien spends her time with animals, family, watching period drama movies or TV, or buying more books. Vivien resides in the Pacific Northwest.

Book preview

Wedding at Walden Pond

Contents

New Novelette Series

New Book Series

Current Books

Title Page

Preface

Introduction

Letter from Father I

Chapter 1

Letter from Father II

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Letter from Father III

Chapter 6

Letter from Father IV

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Letter from Father V

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Literary Works Mentioned

Authors Mentioned

A Special Gift

My Christmas Darling

A Sleepy Hollow Kiss

Once Upon a Thanksgiving

Dreams of Mistletoe

Request from the Author

About the Author

Wedding at Walden Pond

A Joyously Romantic Feel-Good Read

Vivien Mayfair

Bramble House Books

In the Mood for THANKSGIVING?

---

Join Prunella Peabody as she sets out to accomplish a rapidly deteriorating task of starting the first children’s school the little book town of Snowdrop Valley.

---

ONCE UPON A THANKSGIVING

Coming November 1, 2019

---

thanksgiving book cover

New Novelette Series

Short and Sweet Holiday Reads Volume I

Find in Digital and in Print

Buy Online

alone for the holidays

New Book Series

Welcome to Snowdrop Valley

A charming, swoony, small-town series where independent women dream about finding their forever love in a magical place where only bookish things are allowed.

Available on all platforms wherever books are sold in small print, large print, and eBook.

Current Books

By Vivien Mayfair

A Sleepy Hollow Kiss

Wedding at Walden Pond

Once Upon a Thanksgiving

My Christmas Darling

Dreams of Mistletoe

www.VivienMayfair.com

DISCLAIMER: Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that references to real places, dates, or events in this book were correct at press time, they do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

---

Wedding at Walden Pond Copyright © 2019 by Vivien Mayfair

---

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Vivien Mayfair asserts the right to be identified as the only author of this creative work. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief, credited quotations embodied in literary articles or reviews in an honest manner.

---

Published in the United States by Bramble House Books

https://bramblehousebooks.com

ISBN Large print: 978-1-7332261-6-5

ISBN Regular print: 978-1-7332261-7-2

ISBN ebook: 978-1-7332261-8-9

Author’s Website: https://www.vivienmayfair.com

---

Cover design by: 100Covers.com

Edited by: Kathryn Wexford

---

Wedding at Walden Pond is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or, if real names or places are used, are completely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, establishments, periodicals, locations or events, author names or fictional characters, are either coincidence or used intentionally for fantasy and fiction-writing purposes only.

Created with Vellum Created with Vellum

For the one who first introduced me to the charm and beauty of the real Walden Pond a very long time ago.

A Snowdrop Valley Series Novel

Book III

WEDDING AT WALDEN POND

---

A JOYOUSLY ROMANTIC FEEL-GOOD READ

---

by

---

Vivien Mayfair

Bramble House Books

Logo for site

Preface

Dear Reader,

Happy to have you read my newest Snowdrop Valley tale. Upon visiting New England for the first time in my thirties, I couldn’t get enough of the stunning beauty of an autumn that transformed the states into a fairytale backdrop; the crisp earthen colors, rolling green hills, thick wooded trees that smelled like fresh leaves. Yet, it was my first visit to Massachusetts with a quick stop at Walden Pond that really stayed with me. I remember thinking that Thoreau had the right idea by writing his poetry in such a magical place.

For a cozy autumn-harvest read, I’m giving you a bit of a fairytale. Here you’ll meet the sweet and dreamy Mirabelle Martine, the lovely young woman who came to Snowdrop Valley to start a French bakery and fairytale bookstore. With the goal of continuing five generations of a family bakery, the task proves to be a losing battle against the financial dictatorship of the man who owns her building.

Horror bookshop owner Zeph Davis wants nothing more than for his mom to stop worrying about his antisocial ways. Secretly in love with Mirabelle who works just across the street, his nosy sister devises a tiny fib to their mom, which quickly cascades into a downhill spiral of backfiring lies.

Will Zeph and Mirabelle learn to stand on their own two feet?

I love hearing from my readers. You can search for me on Facebook to drop me a line or follow my page for upcoming release information and special offers. Or, please visit my website to learn more.

www.VivienMayfair.com

May you find magic and bounty in the beauty of this fall’s harvest.

