Though the last “Round and Round” story was published on June 14, 2024, the writer made it clear that there were still plenty of adventures before the final one that had never been recorded. The bookshop’s history. The bookseller’s life through the years. Plenty of happy, sad, triumphant, unsuccessful and weird times.

The staff changed over the years.

In the new story below, the bookseller employs a cat and a dog. Annirosa is away for a conclave with her order.

By this point in his life as a bookseller, he had learned never to be surprised by events at the bookshop. For although the place appeared for all intents and purposes to be a normal used bookshop, things happened or visited or were foisted upon it that were definitely weird.

So, to bring you up to speed on this the 44th Round and Round story, you should know the following:

Mathilda is an excellent bibliographer and cataloger. Much of the store’s online sales success can be attributed to her computer skills, speed and accuracy. She “knows books.” Also, she is a cat.

Setanta is of Irish descent. He is a giant dog. Perhaps a proto-Wolfhound. The story goes that he was exiled from Ireland for so-called “crimes” (more likely mistakes caused by clumsiness or inattention). He is an excellent shelver, for although he often drools, he never drools on books. Standing on his hind legs, he can reach the highest shelves—eight feet.

Annirosa appeared as if by magic when her predecessor, Althea, had to depart to help birth and raise the last of the world’s snallygasters. Annirosa had frequent absences to meet with her order. She would never expand on those meetings, saying simply, “I must fly.”

Those are the cast of regular characters in the following story.

While it may seem too weird to you, the customers of the bookstore did not find anything unusual about the staff. Perhaps they had just gotten used to it over the decades.

Perhaps the clientele was also weird.

Indeed, strange was the usual state of affairs in the bookshop.

“We have a BWCA.”

It was a text from Mathilda, the bookstore cat and cataloger extraordinaire.

The bookseller was still in bed writing. The morning hours were the best time for writing, he’d found. His mind was fresh and clear from sleep—or lack thereof—and was able to do things; was more open than it would be later when the distractions started filling it.

Distractions like this 6 a.m. text from Mathilda, which he found quite annoying. His mood was spoiled.

“What’s a BWCA?” he wondered. “Probably some acronym. Books with cats…? “Books wanted for Canada…?” Maybe a donation solicitation?”

He made his usual breakfast—boiling water for tea.

“Crazy cat. I hope she’s not going senile. The place would fall apart. I asked Annirosa if she thought Mathilda was 15. She said, ‘Much older.’”

He poured the hot water into the big “Winter Wonderland” mug with a linen Mariage Freres tea bag resting in the bottom.

“That reminds me. When did Annirosa say she’d be back? She’s been gone at least a few weeks at her ‘conclave.’”

He closed his laptop and put it under his arm. He grabbed the mug and headed toward the door.

“Have I forgotten anything?”

Anytime he worried he was losing his memory, he comforted himself that he had the same thought every day decades ago. Events like wandering into a room and wondering why he’d gone in had been a mentally worrisome thing when he was young.

He backed the battered old Ford van down the gravel driveway and onto the quiet, semi-rural road. It was half full with boxes of books. That was normal. The van always had books in it.

He turned into the parking lot of his bookstore and was jolted by the pothole on the other side of the sidewalk.

“I should fix that,” he thought—not for the first time.

He pulled up to the porch and was surprised to find the little hedge surrounding it neatly trimmed.

“Wha…?” he thought. “I didn’t ask the lawn guy to do that. The cat and the dog can’t trim bushes. Annirosa is away—she wouldn’t do it anyway…”

He parked and climbed the three wooden steps onto the porch, which was essentially a deck made out of two-by-fours. There were 19 wheeled carts on it. Each was three feet long. Each had six shelves—three on each side. The deck had a roof, so the carts were left out all the time. The bookseller’s philosophy was, “If someone wants to steal one, it is better than throwing it away.”

“All the carts are straightened up,” he thought. “I know there were lots of voids and books leaning or fallen on the shelves. They’ve been tightened up—their spines brought to the front edge of the shelves, making them look like they’re anxious to be adopted. I’ve just been too busy to reload them with the ‘5 for $5’ boxes in the shed.”

