Excerpt of The Sisters of Book Row by Shelley Noble

Excerpted from The Sisters of Book Row, by Shelley Noble. William Morrow Paperbacks, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

Daphne came up beside her. “How long does it take to get a loaf and a rasher of bacon? It’s already too late for breakfast.”

“We’ll have it for dinner,” Olivia said distractedly. Where could the girl be? Olivia didn’t think she was up to trouble, though Lord knew she had been a handful even when their parents were alive. Into everything she could reach, curious about everything else. Active and intense, and always on the go, it was amazing that she did as well minding the store as she did.

Fortunately, Celia was also fairly competent at cataloguing the items that passed through the shop, had an aptitude for figures—though no interest—­ and had been tasked with balancing the register at the end of each day. But, oh, Olivia could have used another committed, organized soul to take control of the daily operations of the shop while she concentrated on her restoration work and their more important clients.

She blinked against the sun that appeared suddenly over the rooftops. Then stood for a few moments just enjoying the view . . . while she still could. Already the doors across the avenue were beginning to blur. Colors to dim. The strongest spectacles in the world couldn’t stop her gradual loss of sight. Or take care of her sisters when she no longer could.

She took every chance to memorize the avenue, burning it into her memory. The bookshops, the printing shops, mixed higgledy-­piggledy in with bakeries, shoe repairs, several delis, and a luncheonette. Different colors, sizes, heights, constructed of brick, wood, and plaster. As different as they could be, some as fine as any uptown emporium, some barely more than a door and a narrow staircase to a second floor or down to an airless, dusky basement. But they all had one thing in common. A love of books.

To Olivia, it was a magical kingdom, one she would lose soon enough.

She was glad that today, at least, she could see that Mr. Wickes’s newsstand down the block had reopened for business. Poor man. Only last week he’d been the victim of that man, Comstock, who raided him “on a tip.”

Not on a tip from any of the booksellers, Olivia was certain of that. Anthony Comstock was their sworn enemy.

Mr. Wickes was one of his innocent victims. He’d no more sell pornography than Olivia and her sisters. His newsstand sold newspapers, dime novels, magazines, and a variety of souvenirs. Comstock’s agents had confiscated a box of celluloid Statues of Liberty, mistaking them for the Venus de Milo, which was considered pornographic by the self-­proclaimed “morality man.”

Uneducated oafs.

Nonetheless, Mr. Wickes had to pay a steep fine to keep from being dragged off to jail by four agents from the Society for the Suppression of Vice.

More like thugs, if you asked Olivia. The Row kept a fund for such occurrences.

The Applebaums always contributed their share, though they had not been raided . . . yet. The booksellers on Book Row might squabble, undercut one another, or hold out on a rare find, but they wouldn’t stand by when one of their own was being mistreated. Especially by the self-­appointed censors of Anthony Comstock. They always bailed out their colleagues and, when necessary, fed their families if they were brought to trial. None of them were dealing in actual pornography of any kind. Someone like that would be drummed out of the neighborhood. All their good names were at stake.

Unfortunately, Comstock couldn’t tell the difference between fine art, caricature, pornography, and a doodlebug. Odious man.

But today all was normal on the avenue. Awnings were unfurled. Outside shelves and bins were being replenished from the day before. Already the early shoppers were looking for a “steal” (sometimes literally) in the bargain bins, or hoping to spy a collector’s item from the throwaway boxes, left outside the shops each night, where people or other dealers left unwanted printed matter that others might be able to sell.

Next door at Tellers’ Fine Printing and Stationery, Yannis Teller waved as he held the door for his mother, recently arrived from Lithuania, as she carried a basket of hand-­painted greeting cards inside.

Across the street, Mr. Kirsch stepped out of the narrow door of his art-­book shop and began sweeping the sidewalk. Olivia didn’t have to look at her lapel watch to know that it was five minutes to nine.

She glanced at her sister, still stewing because Celia had once again shirked her duties. In a way, Olivia envied their youngest sister. Not that she would ever admit it. “Come inside. She’ll be back, but we must open the store. You can take in the throwaway box, and she can go through it later.”

“Fine.” With a huff Daphne hoisted the wooden box. “But I’m not touching these filthy old books. I’m wearing my good dress, and it’s not my job!” She stomped over the threshold and staggered inside, trying to hold the cumbersome box at arm’s length.

Olivia followed her inside and closed the door; with a last glance out to the street, she turned the closed sign to open.