Between the Devil and Ian Eversea by Julie Anne Long Page A

about it, though she’d lived here as a child, but the landscape of Sussex, as far as she could tell, was subtle. Modest. The hills were mild swells and the trees a humble height, unlike the arrogant, craggy-faced mountains and unruly forests of America. Sheep dotted the hills and clouds dotted the blue skies, like puffy white reflections of each other.
    The church and the pub were opposite each other, which surely must be good business for both, and she craned her head as they passed an intriguing shop called Postlethwaite’s Emporium, which featured an enticing selection of bonnets and gloves in the window.
    The dark of the bookshop was a blessing to her still faintly pounding head after the bright light. She enjoyed horrid novels, and she’d read a novel by a Miss Jane Austen which she’d quite liked, but lately she’d become fascinated by adventure stories. Specifically, stories of survival. Robinson Crusoe had lost everything—how had he managed to get on after that? That sort of thing. She’d acquired a tome written by a Mr. Miles Redmond, who had a series of adventures in the South Seas and was nearly eaten by cannibals. He’d lived to tell the tale. Surely she could prevail over the upending of her own life if others had triumphed over odds and humans who ate other humans.
    The bookseller, a wiry older gentleman called Mr. Tingle, beamed approvingly at her and fidgeted with his spectacles, which was, she suspected, what he did when he flirted—the equivalent of a lash bat.
    So she rewarded him with a lash bat.
    “I aver, Mr. Tingle, this may be the finest bookshop I’ve ever set foot in! I’ve never seen such a fine selection. You must be very discerning, indeed.”
    Mr. Tingle’s face suffused with happiness, and he did more fidgeting with his spectacles.
    “We have the play of Richard the Third set forth in a collection of works by our own Mr. William Shakespeare. Perhaps you’d be interested in reading it? Or would you prefer to read a history of the man?”
    “The latter, if you please.”
    “Ah, a scholar !” He clasped his hands with such glee she hated to disagree with him.
    “ Are you interested in history, Miss Danforth, er, Tansy?” Genevieve was perusing a biography of Leonardo da Vinci, rapt. Turning pages over, slowly, one by one.
    She hesitated.
    “A sudden fascination swept over me,” she decided to say.
    This much, at least, was true.
    “I suppose new places can inspire new interests,” Genevieve said.
    “Truer words were never spoken,” she agreed vehemently.
    “Well, I’m delighted to be of service to such a fine mind,” Mr. Tingle declared. “In fact, I’d like to make a present of this volume, Miss Danforth, as long as you choose another one to purchase.”
    “You are too, too kind, Mr. Tingle! You are a generous man, to be certain.”
    “Oh, bosh.” Color moved into his cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to do business with such an avid reader.” Avid was a bit of a stretch, but she suspected he’d be mightily disappointed if she disabused him of the notion. “Can I interest you in another period of English history? Perhaps something about William the Conqueror?”
    “Well, let me think . . . have you any books written by Mr. Miles Redmond?”
    Mr. Tingle’s hands froze on his spectacles. His eyes darted toward Genevieve and back again.
    Tansy felt, rather than saw, Genevieve go motionless.
    A bewildering, indecisive little silence followed.
    At last Mr. Tingle cleared his throat. He lowered his voice. “We do have a selection of Mr. Redmond’s books,” he said, as carefully as if he were confessing to a collection of pornography.
    “I enjoyed one of his books on his adventures in Lacao. I would love to read more about that particular journey.”
    Mr. Tingle lowered his voice to something like a discreet whisper.
    “I’ll just go and fetch the one that follows for you, will I?”
    T HEY’D EACH ACQUIRED a new book, each one very much representative of their