We chat with author Shelley Noble about The Sisters of Book Row, which is a gripping and timely historical novel of books, banning, and the women who helped save New York’s famed Book Row. PLUS you can read an excerpt below too!
Hi, Shelley! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?
Before becoming a published author I was a professional dancer, living and rehearsing in New York City and performing throughout the world. Now I live across the bridge in New Jersey. I’ve written amateur sleuth, historical mysteries, and contemporary women’s fiction. Currently I’m concentrating on women’s historical fiction.
When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?
I always loved reading, but I think it was after I became a published author, and people started asking this question, that I realized I had always written, whether in diary form, or letters, or travel journals of the places we toured to. Writing for a living was a natural extension.
Quick lightning round! Tell us:
- The first book you ever remember reading: Teddy Bear’s Picnic. It came with a record. I think I just lip-synched because it must have been above my reading level at the time.
- The one that made you want to become an author: This Rough Magic, by Mary Stewart.
- The one that you can’t stop thinking about: 1984 by Geroge Orwell, just reread it and yep, it’s still scary.
Your latest novel, The Sisters of Book Row, is out March 3rd! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?
Community, loyalty, challenge, determination, family.
What can readers expect?
A story about 1915 Manhattan, three sisters who have inherited a rare books shop from their father, must stand up to the most vicious censor in American history, Anthony Comstock, to save the great works of literature left in their care.
Where did the inspiration for The Sisters of Book Row come from?
From actual events of the period. And three contemporary sisters-booksellers who made me wonder… What would we have done?
Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?
I started out intending to mainly follow one sister, but the other two surprised me with their own dreams and intentions. The weaving of their stories into a family story, then a neighborhood story, was challenging but very satisfying.
Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?
Beyond keeping the characters true to themselves, there were a lot of parallels to current events, and I had to be disciplined to stick to that time period and not to let one era slip into the other.
What’s next for you?
I’ve just started a novel that takes place in 1870 Long Branch, New Jersey, the summer capital of President Ulysses S Grant. Five words to describe it? Scandal, scandal, scandal, scandal, scandal.
Lastly, what books have you enjoyed reading this year?
The King’s Messenger by Susanna Kearsley, First Do No Harm by SJ Rozan. I’m rereading The Hobbit now.
Are there any you’re looking forward to picking up in 2026?
Next on my TBR list is Embroidered Lies and Alibis by Lois Winston. Can’t wait.
EXCERPT
Excerpted from The Sisters of Book Row, by Shelley Noble. William Morrow Paperbacks, 2026. Reprinted with permission.
Cooper Union
Astor Place, Manhattan
Summer 1915
I’m going to be arrested. They’re probably on their way here now.” Margaret Sanger looked out over the group of serious young women. She smiled slightly, her canny green eyes rested for a moment on Celia Applebaum in the front row. Celia smiled back as the panic rose in her throat.
Beside her, Selena Farmer shifted uncomfortably. Selena was married and had a new baby. She had even more to lose than many of the others. Celia nudged her with her elbow, trying to signal that they would be fine, while she forced herself not to look toward the exit doors.
“I’m leaving for the Continent immediately. I hope you will continue our work, but you must be careful. There will be reprisals. Anthony Comstock is a vicious man. And in my absence he will take all he can in his wake.”
“That’s why we must stop him!” yelled someone more courageous than Celia, who swallowed and clutched her papers tighter.
Margaret held up her hands. “Yes, we must. His power is waning, but like all powerful men, he will do anything to maintain it. He’s acting more and more reckless, making more outrageous claims. He is like a star blazing out of control, sucking up the air; it will burn the brightest before it dies. And it will die, leaving nothing but a gray pile of ash. But this is his most dangerous time. He will ignore rules and the law, even in his final hurrah. Remember. He will have his spies everywhere. Stay aware. Be brave. Stay safe. Now go. I won’t desert you for long.”
Celia watched her mentor leave the stage, petite, agile, her auburn hair flaming like a beacon to action. And then she was gone. Normally after meetings, the women would break into conversation as they gathered up their things, but today no one spoke. Just watched their leader walk out of the room and possibly out of their lives. Pamphlets were quickly slid into briefcases, hurriedly stuffed into grocery bags, tucked into waistbands or inside special pockets sewn into skirts for just such contraband.