He crossed the porch, noting it had been swept.

“I know Mathilda and Setanta can’t handle a broom. Setanta’s tail, for all its fur, strength and length, couldn’t do it.”

He opened the front door, and the little silver bell above it tinkled embarrassedly. He looked up. It had been polished! It gleamed like a mirror.

“All these decades, and I never thought to polish it.”

“You look marvelous,” he said aloud to the bell.

Crossing to the sales counter, he found Mathilda perched atop it—crouched behind her laptop.

“Why are you sending me texts so early in the morning?” he asked.

A text buzzed on the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and read:

“Why are you talking to Silver Bell?”

“Well!” he spluttered. “She’s part of the team since long before you came. In fact, I don’t recall putting her—it—up myself.”

“Losing your memory?” came a text in reply.

“Those early days were strange. I didn’t always feel I was in control.”

“That has not changed.”

“Why so sarcastic this morning?”

“Someone drank my milk last night!”

“The milk I poured into your bowl?”

At that point, Setanta came up the black and white tiles from the European history aisle, his long nails clicking and clacking with each step.

A text buzzed in his pocket. “DO NOT SAY ANYTHING! He does not know.”

Because they were both staring at him, he twisted his head to the right and then to the left, his forehead scrunched, his expression quizzical.

“The porch looks great, you two. I’m glad you’re taking some initiative.”

The dog replied with an “arrrunk?” sound and then splayed his four long legs so his body was flat, prone on the floor. He stared up balefully at the bookseller.

His phone buzzed. “What is on the front porch?”

“Books and nothing,” he teased with a riddle.

“I am in no mood to guess,” the cat replied via text.

“Well, I thought you might have known. It has been completely swept off and all the dollar carts are straightened with evenly placed face-outs. Oh! And the hedge has been trimmed. You want me to pour you some milk since yours went missing last night?” he added, looking pointedly at the dog.

“He does not drink milk. Only Irish whiskey and rainwater from the barrel that collects runoff from the roof.” the text read.

A pause.

“Well?”

The bookseller dutifully poured some milk into Mathilda’s bowl and set it near her on the sales counter.

The cat hungrily lapped at the white plane of liquid, her tiny pink tongue extending and withdrawing rapidly.

Then she paused and returned to the laptop.

“We have a BWCA. I think it came with those Welsh books you bought last week.”

“That was a sad buy. An old wooden cottage in the woods. Lovely. Very Black Forest. The old lady died and had no heirs. The lawyers called me in to take the books so they could get the place ready to sell. Strange collection. Eighteenth and nineteenth century bindings. Beyond that, I couldn’t make heads or tails of what the books were about—most were in Welsh. The rustic cottage was like something out of a fairy tale. Big hearth with a cast iron kettle hung on a crane…”

“You brought back a BWCA with her books. Was she a witch?”

“Ok,” he said. “What is a ‘BWCA,’ and how did I bring it back?”

“It is a fairy. As in ‘Booka.’ A Welsh one. That is why it is so neat here. The Booka cleans things and helps out. It even polished Tinkerbell above the door,” Mathilda texted.

“I’m sorry. There was a fairy in a box of books? I packed them all myself. On my knees, I might add. I didn’t pack anything but books. Certainly no fairy. Or pixie or anything that wasn’t a book.”

“Then explain all the work done around here over night. You will not hire anyone. Setanta and I work our claws to dullness for only room and board. And explain who took my milk?!”

The bookseller was abashed. He hadn’t meant to take advantage of the cat and dog. But there was no way to put them on the payroll. How could he explain that to the accountant? Neither had ID. And what would they do with money anyway? He thought they just… liked it here. Like he did. It was a passion. Like acting.

Setanta gave out a soft plaintive whine and looked up at him even more balefully than before.

“Well?!” the text fairly shouted.

“What should I do? Have you seen it? Or him? Or her?”

“What?! You cannot permit yourself to ‘see’ a house fairy. If you did, then it would not be helpful any longer. Just the opposite. And any milk you put out would go sour. Including mine.”

“Well, what should I do?”

“I do not know. It is your bookstore.”

“Well, we have to get the store open. I’ll go turn the sign around.”

