The Silver Bough by Lisa Tuttle

responded to her like that in years. People in the town knew her to speak to, but she’d never felt that her presence mattered to anyone, and that was how she liked it.
    “Mrs. Westray! I’ve got your photocopy here.”
    “Thanks,” she said automatically, reaching to take it.
    “There’s a charge of fifty pence for the photocopying, and you’ll need to sign this form, Mrs. Westray.”
    “Call me Nell. Do you have change for a pound? Um, I don’t know your name…”
    “Kathleen. Kathleen Mullaroy.”
    “Where do you want me to sign this, Kathleen?”
    “Just there. Are these books for return?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah,” said the librarian, sounding pleased as she opened the book on top of the stack. “
The Club Dumas.
Did you like it?”
    “Very much. Do you have any more by him?”
    “Yes. He’s terrific. You won’t find them on the regular fiction shelves, though. There’s a copy of
The Nautical Chart
in large print, and
The Flanders Panel
and at least one other should be on that paperback rack by the door if they’re checked in.”
    “Thanks, I’ll look for them.”
    The last book on the pile was
Villette.
“Oh, that’s one of my favorites.”
    “Mine, too. I used to have a copy, but I must have lost it somewhere along the way.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “Oh…” She made a meaningless gesture, caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject, and uneasy with it. “I’ve lived a lot of places. I was born in Massachusetts.” She edged away from the desk, anticipating more intrusive questions.
    “Do you like biographies?”
    She stopped. “Yes.”
    “We have a very good one of Charlotte Brontë.”
    “Is that the one by Lyndall Gordon?”
    “Yes. Did you read her on Virginia Woolf?” As Nell nodded, they exchanged the book-lover’s complicit glance, and Kathleen said, lowering her voice slightly, “Her new book about Mary Wollstonecraft is wonderful. It’s checked out at the moment, but I could put it aside for you if you like.”
    “Thanks.” Nell smiled uncertainly. “Well…I’d better find myself something to read now.”
    It had been only a brief, casual exchange of views. For all she knew, it was the sort of conversation the librarian had half a dozen times every day, but for her it had been rare and oddly seductive. When she brought her books to the desk to be stamped out, the librarian was again moved to comment, and they wound up discussing the comparative merits of works by Paul Auster, Alice Hoffman, and Russell Hoban.
    “It seems we have similar tastes,” said Kathleen, and her friendly, pretty face glowed with pleasure. “And it sounds like you read a lot—more than I have time for.”
    Nell shrugged. “I have to have something for when it’s too dark or too wet to work in the garden. I can’t stand much television.”
    “I’ve been thinking about starting a book group. They’re so popular everywhere these days; it’s strange there isn’t one in Appleton.” The librarian leaned across the counter, her eyes fixed eagerly on Nell’s. “Would you be interested?”
    “No.” The word came out more vehemently than she’d intended. “No, I don’t like clubs; that’s not my kind of thing.” The librarian’s bright, hopeful expression collapsed, and Nell felt as if she’d kicked a dog for wagging its tail.
    “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; I’m sure it’s a good idea—I’m just not good in groups, that’s all. I’m not good in any kind of company—well, I’ve just made that obvious, haven’t I?” She struggled to make amends, trying to smile. “I’ve lived alone too long. I didn’t mean to be rude, I’ve just forgotten how to talk to people.”
    “You weren’t rude! And as for forgetting how to talk to people—it was the way you were talking to me about books that made me think you’d be perfect in a book group.”
    Nell imagined turning and walking out without another word—but she couldn’t do it. Although she