Fairies of Medieval Forests.
I know what section that belongs in.
Through the entryway, past the grimoire room and into the histories room, I seek out the shelf committed to fairy texts. The second shelf from the floor, there’s a space where a book could have been removed. I squint to check the shelving number on the spine more than once and compare it to the books beside the gap. I do this check no less than three times, just to be sure I’m not misreading the numbers. By all accounts, that’s where the book should go.
When I slip it home, I feel a sense of satisfaction. A small task, but worth the slight ache behind my eyes.
When I make to retrace my steps, the front door opens just as I’m passing through the entryway. I stand tall, pull up a smile, and fold my hands behind my back.
A slim man with slightly mussed hair and thick-rimmed glasses steps inside, a curious look in his eyes. His stare meets mine just as I nod in greeting.
“Welcome. How can I help you?” And I silently beg it’s not a complicated question I’d need to bother Mor with. I want to show her I can work here without hand-holding.
“Hello. I’m Jaylen Breen. I have an appointment with Mor Shelly. This is her library, correct?” The man fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt and offers a hopeful smile.
He must have a major research query. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve seen Mor meet with a handful of patrons. Overheard them talking through their research. Watched her guide them through the stacks as they tugged multiple volumes off the shelves and paged through them together.
The visitors tend to be witches, and I take comfort in the fact that even if I had a PhD in literature studies, I still wouldn’t be able to help them. If you’re not a witch, you can’t read witch’s language.
Dr. Anna Lim, Jack’s mom, is a human woman and linguistics professor at Ramla University. She’s attempting to study witch’s language from a mortal perspective, but from what I’ve heard, it’s a slow-going task. She claims the books glamor themselves, and even when the symbols are revealed, they move.
“I’ll take you to her.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, figuring the witch is where she normally is.
The study is in the back of the house, with a wide, multi-paneled window that faces toward Lake Galen. There’s a large table, perfect for spreading books out, and tucked in the corner is a computer, set up for cataloging the books. I’m still baffled by the changes in the internet while I was gone.
Seventeen years ago, dial-up was the most common way to connect, and my dad never bothered to get internet installed in the trailer. I only ever saw people using it at businesses or on TV.
Mor sat beside me the other day, showing me how to use Google and email.
I tried to pay attention, but her shoulder kept brushing mine, and her hair smelled like warm roses. Plus, squinting at the screen gave me a headache, so I preferred to let my eyes unfocus and just listened to her speak.
Mor isn’t at the computer now. Instead, she has a thick volume open, a notebook beside it that she’s scribbling in, and her lush red hair is piled in a haphazard bun on top of her head.
I clear my throat. Then I do it a second time, louder, because she didn’t seem to hear me the first.
Her head pops up, her messy bun wobbling with the abrupt movement.
“Bo. Sorry. Did you need me?”
Yes. All the time.
I blink that needy thought away and step to the side, gesturing Mr. Breen forward. “Your appointment is here.”
“My appointment?” Her brows dip, and her full mouth purses.
I can practically see her rifling through an internal catalog of dates, trying to recall what topic this visitor asked for help with.
“Not appointment exactly.” The man steps forward, hand outstretched and smile wide. “I’m Jaylen Breen. I work with Broderick at Ramla. We texted about getting lunch today.”
Mor’s brows rise as my stomach drops.
Getting lunch? As in going out on a date?
I reevaluate the man, studying him more thoroughly than when I thought he was only a patron.
The top of his head is level with my shoulder, and he has a similar distracted-professor look that Mor’s brother maintains. As nice as her sibling is, I find his academic credentials intimidating. What would he think if he learned that I never made it past the seventh grade? Doubt he would be pushing me to set up lunch dates with his sister, not like the professor here, with his interested smile and tweed jacket.
“Oh. Jaylen. Of course. I can’t believe I forgot.”