“Maybe you could put a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, as well.”

He went into his office and crossed the room to the window.

“Problems. Why are there always problems?”

He looked at his desk, and all the papers were in order. Manila files were stacked neatly in the far corner. The recycling box had been removed and a nice decorative tub was now off to the side.

“Paper Recycling” was written on it in a neat, nearly runic script.

“Well, I’ll be…” he sighed. “Maybe this Booka is the solution to all our problems. I wonder if he… she… it knows about old books?”

He looked out the window and fortunately, the parking lot was empty.

“Thank goodness. The last thing I need right now is customers getting in the way.”

He sat at his perfectly ordered desk and flipped open his laptop. He did a Google search: “BWCA.”

Boundary Waters Canoe Area… a million acre park in Minnesota…

“What am I doing? Why would we want to lose this visitor?” he thought. “The bookstore hasn’t looked this good since… forever.”

The bell above the door rang cheerily just then. Her sound was clearer—as if she had a new spring in her step. For indeed the little silver bell was distinctly female.

The bookseller stepped out of his office to see who (or what) was coming in.

“Root! How’re you doing?”

“What have you done with the store?” the pot-bellied bald man asked. “Folks’ll think you’ve raised your prices. Or gone boutique.”

“Just a little housekeeping. The place was looking a little shabby.”

“Shabby was its charm. Now it looks cleaner than a truck stop men’s room out on the interstate.”

“That good, huh?”

“Well, I’m gonna expect more for the books I got out in the pickup this morning. A lot more.”

“Well, just a little sweeping and mopping…”

“And new paint on the west wall. And half a new roof.”

“Really? I hadn’t…”

“You gonna come look or not? I got to a tag sale over the valley. Supposed to have known Hemingway. Might be some sleepers. I got there before all the good stuff was gone. And you’re too busy counting your ducats to look at your old scout’s treasure.”

Root was indeed one of the bookseller’s longest serving scouts. Was his real name Root Stocky? He never said. And he would never take a check. Only cash. If the offer was more cash than the store had on hand, Root would just say, “Write me an IOU. And date it. I wanna know just how long it takes you to pay me.”

“Let’s see what kind of junk you’re trying to foist on me today.”

The bell trilled merrily when they opened the door.

“New bell, too, eh? Bet it’s sterling.”

“Same bell. Always has been. Medieval silver, actually.”

“People ’round here won’t be able to afford books here anymore. You puttin’ a helipad in the back lot?”

“Prices are the same as they were yesterday. And which Hemingway? Mariel?”

“Gone Hollywood out here in the boonies. Billionaires’ll be flying their yachts here before long.”

“Yachts can’t fly.”

“Pigs can’t neither.”

Root’s pickup was old. A Ford 150 from the 1980s. At least most of it was. While much of the truck was white, its passenger side front fender was black. The driver’s side door was gray. Rust accents added color around the wheel wells.

The bookseller thought: “Old Root is sort of patched together, as well.”

He chuckled aloud.

“‘Old’… The pot calling the kettle black,” he thought.

Then he asked aloud, “Did I say “old”?”

“No. But I heard you. And what’s so funny? Laughing at Bessie? She’s brought you some good books over the years.”

“No. Laughing at myself,” he replied. “Show me what you have.”

Root pulled the handle on the tailgate, and it creaked down. There was an old cap covering the pickup bed.

“Do they still make caps?” he wondered.

The scout dragged the first box onto the tailgate.

“I haven’t looked at these too close. The kids packed up grandma’s books fast. It’s so they can get the house on the market. That’s where the real money is. Nice old house.”

The first box was typical octogenarian faith and inspiration stuff. Comfort reading for the aged.

“Nice little old house, though. Like an English cottage,” Root mused. “No thatched roof, though.”

“Any nice garden statuary?”

“Yeah. Come to think of it. Marble and stone stuff.”

“You should go back and get that. This is crap,” the bookseller said, pulling back the flaps on the second box he’d dragged onto the tailgate.

“Diversifying, eh?”

“I like nice things,” he replied, pulling out more books from the top layers, hoping for some glimmer of antiquarian gilt or at least some midcentury dust jackets. “Maybe too much.”

