3. Mina

The minute Heathcliff, Quoth, and Morrie left for their appointment at Lachlan Hall, I slid out from behind my desk, picked up Oscar's lead, and slunk downstairs.

My mind reeled from that horrible email. Was Jen right? Was the reason why no one had RSVPed for my book launch because they didn't think anyone would actually read my book?

Was I unrelatable?

Was my writing career over before it had even begun?

I slumped on the sofa beneath the front window, which looked out onto Butcher Street and across the Nevermore Bookshop. Oscar dropped to the floor at my feet, ready in case I needed him for another task.

I could only make out the outline of the building, but I knew Nevermore so well that I could conjure the scene from my memories of the place – the lines of chairs set out in the Events room, the makeshift bar where Richard from the Rose Wimple would serve book-themed drinks, the display stacked high with copies of my book (if I ever finished editing it), me wearing the outfit I'd specifically chosen for the occasion (black leather skirt, red bustier, red-and-black pinstripe jacket with sleeves rolled up and lapels covered in pins), and no one showed up.

It's not going to happen like that, Mina.

My friends and family would be there. Mrs. Ellis would make sure that the Spirit Seekers Society and her Naughty Knitting Circle would come. The guys wouldn't leave my side.

But I'd spent the last year turning Nevermore Bookshop into a successful business, ingratiating myself with writers and distributors and the publishing world. I thought that I'd been making friends and charming people, but when it came to the crunch, it was the same, dumb nonsense all over again.

People didn't want me because I was blind.

I wasn't good enough.

If I'd seen that email eighteen months ago, it would have broken my heart, in the same way that Marcus Ribald's rejection broke me. But I'd been toughened by everything I'd been through, and by all the negative criticism I received at the Meddleworth Writers Retreat.

Now, Jen's email made me sad for completely different reasons.

She was wrong.

If the publishing industry thought the same as her, then they were wrong, too.

I existed. People like me existed, too. We were everywhere. We might use a Braille display or screen reader to enjoy our fiction, but we still loved stories. And we deserved to be in those stories.

Part of the reason why I was so afraid when I first started losing my eyesight was because I didn't have any good stories about what it meant to be blind. All those hundreds of books I read growing up, the books that comforted me on my darkest days, not one of them had a blind heroine who got to be herself, fight crime, have adventures, or get the guys.

I wanted to give that story to people like me. That was why I was trying to make a big deal about the book launch, instead of just hiding away the way I tried to do after Marcus fired me. I thought that these people I'd worked with for months thought the same as me. I thought they got it.

But I was wrong.

My blood sizzled with rage at that. It made me feel as though they were all humouring the blind girl, pretending to encourage my writing until I needed them in my corner.

Fine. So none of my VIPs are coming to the book launch. I needed to figure out what I was going to do next. And staring at my woefully imperfect manuscript strewn across my office wasn't helping.

My boys weren't here, so the only thing that would fix this problem was a cup of tea.

I had Oscar drag my moping arse into the small kitchenette out the back of the studio. I put the kettle on to boil and set out my favorite cup – the one Quoth made me with a raised pattern of ravens sculpted around the rim.

I was just selecting a brew from the jars of loose leaf tea Quoth had thoughtfully labeled with Braille when I heard the door swing open behind me.

"I'm sorry, the studio is closed today," I called over my shoulder. Quoth was supposed to put a sign up out front, but sometimes he got so caught up in his artwork that he forgot?—

"I know," a nervous voice said from the other side of the studio. Female, a local accent, and around my age, I thought. "I was actually looking for you. At least, I think I'm looking for you. You're Mina Wilde?"

"I sure am."

She phrased it like a question, so I felt as though I should answer.

The kettle whistled.

I tipped some loose leaf tea into a strainer and slotted my liquid level indicator over the edge of my cup, then poured in my hot water. The indicator beeped at me to tell me when I was a centimeter below the rim, and I stopped pouring.

"I hope you don't mind. I saw you through the window, and I know you're busy, but I had to try. My name is Maisie Collins. I heard that you're quite good at solving mysteries. I was wondering if you could help me." Her voice trembled with worry. "My friend James has gone missing."

"Missing?" I whirled around, wincing as hot tea splashed on my hand. "Have you told the police?"

"I did, but they didn't want to know about it."

"That doesn't sound like them." Inspector Hayes may lack imagination, but he did actually care about doing his job and keeping the community safe. I can't imagine him dismissing this worried girl. "I could talk to the inspector, perhaps. How long has James been missing?"

"Since yesterday evening. I'm going crazy with worry." Maisie grabbed the edge of the trestle table Quoth used for his art classes. She looked as though it was the only thing holding her upright. With her free hand, she dug around in her purse and held out something towards me. "I have some photographs on my phone."

"I'm sorry, I'm too blind to be able to see photographs. But you can describe him to me. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please. Milk and two sugars. Do you need a hand?"

"Nope. I got this." I turned back to make another cup as Maisie continued. "So tell me about James."

"He's about twelve inches tall, with yellow feathers and an orange bill?—"

"I'm sorry? He has feathers?"

"James is my pet duck. Did I not mention that?" Her voice warmed. "His full name is James Pond, Earl of Waddleton the Third. He's a purebred Peking drake. I'm worried that he might've been duck-napped."

As I brought Maisie's tea over to the table and sat down across from her, I found that with the large window facing Butcher Street behind her, I could make out her outline. She was at least a head taller than me, maybe almost as tall as Morrie, and she sat awkwardly in the chair, as though she was afraid of taking up space. She had a head of the most incredibly tight curls I'd ever seen. And she had a pet duck, which meant I liked her already.

"What makes you think that James has been duck-napped? Couldn't he simply have escaped? Why don't you tell me what happened from the beginning."

Maisie sipped her tea. When she spoke again, I could tell that she was trying not to cry. "James has a pen in my back garden where he sleeps and hangs out while I'm at work. Every night after work, I let him out and we go for a walk/paddle along the King's Copse stream, then we go inside and watch some Netflix together, and I put him to bed. But I came home from work yesterday and he was gone. There's a giant hole in the netting around his pen, but I don't think he could have done it himself. He's a very docile duck, and he's never escaped before. I've never even seen him try to chew on his pen. I'm so worried about him. I think my neighbor might have?—"

"Might have what?"

Maisie swallowed hard. "My next-door neighbor, Stanley Clarke, has been complaining about James ever since I got him. I obeyed all the council laws when I put in James' pen. It's not illegal to keep a pet duck as long as he's contained and doesn't violate noise restrictions. James is a good duck! He hardly ever makes a peep, but Stanley keeps complaining to the council that he quacks all day long. The council came out to measure the noise volume and determined that James's quacks were within the acceptable decibel range. I think Stanley might have gotten sick of James and gone over when I wasn't home and…and…"

Maisie burst into tears.

My fingers toyed with the handle of my teacup. I shouldn't be entertaining this case. I was getting married in four days, and I had my book launch to salvage. My manuscript was still in tatters all over my office. And I had to figure out how to get the literati to pay attention to my book?—

But maybe this is exactly what you need, a tiny voice in my head said. A little detective work to remind you that you are wanted, that you have value. That you're relatable. Even if the book world doesn't want you, Argleton still needs you.

Heathcliff, Morrie, and Quoth would tell me not to do this.

Well, they're not here, are they? But Maisie is. And she needs my help.

I reached across the table and offered my hand. "Maisie, you came to the right amateur bookshop detective. I'll take your case."