---

Love,

Vivien

Introduction

He found himself wondering at times, especially in the autumn, about the wild lands, and strange visions of mountains that he had never seen come into his dreams.

J. R. R Tolkien - The Lord of the Rings

Pierre Martine

38382 Rue De Blachard

St. Paul De Vence, France

---

My dearest jolie fille, my Mirabelle, mon coeur. Your old father longs to hear your singsong voice here in the Alpes-Maritimes. Our treasured mountaintop village of St. Paul De Vence weeps for your darling voice. Madam Céleste Michaud, who cares for my aching bones, asks for the sweetness of your chocolat croquettes and the soft plume of your freskly baked lemon madeleines. No boulangerie (or bakery, as you say in America) in the commune has matched your talents, jolie fille. It is my pleasure that I have taught you well. Your letter has arrived along with the payment for my factures médicales. You have taken our legacy nearly lost from my illness to a new world where something more grand et grand will bloom. It is my dream to visit your boulangerie française in Amérique and see the town where snow comes often. It is then that these old, tired eyes will know that our héritage familial lives on. Mon amour, you will see that this is the right path you have chosen by leaving that man behind.

---

Ton Père aimant.

---

Or, in English, your loving Papa. (You see, I have improved much).

1

Better to sit alone on a lumpy pumpkin than get squashed on a velvet throne by an ogre

With Love, Vivien

---

How am I going to get out of this?

Mirabelle Martine had asked herself that question ten times over the past hour, and the only answer she could come up with was, you should have stuck with Blaze. Only, she had no idea where her ex-husband was.

Belle, are you listening to me?

"Oui, très bien. My apologies."

The insipid podgy man drummed his fingers on a corner table. May we speak now?

It truly is a bad time.

Three days I’ve called you and no reply.

Bells dinged over the door as a woman and child left the famous fairytale bakery.

Please, I’m really very busy, she said, gripping tighter to a steaming coffee pot. If you could just come back this evening right before I close, we’ll make a plan.

I’ve waited over an hour.

It’s the first weekend of harvest.

Tourists don’t need more apple and pecan tarts, Miss Martine. Although I must say, I do enjoy your tarts enormously. Besides, this is a book town, not an organic farming co-op or farmer’s market. This is a business, and I’m here to speak with you about your unpaid—

An elderly woman tapped her shoulder. Excuse me.

Mirabelle spun around, splashing dark-roast coffee over her hand. It wasn’t the first burn of the day. Once again, the man at the table was about as sharp as a bowling ball. Why couldn’t he take a hint?

"Bonjour, she greeted, grateful for the interruption. May I help you?"

Do you have any gluten-free desserts? My doctor says I can only eat gluten-free.

Any particular kind?

The man at the table cleared his throat. Belle, my coffee?

Anything will do, pleaded the woman. I just can’t eat wheat.

Coffee, Belle, coffee.

Mirabelle forced a smile and bent over the table, imagining herself serving the Prince of Wales. Yes, Walter, I hear you. She trickled some into an oversized mug that showcased a painted Eiffel Tower and black lettering that read Take Me to Paris, which was her exact thought right about then.

Imagination heals all – her motto.

Do you have gluten-free cake? The woman, who closely resembled Betty White down to the fluffy hair and chunky beads, tapped her shoulder again. "Honey, I really need gluten-free anything."

"Oui, madame," said Mirabelle.

Walter, the puffy bon-bon, reminded, I’ll be waiting, Miss Martine.

Mirabelle nodded her dainty head before turning back to her customer. I have just the thing for you. She hooked an arm around the woman’s shoulders to guide her back to the counter. "Do you enjoy chocolat?"

Oh, yes dear, of course.

She scanned her glittery pastel bakery and bookstore. Not many people to provide a safety crutch from the man who reminded her of the Sheriff of Nottingham from Robin Hood. Two girls descended the steps from her quaint selection of fairytale books that would make even grown-up girls long for childhood.

I have the perfect thing for you.

Only if it’s gluten-free, repeated the woman. Wheat really is the devil, you know.

I understand.

Will it still taste good?

"Oui, c’est merveilleux. You will love."

So long as it doesn’t have wheat. Wheat turns your insides to Play-Doh.

