“Thank you.” Good? I did a great job. If I said so myself. She’d given it to me in tattered pieces and I’d turned it into a stunning piece of art.

She stared at the elegant spine, studying my work; then she glanced inside and stared at the endpapers. Turning to the title page, she murmured, “No one will ever suspect this isn’t a first edition.”

I laughed. “Unless they know books.”

She glared at me.“Nobody knows that much about books. If I say it’s a first edition, then that’s what they’ll believe.”

“Probably,” I conceded.

Then she jabbed her finger at the date on the title page. I tried not to wince but I could see the dent she’d made in the thick vellum. “It says right there, printed in 1838. The year he wrote it.”

“Right,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. We both know it’s not a first edition.”

Her left eye began to twitch and she rubbed her temple as she leaned her hip against the edge of her desk. “True. But no one’s going to hear the real story, are they, Brooklyn?”

Her tone was vaguely threatening. Was I missing something?

“Are you saying I should lie about the book?” I asked.

“I’m saying you should keep your mouth shut.”

“But what’s the big deal? The festival is all about this book, and it’s got an interesting history.”

To me, anyway. The story went that, back in 1838, Charles Dickens was doing so well with the serialization of Oliver Twist that his publisher went behind his back and published the manuscript, using Dickens’s pseudonym, “Boz.” That first edition included all of the illustrator Cruikshank’s drawings.

Dickens was displeased because he’d intended to use his real name once the book was published. He was also unhappy with one of Cruikshank’s drawings in the book, calling it too sentimental, according to some accounts. He insisted that the publisher pull that edition and revise it to his specifications. It was done within the week.