He paused, thinking on how he’d spent the latest part of his life. Books. No people.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No. She’s inside and a little ticked off.”

“How would you know? Talking cat?”

“Sometimes I wish she could.”

“I still don’t understand why you let her play on that computer. But then I seen piano playing cats on the internet.”

The next boxes got better.

“These must have been grandma’s mom’s books. Elsie Dinsmore. Extinct children’s titles, but nicely bound and bright gilt.”

“Still selling books for their looks, eh?”

“Better than pulping them.”

He now had to stretch into the truck bed to grab any part of a box he could get hold of.

“Wish I had longer arms,” he said, lifting a box off the tail and turning to set it on the porch. When he turned back, there were four fresh boxes on the tailgate. “How’d you do that?”

“What?” Root was inspecting one of the rear tires which was pretty low on air.

“Nevermind.”

Eventually all 47 boxes were unloaded and stacked on the porch. There was no way and no reason to look at every book in every box. He and Root had a good relationship, and he would pay now. If the books got better or if a sleeper or seven were found, supplemental payment would be made. It was never the other way round—that is, Root would never be asked for a partial refund if it turned out some of the boxes were moldy or at one time were buggy.

“It looks like ten bucks a box stuff, Root. Less for the grandma’s happy thoughts stuff. More for the great grandma’s antiquarian stuff. Four-fifty.”

“How ’bout five.”

“Ok.”

An additional buck a box wasn’t worth debating. Probably poor business sense. He should have started at four.

He started up the steps to go inside and get his IOU. It was too early in the day for that much cash to go out. The store might need it for a demanding buy from a stranger.

“Cash or I’m goin’ down the road.”

But there was Setanta wagging his tail, the carbonless two-part voucher pad in his mouth.

“That dog of yours… how’d you train him?”

“I didn’t. He’s an Irish Mind Reading Hound.”

“Never seen a dog that red before. Or that big. What breed is it, really?”

“He’s Irish. Maybe unique. Last of his race and all. Has an arrest warrant back there and is exiled until…”

“’Til when?”

“Who knows. I stay out of the dog’s politics.”

He scratched out “Root Stocky” and “$500.00” on the top of the ledger.

“I wonder if that’s his real name? Maybe it’s his business name, like some actors. Memorable…” The bookseller mused as he handed over the green paper. “This business must be one of the last that writes so many checks and IOUs.”

“Can I take some of those empties?” Root asked.

Indeed there were about 47 empty boxes neatly stacked inside one another in threes on the porch.

They hadn’t been there when he pulled in that morning.

“Must be where the dollar books came from. I still don’t understand how Setanta got them here from the shed,” he thought.

“Some of them dollar books look pretty good. Do I get a discount?”

“A dollar too much for you?”

“What if I took a hundred?”

“To sell back to me?”

“Well….”

“I gotta get back to work. There’s some problems inside I need to figure out.”

“Yeah. I gotta get to that house call. Might be good stuff. People say she was a witch. Might be creepy, though. I might get back today.”

“You wanna help me move these boxes I just bought from you?”

“I’m late as it is. You don’t want me to miss these, I’m guessing.”

The bookseller sighed and crossed the porch to the front. Setanta padded alongside him with a book in his mouth.

“What did you find, fella?”

Their dog angled his head up and the man gently took the book from his mouth.

“Hey. Not bad. Let’s go in and see what Mathilda can find on this. It’s a colonial imprint. Did you know that?”

The dogs wagged his tail vigorously. It was so long that it thumped against two book carts several feet apart.

They got inside, and Setanta started down an aisle looking for work to do, but for the first time in a long time, there were no books on the floor to be stocked. He pulled up abruptly and skidded a couple feet on the linoleum tile.

The bookseller went to the counter and held the book out to Mathilda. It was open to the title page.

“Interested?”

The cat feigned disinterest, but her flicking tail belied her feelings.

“Feeling better with some milk in you?”

She raised her left forepaw and gave it a couple nibbles. Then she began pecking away on the laptop.