A young couple peeled out laughter from a table near the truffle case. They wore cameras around their necks that tapped against the table as they devoured crusty slices of French bread slathered with lemon butter.

Something smells delicious, praised the woman.

Mirabelle knew her muffins were almost done baking. A delicious waft of toasted brown sugar and spice pear permeated the shop, which meant no timer was necessary to know it was time to remove them.

You’ll never know the difference, promised Mirabelle.

Do you make all these yourself? asked the old woman, peering into the bakery case.

Oh, yes, every one of them.

Don’t you have helpers, my dear?

"Non madame. The business is my own."

Oh my, your store is lovely, as is your accent. Are you from Paris? I just love Paris so much. My husband and I had our twentieth wedding anniversary there during the millennium celebration.

"C’est merveilleux. Very special."

You’re not from Paris?

I come from a medieval village very close to the ocean. It has a stone wall all around and rests high on a hill. Below, you can see all the lovely valley where vineyards make wine and chocolate.

Vineyards don’t make wine, people do.

Oh, yes, my English, you know.

The woman fiddled with her wedding ring. Lovely, dear, so lovely.

Cutting a slice of Choux la Crème (cream-filled chocolate puffs), Mirabelle raked her brain for a way to get rid of the dumpy old goat staring at her from the white iron table. He watched her with iceberry eyes that were far too tiny for the enormity of his splotchy puffer-fish face. The man could easily play Tweedle-Dee or Tweedle-Dum in a film version of Alice in Wonderland.

Walter Loxley.

The true owner of Belle’s Bakery and Books.

Her master.

It was a business day, for Pete’s sake. Saturday, the busiest tourist day of the week in Snowdrop Valley, where New England residents trekked in by train, car, or moose to get their literary fix.

And, stuff their faces.

Halloween just ended and the harvest season had begun. The town bustled with energy with the beautiful weather and local farms advertising abundant fresh crops. For Mirabelle, this meant more income for her store. The frost had yet to come, which meant valley farms were just hitting their peak in a wash of golden-crimson hues. For Belle’s Bakery and Books, it meant fresh ingredients for artisan baked goods: cherries, pears, cranberries and late season corn: squashes for baking, cooking, or mashing. The possibilities were endless.

Baking, her specialty.

Pears.

Apples.

Squash.

Persimmons.

Her mind nearly burst with creative recipes for the bakery. Ruining it was Walter Loxley, who stared her down as an indirect form of harassment to collect two months of unpaid building rent. Where was that no-good husband of hers? A bull-headed, snap-mouthed, big-muscled drifter like Blaze would have been useful.

Do you have something for me? the woman asked.

Mirabelle pushed a plate over the counter. My gluten-free specialty.

Gluten-free.

Fooey.

In France, there was no such thing. French pastry arts needed gluten to obtain the perfect rise and fluff of each creation. Foolish Americans had no clue how to really eat.

You’re sure this is gluten-free? The woman dug her spoon into the chocolate.

Licked it.

I’m sure, said Belle.

Then the woman closed her eyes and moaned, This is heavenly.

I’m so glad you enjoy it.

Is it your recipe?

Mirabelle nodded, ringing her up at the register. I try to deliver what zee people want.

Do you make sandwiches?

No, I am sorry.

But, you have the croissants.

"Oui, they are very popular."

"In America, we make sandwiches with croissants."

Mirabelle noticed it sounded like an insult meant to be a lesson. Despite the instinct to respond defensively, she chose her usual practice of gushing out love like a water faucet.

Here then, she smiled, walking to the pastry case where the woman devoured her cake. She packaged up three croissants in a pink box. For your family to make sandwiches.

Are they gluten-free?

No such thing for a croissant.

I can’t eat them, then.

For your family.

But, I already paid.

Mirabelle gave her the box. A gift.

The woman’s features that matched a New Jersey accent softened. She set down her plate, signed the credit card slip, and peered into the box. I’ll be sure you get the best Yelp review. My son says Yelp is the thing.

That would be very kind.

Pleasantries and pastries made up the better part of Mirabelle’s day. Dealing with difficult customers wasn’t the part that she enjoyed. Nobody was ever happy with the simplest choice.

Thank you for your business, she uttered.

Bells jingled over the door.