Today, they walked in measured steps toward the exits, willing themselves not to hurry, to look normal. They separated at the door just as the Cooper Union students, mostly male, let out of class and hurried toward the street for a quick cup of coffee or a cigarette before the next began. Celia wondered if Margaret had planned it that way.
She clutched her knitting bag tightly under her arm and joined the other women as they were absorbed by the crowd. Heads down, anonymous, afraid that Comstock might already be out there watching, waiting for one of them to slip up. All of them wondering which one of them would not make it home tonight.
Arcadia Rare Bookshop
Fourth Avenue
Book Row
Olivia Applebaum rolled up the shade from the front door of the Arcadia Rare Bookshop and peered outside. It was almost time to open, and Celia was missing. Again. She would have to have a talk with her youngest sister about her continuous frolicking off to God knew where.
It was hard in the best of times to keep the shop profitable; they’d had to open the whole first floor to new as well as affordable used books. Had even joined the secondhandbook sellers in putting the cheapest volumes outside along the sidewalk. Their father would never have let that happen; Applebaum was a valued name in the world of distinctive antiquarian bookdealers. But Papa wasn’t around to disapprove or be disappointed, was he? He’d died three years ago, three years after their mother, taking with her his last chance of having a son to carry on his name and the business.
And yet their name was still on the sign above the door, and the shop was still in business. His daughters had made sure of that. Fortunately, Olivia had taken to books at an early age and had been sent to college to become adept at classical languages and continue improving the binding and restoration skills that she’d learned from him.
Luckily for her, she loved old books, spoke and read French, German, and Italian well enough to translate. Could decipher several other languages. In the years since his death, Olivia had built a solid reputation and had pulled off some advantageous sales.
And yet they were still counting pennies.
She adjusted her eyeglasses, and a ripple of fatalism ran through her veins. It was now up to her to leave her sisters with a legacy. And she was running out of time.
Olivia pursed her lips and straightened a volume of Plutarch’s Lives on the glass display case.
“Now where is she?” Their middle sister, Daphne, brushed past her to peer out the bowed display window. “It’s almost time to open.” Unlike Olivia and Celia, who were dark-haired like their father, twenty-year-old Daphne had taken after their mother. She was light-haired and blue-eyed, with a vibrant complexion that even the dimness of the shop couldn’t dull. And, alas, more interested in charming the customers than selling books.
Today, her work apron was haphazardly tied around a lilac calico dress more suited to an afternoon outing than a day in a musty bookshop.
“I’m sure she’ll be back any minute. She left a note saying she was going for bread and bacon.” Olivia sighed, though it would already be too late to cook it for breakfast. Mr. Delereux had an appointment at nine to see the Rigg translation of The Decameron, a real find if she did say so herself. “But we can’t wait— I’ll help you with the outside carts.”
“It’s not fair,” Daphne complained. “She’s always running off and leaving me to do all the hard work.”
Olivia smiled sympathetically, though she was actually annoyed that her sister could look charming even when she was whining. Olivia had no such demeanor. Her sisters were always telling her not to look so grim. But Olivia was just born grim. By the time she was ten, her father had begun to tease her that she looked like a dowager. Of course, at ten, Olivia had already worn out the pages of Debrett’s, memorizing the most important members of the peerage— and she knew perfectly well what a dowager was.
Her fate was sealed.
Daphne scowled and rolled the first book-ladened cart across the wooden floor toward the door, dislodging their calico cat, Jane, the only name all three sisters could agree on— but for very different reasons.
Olivia opened the door for her, and together they pushed the cart of used, worn, secondhand books over the saddle and onto the sidewalk, then maneuvered it up against the brick facade. Olivia took a minute to rearrange several books so as not to block the view of the more expensive items in the display window behind it.
Daphne paused as she passed Olivia on her way to collect the second bin. “You’ll have to say something to her. It’s the second time this week I’ve had to do her job. It isn’t fair.”
Olivia held the door while Daphne wrestled the second bin out onto the sidewalk and pushed it into place on the other side of the door, then she turned to stare down the street, hands on the hips of her brown tailored suit, searching the sidewalks for her wayward sister.
