And not all familiar.

Had Ernest Hemingway written a book called Pamplona? (But here it was, its Scribners dust jacket protected in brittle mylar.) Cromwell and Company, by Charles Dickens? Under the Absolute, by Aldous Huxley?

“Ah, books.” Ziegler, smiling, came up behind me. “They bob like corks on an ocean. Float between worlds, messages in bottles. This will tell you what you need to know.”

The book he gave me was cheaply made, with a utilitarian olive-drab jacket. You Will Never Die, by one Carl G. Soziere.

“Come back when you’ve read it.”

“I will,” I lied.

“I had a feeling,” Deirdre said, “you’d come downstairs with one of those.”

The Soziere book. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Not until I took this job. Mr. Ziegler gave me a copy. But I speak from experience. Every once in a long while, somebody comes in with a question or a complaint. They go upstairs. And they come back down with that.”

At which point I realized I had left the paperbacks in Ziegler’s room. I suppose I could have gone back for them, but it seemed somehow churlish. But it was a loss. Not that I loved the books, particularly, but they were the only concrete evidence I had of the mystery—they were the mystery. Now Ziegler had them back in his possession. And I had You Will Never Die.

“It looks like a crank book.”

“Oh, it is,” Deirdre said. “Kind of a parallel-worlds argument, you know, J.W. Dunne and so on, with some quantum physics thrown in; actually, I’m surprised a major publisher didn’t pick it up.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I’m a sucker for that kind of thing, if you want the truth.”

“Don’t tell me. It changed your life.” I was smiling.

She smiled back. “It didn’t even change my mind.”