The Little Lost Library (A Secret, Book, and Scone Society Novel Book 7)

by Ellery Adams

You get old and you realize there are no answers, just stories. —Garrison Keillor

The Cherokee believed the cardinal was a sacred animal. The bird’s presence indicated that it had a message to deliver. It could also mean that someone Nora knew had recently died, and the cardinal was carrying the person’s soul to the creator.

When you know you are of worth, you don’t have to raise your voice, you don’t have to become rude, you don’t have to become vulgar; you just are. —Maya Angelou

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. —Mitch Albom

“I was blown away by how Kingsolver described OxyContin. She says OxyContin was a shiny thing, and ‘God’s gift for the laid-off deep-hole man with his back and neck bones grinding like bags of gravel.’ ”

“I feel like the world would be a better place if we all had an excuse to go back-to-school shopping,” said Nora. Bea laughed. “You got that right! You can’t be unhappy with a new box of crayons and some scented markers in your cart. Add a pack of stickers or a cute notebook and you’ve got everything you need.”

she tried to lose herself in the story, but the words weren’t soaking in.

Don’t own so much clutter that you will be relieved to see your house catch fire. —Wendell Berry

“Hollowell doesn’t even want Jasper,” he said. “She just wants to win a contest Hester never agreed to play. I’ve known people like her before. They’re black holes. Everywhere they go, they swallow the light.” The metaphor seemed fitting. A black hole was one of the most destructive forces in the universe. When seen through a powerful telescope, it looked like a coal-black eye ringed in flame. To those with an active imagination, it resembled the Eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings series.

“We’re not going to let that human tornado ruin our day.

Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. —Jeanette Winterson

Nora smelled charred wood and the acrid scent of burning plastic. Even after the fire was doused, she felt its heat pulsating out of the blackened walls and perforated roof of her tiny house. Her sweet little red caboose. She wanted to wrap her home in a wet blanket. She wanted to put salve on its wounds and rock it like a child in her arms. But all she could do was stand there while a curtain of rain dropped over the valley.

It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom —Edgar Allan Poe

To add a library to a house is to give that house a soul. —Cicero

about to call you,” said Bea. “Someone from the sheriff’s department was

My granny used to say that folks who held on to anger like a mule chewing a mouthful of bumblebees were folks who needed grace most. I forget that sometimes.”

You feel like a vulture, feeding off the dead. But that’s not what you’re doing. Folks die. They leave things behind for their relatives to deal with. We help the living by packing, sorting, and selling their loved one’s things. It’s important work. And we love what we do. There’s no reason to feel guilty about loving what you do.”

“It’s the little things, you know? The little things that make life better.” Nora knew that too. It was a hot shower, a bowl of ice cream, and a ball game on TV. It was a cat sleeping on the corner of the bed, the golden glow of a lamp, and a warm house. It

was knowing that tomorrow was a fresh start. It was an unopened book, waiting to be read.

together. It was just a beginning, really, because hers would be a long road to recovery. But the book would be a start. Word by word. Page by page. It would distract and inspire her. It would fill her mind with ideas and permeate her dreams with images. It would fill the cracks in her soul with the light of hope. This was the magic of books.

One of the best cures for a reluctant reader, after all, is a tale they cannot stop themselves from reading. —Neil Gaiman

“You know I’ve been kind of sad for months,” Hester told Nora. “But not anymore. I’m not lonely either. I’m enjoying my own company, which is something I learned from you.”