A true first edition of Oliver Twist, written under the pseudonym of Boz, with Cruikshank’s unauthorized drawings, was beyond rare.

Layla’s book had Charles Dickens listed as the author on the title page, and the Cruikshank illustration was missing. So while the book was valuable, it didn’t count as an official first edition.

“I don’t want you going around telling people about this book, do you hear me?” Layla pushed away from the desk, drew herself up to her full height, and glared down at me. She was only an inch or so taller than I, but it was a good attempt at intimidation. “For the purposes of the festival, this book is a first edition, got it? I want to rack up some high bids on this baby.”

I looked at her sideways. “So you want me to lie.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“It just seems like the real story would be more interesting to people.”

“Jesus, do you ever give up?” she asked. “Nobody cares about your stupid book theories, and if you like working here, you’ll say what I tell you to say. Capice?”

I sucked my cheeks in, something I tended to do whenever I wanted to chew somebody’s ass but needed to hold my tongue instead. After a long moment, I gritted my teeth and said, “Got it.”

Casually slapping the exquisite nineteenth-century volume against her hand, she said, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“You know what?” I turned toward the door. “I’ve got to go get my classroom set up.”

She pointed her finger at me as though it were a gun and she’d just pulled the trigger. “Good idea.”

I rushed out of her office and made it back to the central gallery before the urge to strangle her took over.

Naomi caught one look at my face and snorted. “Glad I’m not the only one she’s picking on today.”

“Yeah, lucky me.” As I headed toward my classroom, I couldn’t decide what annoyed me more: the fact that Layla hadn’t given me enough props for my work, or the idea that I should lie about the whole first edition issue. The lack of props won out. I’d done a spectacular job of restoring the book but she was just too screwed up and snotty to say so, more than that pitiful “good job” comment she’d grudgingly given me. I would have to think twice if she offered me any more restoration work.