And I begin to read.
The wood is sweet with rot tonight, and as Henriette draws her breath from it, every living thing falls still.
I can’t stop reading. Chapter one bleeds into chapter two, into chapter three. I thought I would hate it, have avoided revisiting it for fear I’d find imperfections. And thereareimperfections. If I could have another crack at edits, surely I’d find plenty to change. But I can’t really care about any of that, because all I notice is how much fun I was having here in these pages. My love for storytelling radiates from them.
Henriette has a dimple in her cheek just below her left eye, like I do. She wears green boater shoes to work, and a silver mask when she’s fighting monsters. She is softhearted like Romina, but direct like Luna, and bold like Aisling. She has my grandmother’s way of speaking with such sincerity as to nearly embarrass those she’s conversing with. Henriette Albrittey is a mosaic of myself and the people I love most in the world, and I am proud of her.
I’ve forgotten the joy of creating. What a wonder it is, to find it hiding inside this book in the middle of the forest—a book I’ve had at home, in nine different languages, all this time. I could never bring myself to open it, so afraid I’d be disappointed by what I found, or worse—to feel like I’ll never be able to write anything as good as it. But I have more stories in me.
So many more.
Nobody else will ever read this book the way that I do. Flipping open to chapter eleven, I see Christmas in Iceland between the lines. In chapter twenty, a desert sunset on Route 66, snapping pictures to send to my grandmother. Chapter thirty-two: eating a huge blueberry cobbler at a diner in Michigan. Spilling coffee on myself while working at a café. Falling in love more than a few times.
I see my life as it was while writing this story, and the story itself, twisting into one.
I think it’s the most wondrous thing, to have captured a time capsule of my past in here without realizing it. It will always be this way. Once I’m finished with my next book, whatever that may be, someday I’ll reopen it, and highlights from right now—at that point, my past—will rise from between the lines to say hello. What unrelated memories will I find attached? What will ultimately prove significant in my life today when viewing it in hindsight? I think I’ll definitely remember this moment. I think I’ll see Morgan everywhere in that book.
I keep reading, long after I should have joined Morgan in sleep, unable to stop now that I’ve started, so many years after I pennedThe End.
It’s just me and the words and the moon and the magic; it feels like wrapping hands around my own heart, it feels likethe best it gets. Tears splash the pages, and I keep turning them, keep turning.
Thirty-Seven
For a simple good-health charm, sweep basil from your back porch and fenugreek seed from your front porch. (If porches are not available, windows will suffice.)
Spells, Charms, and Rituals,
Tempest Family Grimoire
“Morgan, wake up.”I tap his shoulder.
“It’s you,” he says in his sleep, smiling a little.
“Wake up. It’s raining.”
His eyes open, fluttering as they take me in. “Oh.” The smile widens. “It really is you.”
“Come on.” I lead him to a cave nearby, which I remember now that I’ve revisited the library—and there’s a waterfall around here, too! And a few pieces of railroad track, and a tree I decorated with necklaces and stuffed animals—at every turn, a new connection is illuminated. If I stand here long enough and think, I’ll end up with a complete map of the forest in my head.
“How’d you find this place?” he asks, stripping off his jacket and spreading it on the dry ground for us to sit on. I place my lantern alongside. “Look at all that!” He points at white mineral formations gushing down the walls, frozen in place.
“Flowstones. I used to call them crystal candles, because they look like dripping candle wax.”
We sit side by side, knees up, peering at the beautiful crystals thrown into relief by the lantern’s light. The cave feels rather smaller now that I’m fully grown.
“And you were out here by yourself? As a kid?”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“Imagine what you’d do if Ash went sneaking off into mysterious caves.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “That’s the difference, though. Her family would notice.” Not only Luna, but Romina and me, and to some extent, Morgan and Trevor, too. We’re Aisling’s village.
“Ah,” he says, with a nod of understanding. “And yours didn’t?”
“My parents weren’t worried about what I might get up to because as far as they knew, all I did was read and climb trees. What kind of trouble could I possibly find? NowLuna, on the other hand…”
“Golden child?” he guesses.