When the woman turned for it, she nearly bumped into a mother and son toting bags of books. The little boy shot straight for the children’s section after spotting white twinkle lights that zig-zagged over the shelves.

"Bonjour, Mirabelle said cheerfully. Welcome."

Do you have anything by Hans Christian Andersen?

Oh, many things, indeed.

That’s all we’re here for today.

Mirabelle waved after the old lady as the door closed. Thank you for your business.

The woman thumbed-up to the glass. Yelp! she mouthed.

A timer dinged from the attached kitchen. Her pear and walnut crumb-top muffins. And, that man still watched her like a governess to a nursery rat.

Right this way, please. She led the mother across the bakery to the bookstore nook. "I recommend The Snow Queen, but not zee illustrated version."

It’s for my sister, the boy boasted. She’s bigger than me.

Mirabelle smoothed her hand across a row of books set deep in an oak bookcase. "Here is everything of his that I carry. Did you know he wrote The Little Mermaid?"

Oh, the mother gasped. I didn’t realize.

"Oh yes, and it’s nowhere near as happy as the film de Disney. The ending is very, how do I say, uh, somber et triste. Eh, oh, dark and very sad. No good for little boys and girls."

Oh, dear.

"Yes, poor Hans had a terrible childhood. He was sent to work in a factory to support his mother when he was eleven. They say The Little Mermaid and The Ugly Duckling represent the misery of those days. He was an odd boy, and, in the factory, he was not allowed to speak. In The Little Mermaid, Ariel has her tongue cut right out, yes? Not like her voice that goes au revoir by the mauvaise sorcière."

The boy’s lip stuck out and quavered.

Do you mind? corrected the woman, firmly. That’s no story for a little boy.

Mirabelle’s face zapped up in heat. Of course, my apologies.

Honestly, scaring a child that way.

She never was any good with children even though she desired an entire household of them. Please, come to the counter when you finish and have a sugar cookie with pumpkin icing. A gift.

Are they sugar-free, though?

That did it.

Any minute now she’d erupt like a bank account on Black Friday. She turned away without a word, afraid of blasting an attack at another health-conscious customer. How was a baker to make a living?

The camera couple snapped photos of each other.

Anything more I can get for you? she asked, noting they’d been looking over a Snowdrop Valley town map. I see you enjoyed my lemon curd.

Can you tell us how to get to Green Gables Farm? We heard they opened their cider tasting this weekend. Do they sell pies there?

"Monsieur, I have many pies here."

But, the farms have fresh apples.

Where did they think her produce came from, outer space?

Bells over the door chimed again as she picked up their map. "Oui, you only just…"

A man entered with a gust of wind.

And, not her Rumpelstiltskin landlord scrutinizing her every move while devouring his third ramekin of caramel crème brŭlée. It was her neighbor, the owner of the dreadful horror bookstore across the street. Still, her lungs tightened at the sight of him.

Their eyes locked.

Mirabelle smiled, aware it was the first time he looked right at her. The standoffish man generally kept to himself and had the personality of a hibernating mole hiding on a writer’s retreat.

He wiped his palms nervously on his jeans.

Peered around.

Usually he came in draped in head-to-toe black like a biker or heavy metal fan. That day, he wore soft shades in a blue and white checkered shirt with two buttons opened at the neck. Handsome, but reclusive.

"Bonjour!" she called out.

He headed for a private corner.

The same flop of stringy black hair with a perfect center part covered what she guessed were sharp features with a strong jaw and razor-cut cheekbones. Three months he came into her bakery.

Said nothing.

Did nothing.

Does the farm sell baked goods, too? asked the frazzle-haired wife at the table.

Mirabelle focused on the map in her hands. She wasn’t sure why her mouth struggled so much to form words. There was something about her neighbor’s aura that made her insides jump hula-hoops.

The husband sipped his latte. Are they open today?

Here’s the way you go, replied Mirabelle, gathering her focus.

After a brief finger trail over the shiny map, she gave specific instructions that the man jotted on a notepad. She offered a few pointers, then thanked them for their business while making off with their plates.

Gadzooks.

Smoke billowed from the back. "Mon dieu! She jumped through the little door near the industrial expresso machine into the small kitchen, flipped off the oven dial, stopped the timer, and yanked the tray out with potholders. Mes muffins. Ils sont ruinés."

