The lamps giving off more light, the room feeling occupied, almost friendly. He’d never given the books housed inside the wire-hatched cases any more notice than a paper-brocaded wall. They merely took up space and defined his title and his class: a label for the room, as the oven labeled the kitchen. Now the books seemed to be whispering to him. Making promises. His tidy desktop had been merely a piece of furniture, with a silver inkwell that dried up regularly, unused, a blotter without blots, pristine pointed pens that never needed replacing. Its edge was marked with half-moons where his heels dug in when he was pretending to relax and read. CHARLES. The picture of his name was still clear; black letters on ivory. And Hollie’s warm smile. His throat closed up; the sting of hope and gratitude seared the backs of his eyes. He’d given up trying so long ago. And yet he’d actually read the word this afternoon! He was certain of it. And here it was. She’d put the page on his desk sometime in the late afternoon, displayed it squared to the corners of his blotter, the edges deckled, as she called them.