“The store hasn’t been open five minutes, and I’m already 500 in the hole. I guess I should go out and get some of those books. There’s no work for Setanta to do. Mathilda can always research books. And I… I can make myself useful schlepping boxes of books.”

“Wanna help, Setanta?”

The two went out the door. The little bell rang so happily. It was as if she had a new wardrobe.

“What…?” he said aloud. Things on the porch had been changed around completely. He’d only been inside a few minutes.

Setanta let out a plaintive whine, indicating that he hadn’t done anything. The dog version of “Don’t blame me!”

What had been a jumbled pile of 47 boxes of books were now separated into five neat groups.

Seven boxes were in the center of the porch. The bookseller lifted the flaps on the top one and looked inside. They all appeared to be typical “dollar” books.

The largest group had 19 boxes. He opened and peered into a few of them. They appeared to be general stock in many categories. Good books but nothing with exceptional value. Stuff that could be priced quickly and that Setanta could squeeze onto the shelves.

Seven boxes contained books with decorative bindings of old cloth and leather but no reading or collecting value.

Three stacks were against the wall near the front door. He walked over to them. They had exciting material inside. Books that Mathilda would be given to research online using various databases to help determine value or validity.

On the west side of the porch were 11 boxes. He stepped over to those.

“Shed books,” he thought. “Not good enough to prioritize for sale. Too good to be ‘dollar books.’”

They’d be stored for “a rainy day.”

“That saves some work. I can take the day off!” he chuckled aloud

He started to head inside. There was another small stack—11 books stacked on the floor of the deck next to the entrance.

“What’s this?”

Being in the book trade, he had acquired an eye for jewels. A book that may just appear old to the untrained eye could have the value of a small car or maybe even a house if it was extraordinary. This pile fell into that category.

“Hemingway!” he thought. “All vintage titles in vintage jackets. Nice stuff if they are firsts.”

He picked the top one up and opened it.

It was inscribed on the endpaper.

S & Z.

Too much gin last night.
Don’t waste your time drinking all night every night.
Don’t waste words.
You have a gift. Don’t piss it away.
Z—don’t call me Hem.

Hem

The book was Men Without Women. A first.

S&Z could only be Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.

One after another. Association copies variously to Scott, Zelda and Scottie.

A couple dripped with pathos.

Madness. Alcoholism. Bankruptcy. Institutions…

Many had annotations that they had been signed in Maryland, where both Fitzgeralds were buried. Not too far from this bookstore.

There were inscriptions to Scottie in later years after Zelda’s stint in the Johns Hopkins asylum. After she burned to death in a “hospital” in Alabama.

Both had early deaths.

Root’s Hemingway connection must have led through the Fitzgeralds’ daughter, Scottie, and somehow ended up here.

He tried to remember the facts, the rumors, the myths about the Lost Generation.

Hadn’t Scottie lived around here? DC?

Maybe friends. Cousins.

He bent and lifted the small stack and carried it into the store. He set the books on the counter, and Mathilda raised her eyebrows, giving them a nonchalant cat inspection.

Then her tail went up, and its tip flicked like a rattlesnake’s.

She casually rose and walked to the pile and wound her body round it. Her cheek ran along to the top book’s corner.

A loud purr rumbled out of her.

“You want to look inside, don’t you?” the bookseller addressed her. “The jackets and bindings are secondary. The real treasure is ink. Ink inscriptions. Many drunken. Root found a gold mine.”

Mathilda walked back to the laptop and extended her claws, ticking away at the keys.

A text dropped in from her.

“Trouble. Come look at this email from Annirosa.”

He stepped behind the counter and looked at the screen.

You guys are in DANGER! No one can stay in the store tonight!

Annirosa was not one given to hyperbole. The bookseller reached around Mathilda and quickly sent an email back.

There are strange things happening here. But they seem to be beneficial. Can you tell us what you mean?

A reply came through almost immediately.

We are sequestered in the conclave now. I might get in trouble writing this much. GET OUT of the bookstore before dark! ALL of you!

The cat and the man exchanged looks.

Then another email dropped in.

Leave a large bowl of milk out tonight! I must go or I may be elected in my absence. That office would be like prison to me. Do not forget. Fresh milk. Lots of it!