Ruined.

Her mind railed expletives that had no business being said out loud in a fairytale literature shop in the cutest little gumdrop of a town this edge of Canada. All muffins were burnt to clumps of charcoal.

Phooey on Walter.

And, Blaze.

Yet, there was that man at the table.

Defeat was no option for Mirabelle Martine thanks to five generations of French family bakers as descendants of the famous Parisian boulanger who invented the tarte bourdaloue (the French pear tart) in 1890 and served the first slice to a descendent of Napoleon III. She’d need more walnuts now.

Smoke fried her nostrils.

She cracked the back door that opened to a little garden plot. Thought it best to put on an overhead fan powerful enough to flip back her long brown hair before emerging back in the store.

To Walter Loxley.

The man was bent over the counter near the register with his hands spread. "Now, you have time."

I nearly have a fire to put out.

"You do realize that I know where you live? I could just come there."

Egads.

She wiped her hands on her fluttery blue dress before realizing that she forgot her apron. It was her worst habit, baking in her girlish day clothes, forgetting what she wore. Rubbing out gooey dough and sugar icing on her stomach had been a habit since the age of five when her baking lessons started.

Walter, I have a customer waiting to—

I already gave him an éclair, so you can’t use him as an excuse.

She noticed that the mysterious owner of Broomstick Books once again had his face in a Stephen King novel. He never said much, and it wasn’t her style to interrupt a reader. Still, with his visits three times a week, she’d memorized the books he zoomed through like a motorsport race.

Sleeping Beauties.

Interesting.

He flipped a page and raised the book higher to cover his face. Just last week he pawed through a copy of The Tommyknockers. The week before that, Under the Dome and Mr. Mercedes. Considering how many sweets he devoured in her bakery, it amazed her how thin he was.

Miss Martine. Walter protested, luring her attention. Our meeting.

You need a tour.

I’ve seen all I need to. I’m displeased with what you’ve done with the place.

I told you my vision when I rented the building.

It seems I should have come from Burlington more often. I wasn’t aware you were running a children’s wonderland house, which is nothing like what we discussed.

It’s a bookstore and bakery.

A child’s playground.

Mirabelle tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Nodded to the tourist couple who waved as they exited as she circled around the counter. "Monsieur, I rent the building. It is my business, yes?"

Wrong, Miss Martine, since it’s my name on the business.

I don’t see the problem.

His wobbly cheeks pulsed in and out like a heartbeat. I started a contemporary literature coffee shop when the town opened. Told you when I retired that I’d like you to keep it going.

What I’ve done is much more successful.

Where, Belle, is my money then?

She painted her face with a fabricated smile. Oh, my dear Walter… She hooked her arm through his and urged him around an open space of tables. Let me give you a tour.

There’s nothing more I need to see here.

You must let me show you. So much to love.

"Money, Belle, that’s what I love."

Karma had come calling.

Blaze.

Was there anything about that man that didn’t haunt her? The rotund landlord pulled off his hat and wiped a fresh layer of perspiration from a blobby forehead. It’s enchanting, I admit.

She pointed to the reading room. Come, see what I’ve done.

All I see are pink walls and dangling cutouts of fairytale characters.

Pulling him up the steps bordered by white railing, she noticed the mother and son had vanished. Maybe the horror guy and his black, piercing eyes, scared them off. Still, he was nice to look at in a peculiar way.

You see, I have a table for new releases.

Not many fairytales printed each year.

Oh, yes there are, and not just for children. They stopped at the table where she picked up a paperback copy of Geekerella by Ashley Poston, and Poison’s Kiss by Breeana Shields. These both made the top fairy retellings for adults on Bookbub last month.

Nonsense reading.

Fairytales are just as much for adults. They are very popular, Mr. Loxley.

They aren’t real literature.

"You realize that Wicked remains one of the best-selling adult fairytale books? It’s been made into a Broadway sensation. And, what about The Princess Bride? Certainly, you’ve heard of it."

His eyes lingered on a stand in the center of the reading room. Just that morning she replaced a long-stemmed red rose in a clear crystal vase kept covered by a glass dome. Loose red petals wreathed the base.

Her emblem.

Her token.

A reminder of the terrifying phone call that came in