Margery sat down at the table. Alice caught the glance that passed between her and Fred as she opened the card, an elaborate fixing of glitter and bows.

“He’ll be trying to win her back,” said Sven, leaning back in his chair. “That’s a fancy romantic thing. Bennett’s trying to impress her.”

But the card was not from Bennett. She read the words.

    Alice, we need you back in the house. Enough’s enough and my boy is pining. I know I did you a wrong and I’m prepared to make amends. Here’s a little something for you to buy yourself some fineries in Lexington and sent with the hope that it improves your feelings about your swift return home. This was always a fruitful measure with my dear late Dolores and I trust you will view it equally favorably.

 We can all let bygones be bygones.

 Your father,

 Geoffrey Van Cleve

She looked at the card, from which a crisp fifty-dollar bill slid onto the tablecloth. She stared at it where it lay.

“That what I think it is?” said Sven, leaning forward to examine it.

“He wants me to go out and buy a nice dress. And then come home.” She placed the card on the table.

There was a long silence.

“You’re not going,” said Margery.

Alice lifted her head. “I wouldn’t go if he paid me a thousand dollars.” She swallowed, and stuffed the money back into the envelope. “I will try to find somewhere else to stay, though. I don’t want to get under your feet.”

“Are you kidding? You stay as long as you like. You’re no trouble, Alice. Besides, Bluey’s so taken with you it’s nice not to have to fight the dog for Sven’s attention.”

Only Margery noticed Fred’s sigh of relief.

“Right!” said Margery. “That’s settled. Alice stays. Why don’t I clear up? Then we can fetch Sven’s cinnamon cookies. If we can’t eat them, we can use them for target practice.”

    27 December 1937

 Dear Mr. Van Cleve

 You have made quite clear on more than one occasion that you think I am a whore. But, unlike a whore, I can’t be bought.

 I am therefore returning your money via Annie’s safekeeping.

 Please could you arrange to have my things sent to Margery O’Hare’s home for the time being.

 Sincerely

 Alice

Van Cleve banged the letter down on his desk. Bennett glanced up from across the office and slumped a little, as if he had already guessed the contents.

“That’s it,” Van Cleve said, and screwed the letter into a ball. “That O’Hare girl has crossed the line.”

* * *

• • •

Ten days later the flyers went round. Izzy spotted one first, blowing across the road down by the schoolhouse. She dismounted and picked it up, brushing the snow from it so she could read it better.

   Good citizens of Baileyville—please be

aware of the moral danger

posed by the Packhorse Library.

All right-minded citizens are

advised to decline its use.

Meeting House, Tuesday 6 p.m.

OUR TOWN’S MORAL RECTITUDE

IS AT STAKE.

“Moral rectitude. From a man who smashed a girl’s face halfway across his dining table.” Margery shook her head.

“What are we going to do?”

“Go to the meeting, I guess. We’re right-minded citizens after all.” Margery looked sanguine. But Alice noted the way her hand closed around the leaflet, and a tendon ran tight along her neck. “And I’m not letting that old—”

The door flew open. It was Bryn, his cheeks pink and his breath heavy from running.

“Miss O’Hare? Miss O’Hare? Beth’s took a fall on some ice and broke her arm up real bad.”

They bolted from the library and followed him up the snow-covered road, where they were met by the bulky figure of Dan Meakins, the local blacksmith, carrying a whey-faced Beth across his chest. She was clutching her arm and there were vivid dark shadows under each eye, as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

“Horse went down on a patch of ice just by the gravel pit,” Dan Meakins said. “Checked him over and I think he’s okay. But it looks like her arm took the full force of it.”

Margery stepped closer to peer at Beth’s arm and her heart sank. It was already swollen and dark red three inches above the wrist.

“You’re making a fuss,” said Beth, through clenched teeth.

“Alice, fetch Fred. We need to get her to the doctor at Chalk Ridge.”

* * *

• • •

An hour later the three of them stood in the little treatment room at Dr. Garnett’s as he carefully set the injured arm between two splints, humming quietly as he bound it. Beth sat with her eyes closed and her jaw tight, determined not to let the pain show, consistent with her upbringing as the sole girl in a family of brothers.

“I can still ride, though, right?” said Beth, when the doctor had finished. She held her arm in front of her as he looped the sling around her neck and tied it carefully.

“Absolutely not. Young lady, you need to spend at least six weeks resting it. No riding, no lifting things, no banging it against anything.”

“But I have to ride. How else am I supposed to get the books out?”

“I don’t know if you heard about our little library, Doctor—” Margery began.

“Oh, we’ve all heard about your library.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “Miss Pinker, at the moment the fracture appears clean, and I’m confident it should mend well. But I cannot stress enough how important it is to protect it from further injury. If an infection were to set in, then we could face having to amputate.”

“Amputate?”

Alice felt something wash over her, revulsion or fear, she wasn’t sure. Beth was suddenly wide-eyed, her previous composure evaporated.

“We’ll manage, Beth.” Margery sounded more convincing than she felt. “You just listen to the doctor.”

* * *

• • •

Fred drove as swiftly as he could but by the time they arrived back the meeting had already been going almost half an hour. Alice and Margery crept in at the back of the meeting hall, Alice tipping her hat low over her brow and pulling her hair loose around her face to try to hide the worst of the bruises. Fred followed just behind her, as he had done the whole day, like some kind of guard. The door closed softly behind them. Van Cleve was in such full flow that nobody even stopped to look when they entered.