Constantine Capers: The Pennington Perplexity Natalie Brianne (best summer reads of all time .txt) 📖

“You were following me, then?” He asked. She averted her gaze, hiding the pink tinge invading her facial features.

“Um…yes. You see…” Her mind whirred to formulate an explanatory lie. Perhaps if she just omitted the full truth. “I like to draw people who pass the cafe. I was sketching someone and well, when you walked towards me, I was rather embarrassed. But when you took the note, I realized you hadn’t noticed me at all. I read the note, and it was just too curious. I am terribly sorry if I caused any trouble for you.”

She looked back up and met his scrutinizing stare. His eyes were blue. It looked as if he was studying every feature of her face. Was that how she appeared when she studied others for her sketches? She looked down and fidgeted with her hands.

“I probably ought to go.” She stood, picking up her sketchbook.

“No. Wait.” He fixed a hand on her arm, then dropped it. She sat back down and looked at him.

“You messed up my usual run, yes. At least I think you did. And it’s nice to have something different happen.” He frowned. “I think. I might not be certain.” He smiled at her and shook his head. “Sorry. What’s your name?”

She faltered. After all, they hadn’t been properly introduced. However, they were acquainted in some respects. In this case, she decided to keep it formal. “Samira Blayse. Yours?”

He paused, thinking it over. “Byron Constantine.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Constantine.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Blayse.”

“Apologies again for taking the notes.”

“It’s not a problem. You gave them back, and that is what matters.”

She nodded and stood again. “Good day, then.”

“Good day.” He stood and started walking in the direction of the Clock Tower.

She didn’t know what to think of it all. Her theories for the notes all fell to pieces, and she felt more confused than before. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask him any of her bursting questions, and so it was better she left. Besides, he seemed to have someplace to be. She continued to justify herself as she walked to the library. But she couldn’t help but wonder: If she came back to the cafe the next day, would he be there?

Mira loved the old Beauchamp House that the library was in. It had been owned by a wealthy parliament member, and upon his death it was converted into a library. Because of its long history, it was steeped in mystery and rumor. The stories quickly migrated to the supernatural when a death occurred in the library. She found the tales fascinating and frequented the place as often as she could. But this time she had a specific piece to inquire after. She turned away from the book listings and went straight to the librarian. He was a short, portly gentleman with a well-trimmed mustache and round spectacles.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes? May I help you?”

“I believe you can. I am looking for a specific newspaper from the Central News Agency.”

“What year and season?”

“1870, Fall.”

“Just a moment.”

He walked back into the library stacks, and she considered the other occupants of the library. Several people perused the library listings. Others meandered back into the reading rooms. A few minutes later, the portly gentleman returned.

“I’ve set up our bound copy in the fifteenth reading room. Let me know when you have finished.”

“Thank you.”

She wandered to room fifteen. It looked like a normal sitting room, except a bit larger and with a few more tables. One other person was reading at a table near the window. Only one other table held a book. She moved over to it.

The book had a blue leather cover and brass brackets holding it together. Golden lettering shone from the front. “Central News Agency: Fall/Winter 1870.” The leather casing bound hundreds of newspapers together. She opened it up and glanced over the dates until she came to the one she required: October 12, 1870. Morning edition. She skimmed through the paper, looking for any sign of the accident. When she found nothing, she opened to the midday edition. Nothing of consequence. She turned the page to the afternoon edition and found it on the front page.

Egregious Airship Accident!

In preparation for its maiden voyage, the dirigible designated as the Daydreamer met a tragic fate at ten o’clock this morning. Authorities are on the scene attempting to determine the cause of the explosion that killed and injured several crew members and passengers. Of interest are the deaths of one of the inventors of the steam powered dirigible, Octavian Blayse and his wife Rose Blayse.

She wrote down the article in its entirety and then flicked to the evening edition.

Authorities have ascertained that the explosion originated from the engine room. There are only two confirmed deaths related to the accident and two minor injuries. The Silver Lining Airship Company has commented that this is “A tragedy beyond belief.” The damages made to the dirigible may put Silver Lining out of business for good, especially with the loss of one of their main engineers and inventors. The Vaporidge Steamship Company has expressed interest in obtaining the corporation before, and it is possible with this setback that Silver Lining may be interested in selling. When our correspondent asked the company representative about any negotiations of that nature, he refused to comment.

She read over each article a few times before closing the bound edition. It was the same story she had always been told, although she didn’t know that Vaporidge had an interest in acquisition beforehand. They must have succeeded, as the Silver Lining Company no longer existed. Which was why she had never been told about it, as her uncle refused to discuss any subject related to her father.

She walked out of the reading room, paused to tell the librarian that she had finished with the book, and returned to the foggy afternoon. Other than Vaporidge’s