Book of Stolen Tales by D. J. McIntosh

shivered a little at the illustrations. They reminded me of José de Ribera’s frightening images. Most of the ideas contained within them reflected sheer superstition, but if people actually believed that stuff, I supposed they could do harm.
    â€œOne day I found him, just over there”—Norris nodded toward a corner of the shop—”curled up in a ball, shaking as if he’d had the fright of his life. Claimed a monster was hunting him. A demon, he called it. He lost weight after that, and rapidly, at least two stone.” He dropped his voice, though we were alone. “Very alarming, it was. You can imagine, I began to fear for his sanity. And then just when he seemed to be tipping into a permanent breakdown, his mood reversed. He learned you’d agreed to bid on the book for him. Suddenly, everything was rosy again.”
    Norris shook his head ruefully. “It’s almost as if the tales he revered all his life began to take over his mind. Had he been a more well-rounded person, had a life outside of work, things might have been different.”
    â€œHow do you mean? He didn’t have any family? No wife or children?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. Excessively shy, he was. Felt he’d be rejected because of how he looked. ‘No woman wants a crooked man,’ he’d say. My own dear wife, bless her heart, tried to introduce him to several ladies. Lovely women. But to no avail.
    â€œIn third form Charles developed an infatuation with a sister of one of the other boys. A beautiful girl, although he couldn’t hope to attract her. To his amazement she invited him out to tea one day but she stood him up. One of the boys put her up to it. They ribbed him mercilessly about it.”
    A moment later Norris added, “Speaking of women, one particular lady appears to have caught his eye. I mention it only because it seemed strange. Again, out of character for Charles.”
    â€œOh?”
    Norris pulled out the Cinderella book and took a photo from between the back leaves. “Here she is.” He handed it to me.
    The photo must have been taken on a cheap camera, perhaps even a Polaroid, because the color had faded to sepia tones. The woman had been caught off guard and was clearly not posing for the picture. She was young, around twenty, and had an enchanting face, although you would not call her classically beautiful. Rosy lips and alabaster skin, enhanced by expressive dark eyes. A wariness in her look and in the way she held her body suggested tension or strain.
    An older man stood behind her, his hand possessively planted on her shoulder. Her father perhaps? He too seemed unaware of the camera trained upon him. He had the air of someone always in command and his thin lips were turned down in a slight frown, as if whatever situation they’d been captured in tested his patience.
    It may have been due to the faded color of the poor-quality photo, but his skin, although wrinkle free, looked artificially bronzed, as if he’d applied cheap tanning lotion. It contrasted oddly with his thick helmet of snow-white hair. The background was out of focus so gave me no clues as to where the photo had been shot. I turned it over and saw on the back a note scrawled so hastily it was difficult to make out. I thought it said Talia, Aug. 18/2000 .
    â€œDo you know who she is?”
    â€œAfraid not. Goodness, I haven’t been much help, have I?” “On the contrary.”
    I smiled, genuinely appreciative of the time he’d spent with me. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
    I handed the photo back. “Is there any chance he had an English translation of Basile’s entire book?”
    Norris thought for a moment. “Offhand I’m not certain, but Charles may have done. Let me see.”
    He ran his fingers along the books lining the shelves above the table and then said, “Ah, here they are.” He pulled out two heavy