“Hah.  So you’re a collector yourself, then,” she said, amused.  “Except you don’t collect the books.  You collect the stories about them.”

“You know, I think you’re right,” he said.  “I’d love to hear more about your uncle, and how he came into possession of these.”

“He never talked much about his former life, before my family came to this country.  He was a gardener, but that’s all I know.  That, and these books were his treasure.  And he gave them to me…” (more…)

“So what’s it worth?”

“As a book?  Maybe twenty bucks.  But let me ask you:  What’s that story worth?  And every bit of it’s true.  No, this I won’t sell — not for twenty, not for a hundred.  Someday, to the right person, I’ll sell it.  Because that’s my job; it’s why I’m here.  But it has to be someone the story means something to.”

She nodded now, understanding.  “Because there aren’t many of that kind of collector.  I’d imagine most are only in it for the money.” (more…)

“I’m just trying to understand.  Not why these books are special, but why any of that matters at all to us.  Isn’t it all about the money?”

“With some collectibles, it’s the story of the book rather than the one written inside it that gives it its value.  Look, here,” as he brought down a battered volume from the shelf over his desk.  She moved closer, interested despite herself.  “Lady Chatterley’s Lover, pirated knockoff, 1939.  A three thousand copy run.  It’s a cheap reprint, and even if it hadn’t been soaked in what looks like salt water it wouldn’t have (more…)