422B Latham Street

"Can you direct me to 422b Latham Street?" I asked the policeman standing beside the lamppost. Twenty-four hours previously, I arrived in England for the first time. Boarding a train for Chiselhampton, I exited at the station. Wandering around the city center, I eventually located Latham Street.

A narrow bi-way jutting off the main road held a row of connected buildings. The upper levels nearly touched above my head. Weary from my flight, my bleary eyes gazed upon the street numbers. 422b eluded me.

My shoulders slumped as I returned to the main road. The idea that I'd been taken in by a false advertisement struck me. Nevertheless, when I saw the post for an antique bookshop, I leaped at it. The price was right, and I could take possession immediately. I won the bid and jumped on the first available flight to England.

"Certainly, Miss," the copper responded. Laconically, he detached himself from his corner. I followed in his lanky shadow. "Here you are, Miss." He bowed at the waist slightly and lumbered off.

A steep stairway leading to the upper level greeted me. 'The Black Hole of Calcutta,' I muttered, taking the first step. I had the eerie feeling that no one would see me again once I disappeared.

A bell clanged when I pushed open the door. The musty smell of disused books greeted me. Pausing in the aperture, I stared in amazement. Row upon row of shelves lined the small space. Edging further in, I shouldered my way through the cramped corridors.

"Hello," I tentatively called. My voice echoed amongst the ancient tomes.

Like Marley's ghost, an elderly figure appeared, grasping a lighted candlestick. The features were gaunt, the mouth toothless. I froze. The feeling of time travel enveloped me.

"Mr. Abercrombie?" I questioned, extending my hand.

"Tis me," the old man gloomily responded. "Miss Fletcher, I assume."

"Yes," I answered shortly.

"Just sign the papers, Miss, and the shop is all yours," Mr. Abercrombie briskly remarked. "The sooner, the better. Then it's all finished."

And so, I signed and became the owner of an ancient bookshop in the centuries-old town of Chiselhampton. A dream come true, I decided.

Despite its condition, my new possession thrilled me. My love of old books drew me again and again to the cramped shelves. Idealistically, I roamed the aisles, pulling out ancient tome after ancient tome. Then, my hand fell upon an old volume tucked away behind the rows of books. I took it down and folded myself into a musty armchair.

Faded and brown, the cover held no clue about the title or the author. My hand caressed the roughed-up surface of the book. My fluid imagination raced with conjecture. Then, carefully, I opened it. Catching my breath, I squeezed my eyes closed. Reopening them, I gasped.

IDA OSBORN

BY HENRY JAMES

Entranced, I curled my legs beneath me and delved into the lost work of my favorite author.