They didn’t have time to consider Annirosa’s dire warnings. The bell above the door rang giddily. A tiny, bent old man hobbled in and came before the counter.

“May I help you?”

“I am looking for a book. It is blue. It is about this tall.” The man held his hands apart about a foot. “About this thick.” He held out his right hand with about an inch and half gap between his thumb and finger.

He said no more, as if anticipating an answer.

“Can you tell me what it’s about?”

“Perhaps a pound and a quarter, though I do not see any relevance to that.”

“I meant its subject matter or genre. So we can narrow down what section of the store it might be in.”

“There are birds in it.”

He again paused expectantly.

“A book about birds?”

“There are trees in it, as well.”

“I see. Do you have a title or author?”

“If I did, I would not be here. I could simply have my grandson order it on the internet for me. Surely you cannot have so many blue books with those specifications.”

“Well, you could find blue books in just about every category in the store. There are 97 categories and nearly a half million books shelved in here.”

“If you are not going to be helpful, I will take my custom elsewhere.”

With that, he did a quarter turn to the right and headed to the door.

Mathilda and the bookseller exchanged glances.

“It’s going to be that kind of day, Mathilda.”

Most people think cats can’t smile. Perhaps this one had the Cheshire cat as an ancestor. This cat’s smile had evolved to something like Mona Lisa’s enigmatic upturned lips.

She turned her attention back to the laptop and continued looking up points on the Hemingway books set before her.

Soon there were five customers browsing in various sections of the store. Three, who were regulars, commented on the store’s appearance.

“The place is too sterile now. I don’t see any book dust—even in the corners.” said one.

Another commented, “If this means higher prices, I don’t like it.”

The latest said, “How can I find anything if the books are perfectly organized? I always found your best books were on the floor. I’ll come back when this becomes a real used bookstore again.”

“No one’s ever happy, Mathilda. I’m never happy. And today I’m just dizzy.” He paused, looking around for something to do. “Maybe I’ll go out and get those shed books off the porch and into the shed. Unless they’ve already been cleaned up. Setanta, you wanna come out and start shelving Root’s dollar books?”

The dog began shivering with joy. He was huffing and puffing with his jaws open, and drool dripped onto the floor.

“Ok. Let’s go. I’ll wipe this up first, so no one slips. Getting sued today would be another distraction I don’t need. Mathilda, text me if anyone needs anything. Or if you hear more from Annirosa.”

The man and the dog headed out the front door. The bell jangled tiredly. although it was still morning.

They walked over to the boxes that had been sorted as only worth a dollar.

“There’s still a lot of room on these carts, Setanta, but whoever organized them left all the empty space on the bottom shelves. That makes sense. But this new stock should be where they are easy to see. I think you should move the books now on top to the bottom. Then put the books you take out of these boxes onto the higher shelves.”

The dog panted happily. He was glad to have something to do. Inside the bookstore everything was so perfect that he felt useless.

He began carrying the shed boxes across the parking lot and putting them into the little house he’d built that served as a shed. Originally it was going to b e a playhouse for the… Then Priscilla lost the child. It never happened again.

A few buys came in. The bookseller had them take their vehicles to the shed so he wouldn’t have to carry the books too far. A few even helped him carry the books into the little dollhouse-styled bookshed.

The day was aging.

Then closing time was just a half hour off. He couldn’t risk closing late, so he warned the remaining customers they only had a short time to bring their purchases to the front.

Setanta came padding in from the porch. His head and tail were erect. His bearing was prideful.

“Looks like you got everything stocked onto the dollar carts from the way you’re prancing.”

The dog checked up and looked balefully at the bookseller. But when the man laughed, he continued inside, his gait still pleased and proud.

He went behind the counter and whispered to Mathilda.

“You saw Annirosa’s warning. You both need to come home with me tonight.”

The phone in his pocket pinged with an unhappy text from Mathilda.

“I know. My house is dreary and boring compared to the bookstore. I’ll carry your bed out to the van.”

The last customer left. The bookseller turned the open sign to “CLOSED.”

“Setanta, get your blanket. We are all camping out at my place tonight.”