Cover Art The Great Gatsby の小説・ストーリー

The key fonts were crisp, the glow promising pages I’d only dared to dream of. The largest box held rare first editions of The Great Gatsby, Lolita, 1984—books I’d read in borrowed copies, from uninspiring editions or library dogs and mildew. Now they lay before me, pristine: rich mahogany leather, gold leafing on the spines. My breath caught in my chest; owning even one would’ve been impossible. Now I had three. I traced Gatsby’s title with trembling fingers, it felt like a betrayal or a blessing. Last came the envelope, heavy, thick lines beneath my name. I opened it, life slowing. Ink flowed in clear handwriting:

I quickly got Gatsby his kibble and some water. When the cat was happily eating, I turned my attention to Gabe. "What ya got there?" I sat on a barstool and swiveled closer to him. He glanced around sheepishly before heaving the book on the counter. Moments before I saw the cover up close, I'd imagined it to be a book from Professor Pops' Museum of the Supernatural, and worried Gabe stole it. No one was to touch those pages. Turned out the book was nothing mystical, just page after page of whimsical dresses by the designer Vera Wang.

Nina was already too focused on the large, beautifully bound book on the table to even notice my weird movements. The outdoor patio at Marcelline’s was perfect. The sunlight filtering through was soft, and then white tablecloths fluttering gently, the elegant hum of other diners around us. But all I could focus on was not wincing. Nina pushed the lookbook toward me with an excitement that was very contractive. “Look at this.” The cover was stunning. High-quality, almost museum-piece level, with that unmistakable Off-White energy. Virgil Abloh’s early work.

CHAPTER 1 — THE LATE RETURN I really shouldn’t have been there after closing time. The sign on the door already read “Closed” in elegant gold letters, and the lights inside Marcus Vale’s bookstore were dimmed to that soft amber glow he always left on for the night. I stood outside for a full minute, debating whether to just slip the book through the mail slot and run. But the book was rare — a 1923 first edition of The Great Gatsby with handwritten notes in the margins, and I couldn’t risk damaging it.

I didn’t laugh at it, I was no master locksmith, but even so I was inside the house in less than thirty seconds. I had climbed in through the window into what could only be described as the study and moved across to a desk. Initially, I found myself tiptoeing. Ridiculous. I half laughed at myself and put my feet down flat on the soundless carpet. There was nothing on the desk top except a blotter without blots, a tray of pens and pencils, a green telephone, a photograph of a young woman in a silver frame, a desk diary closed and a leather bound copy of The Great Gatsby.

She had to be careful with it in case the pages shattered on contact with her skin. She set the book down carefully on the floor and wiped the dust from the front. Immediately, she jumped in shock. There, on the cover, was the same image she’d seen on her grandma’s leather box, and in the Voynich manuscript. Only this time the strange face on the front of the book wasn’t so surreal—it was as clear as day. It was an image of Scarlet’s face.

I reached for it without opening my eyes. Max. Sophie. Selina. Three unknown numbers. I opened my eyes. Grayson was already awake beside me, sitting up, his own phone in his hand, reading something with an expression that was quietly overwhelmed. “The feature,” I said. “It’s out,” he confirmed. He turned his phone toward me. City Arts Magazine. Our photograph on the cover. The headline read: The Billionaire Grayson Knight, Leo Carter, and the truth that changed everything. I read the headline twice.

All ten thousand copies of the initial book run had officially sold out online, making The Road to Redemption an immediate international best-seller in fine art publishing. The heavy glass doors of the gallery were locked, and the last of the guests had departed into the cool autumn night. Inside the quiet, dim gallery, Ethan stood alone in front of the final photograph in the collection. It was a wide black and white print taken at their upstate estate in early summer. It showed a quiet lake reflecting the bright morning sky, with a simple wooden bench resting under a massive oak tree. On the bench sat two small coffee mugs, their steam rising softly into the clear air.

Celeste’s POV “Oh, my god Celeste!” Grace squealed, running over to me. “You need to see what’s on the third page of the Citrine.” I put down the design I’d been tweaking, curiosity piqued. “What is it?” I asked, taking the magazine. I blinked at a photograph in shock. A broad-backed gentleman was helping a woman wearing a deep maroon dress into a sports car. Thankfully, I’d turned my face away from the camera as I ducked in, but anyone who knew me would recognize that I was that woman.

But I knew some hill folk—especially a hoodoo man named Clive Hartley—who could read Latin, so I put it aside for later. I looked back into the box and of course, that’s when I found it. The book that’s caused all this trouble. The Way of Ah-Tzenul. Course, that’s not what’s printed on the cover. There’s a picture of some sorta tribal man squatting down with both hands raised to the sky etched into the cover and traced in silver. Otherwise, it’s a plain-looking book, all bound in pebbly black leather.