Page 89 of Playing By Ear

“Books are my favorite smell. Sometimes I open one of the old ones and take a huge whiff. Is that weird?”

“Not at all,” Perry said. “I brought a vintage Jude the Obscure worthy of a sniff.”

“Ooh, I may grab that for myself. It’s my favorite Hardy novel. Have you read his poetry?”

“Some of it.” Wanting to look clever, he named the only title he could remember. “I really liked ‘The Blinded Bird.’”

“Oh.” Katie gave a nervous laugh, and Perry realized what he’d just said.

“Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his warming neck. “Am I a cliché or what?”

She laughed again, this time without nervousness. “It’s a great poem. Jamie, it’s about this bizarre sport they play in Flanders. They set up a bunch of cages with male finches and place bets on which birds will sing the most times in an hour.”

“People will gamble on anything,” Jamie said. “Are the birds blind?” he asked, no longer sounding strained when he said the B-word.

“In olden times,” she said, “some people would burn their finches’ eyes out with hot needles so they wouldn’t be distracted. Nowadays they put them in wooden boxes with air holes.”

“Still sounds pretty horrible,” Perry said, “but I’m biased towards birds.”

“Perry is short for Peregrine,” Jamie told Katie. “Like the falcon, not the hobbit.”

She gasped. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She leapt up, disappeared into the fog between the shelves, then returned swiftly, soles squeaking against the floor. “Have you read this?”

She placed into Perry’s free hand a white book he instantly recognized: The Peregrine by J. A. Baker.

“I had this growing up.” He traced the familiar falcon drawing on the front cover. “The prose is beautiful.” His throat constricted again. “This is the book that made me want to be a writer.”

“Keep it, no charge. It’s the least I can do after your mind-boggling donation. But I understand if you’d rather not have books right now. I can set it aside in case you change your mind.”

So Jamie had told her the reason for Perry’s mass surrender. “Actually, I would love for this to be my only book.” He pressed it to his chest and gazed up at her. “Thank you.”

“Ooft.” Jamie stumbled as he got off the bus outside the weekend antiques market—not enough to fall, but enough to make him feel clumsy.

“All right?” Perry asked, navigating around the bus shelter with his cane.

“Ankles are stiff today.” Was it only last year he’d been able to go ninety minutes on the pitch and spring brand new out of bed the next morning?

Jamie shifted his bag from Katie’s shop—containing a book on football penalties she’d basically forced on him—to his right hand so Perry could take his left arm.

“What’s this first stall on the right?” Perry asked.

Jamie scanned the jumbled offerings set out on several long tables. “Looks a bit of everything.”

“Any things which go on shelves?”

“As a matter of fact, Things Which Go on Shelves is the name of the seller.”

Perry gave his arm what Jamie had come to think of as a smile-squeeze. Then he began to peruse the items, touching their surfaces and bringing them close to his face to examine the details.

“Looking for something specific?” Jamie asked.

“I’ll know it when I find it.” He set down a statue of a friendly-looking hippopotamus. “Tell me if anything screams Perry Hull to you.”

“Only if you promise not to scowl if I choose something awful.”

“Can’t promise that.”

Jamie spied rows of vinyl albums across the walkway. “There’s a music seller over there.” The distinctive artwork of Mr Beast caught his eye. “Ooh, my favorite Mogwai. Haven’t got that on vinyl yet.”