Fateful Words


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
 Chapter Twenty
 Chapter Twenty-One
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 Chapter Twenty-Four
 Chapter Twenty-Five
 Chapter Twenty-Six
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
 Acknowledgments
 Also by Paige Shelton
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 CHAPTER ONE
 Acknowledgments
 Copyright
 
 
 
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 Begin Reading
 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
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 For my grandmother Ruth, who, long ago now, always found me the best thrift-store treasures. Miss you. Love you.
 
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 
 I hoisted the velvet-lined box onto the table.
 “Delaney?” the man behind the table asked, his blue eyes peering at me over round wire-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose.
 “I am.” I smiled and extended a hand. “You must be Michael.”
 “Guilty.” He smiled too as we shook over the table.
 The gray hair that circled his head tufted out around his ears. I didn’t think he was a full five feet tall, and even with just a couple of words, I could tell his Scottish accent was strong. But I’d been in Scotland long enough not to have to strain too hard to understand—if he spoke slowly enough.
 “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me today. This place is busy.”
 “Aye, it usually is on Saturdays, but I’ve a few moments.”
 “If a customer stops by, I’ll step back.”
 Michael nodded. “Much appreciated.”
 I’d come to meet Michael at a place I would have called an antiques mall back in Kansas. My grandmother had loved shopping at them. She’d also loved her weekly Goodwill trips, adventures I’d joined her on willingly because I’d always come out a winner, finding a new toy or doll that had barely been used but was sure to thrive under my love.
 The Scotland Antiques Center was a large old warehouse fitted with tables and stalls that displayed so many different wares that my head swam as I’d made my way toward Michael’s stall. My boss and the owner of the bookshop where I worked, Edwin, told me he wouldn’t allow himself to visit the center because he wasn’t immune from thinking there was yet another sort of collection he might need to begin, and his good sense told him that he’d begun enough already.
 I agreed with him. I was still busy going through the vast amount of collections he’d accumulated over the years. It would be nice to catch up before adding something else.
 In fact, it was one of these collections that had brought me to the center—well, technically, Michael had been the draw. When I’d researched local experts on the type of items I was working to organize and catalogue, his name had come up time and time again.
 “Michael Norway, Local Spectacle and Monocle Expert,” his website and Facebook page had said. Judging by the pieces over his display tables, I knew I’d found the right person.
 “What can I do for you, lass?” he asked.
 I put my hand on the top of the box. “I work at The Cracked Spine in Grassmarket. It’s a bookshop, but the owner of the shop, Edwin MacAlister—”
 Michael laughed. “Och, lass, I’ve heard of him. All of us in the trade have. We all knew about his very