Catherine Edgewater
The ink has faded to blue-gray. Catherine must have used a different type than Harriet. Her spelling isn’t quite the same as Harriet’s either, but the lack of standardization is typical of anything written before 1800.
Luke takes the chair beside mine, leaning close to read along with me. He pulls out parchment and quill.
I open my notebook to a blank page, also ready to take notes. Then I lose myself in the book.
The first several pages are slow going, as I get used to Catherine’s handwriting and her personal spin on spelling. I’m also constantly distracted by Luke’s presence, his smoky scent filling my nose with sandalwood and leather andhimmixed with a bit of cinnamon. My body lights up every time his arm presses against mine or his tail brushes my calves.
Still, I soldier on. Catherine, it seems, never shared her magic with anyone else. Not that I can blame her. She lived isolated on the family estate, a wallflower who became a spinster at the tender age of twenty-five. Forced to survive on her brother’s generosity and good regard, she lived a careful, quiet life… on the surface.
In reality, she disappeared into every novel she couldfind. There weren’t many back before Dickens and Austen and so many of the books now considered classics, but she made do. Catherine dipped into variousCanterbury Talesfor humorous frolics, adventured with Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver, and lived as a sensual woman viaMoll Flanders.
She credits them with saving her sanity.Fore I have lived as many lives as any one womyn may live. Where wuld I be without my bookes? I wuld go mad. They are the only thyng to offer me the worlde.
“This is the power of books,” I say. “Even if you don’t have book magic like mine or Catherine’s, stories have a magic all their own. You can read a book and go anywhere, do anything, be anyone! It’s one of the things I love most about being a librarian: finding someone the perfect book and seeing the look on their face when their world expands for the first time.”
Luke grunts his agreeing grunt. “You speak of fiction, yet even nonfiction can provide an escape, a way for the mind to focus on that which is outside oneself.”
“Exactly.” I nod. No one’s ever understood how important books are to me before, but he gets it. He’s the first person I’ve met who Iknowfeels as deeply as I do about reading and knowledge.
“Although I must admit I’m beginning to see the benefits of fiction,” he adds.
Does that mean the romance books he’s been reading are more than research to him now? I bite my lip, remembering how good he looked asleep withThe Princess Bridespread open across his stomach.
“I enjoy research as well as fiction.” I tap a fingeragainst Catherine’s journal. “But I gotta say I’m really,reallyready for Catherine to go ahead and tell me how she used her magic.” Because it’s clear she controlled it. She couldn’t afford to go missing for days—it would look too suspicious to miss the formal dinners her sister-in-law held each evening—so she often went into a book for only a scene or two before returning to the real world.
“We have confirmation that she controlled it, which means such control is possible,” Luke growls. “That’s more than we knew an hour ago. Keep reading.”
“You’re right.” I turn the page with a little sigh.
He slides his chair back, reaches into his invisible pocket, and pulls out a packet of cinnamon hearts. “Here.” He extends them to me on his open palm. “For you.”
“Oh, I’d love some.” My heart pinches again at the reminder he carries around the candy I like best. “But I don’t want to handle a book this old with sticky fingers.”
There’s the crinkle of plastic, and his fingers brush against my mouth, offering a treat.
Before I can second-guess myself, I open, my lips feathering over his skin as I take the cinnamon candy.
He grunts again, deep and guttural, but when I glance at him, his expression is resting grumpy face one, confirming he’s not affected by me.
Focus, Skye, I tell myself. You need to find a way to break this spell so you can return home before you fall even harder. I turn another page and start reading again.
Hours later, Luke comes in with coffee from Grounds for Celebration and food from Cake My Day. He bought a selection of meat hand pies as well as a couple of cinnamonrolls. The pink baker’s box sends up a delicious smell that makes my stomach growl.
“I didn’t know you left!” I blink up at him.
He grunts and sets out plates. “Eat.”
I pick up a hand pie and nibble at the corner. Chicken, peas, and carrots wrapped in a flaky butter crust—yum!
“Is thatchicken?” Princess Buttercup emerges from beneath the wisteria, little bunny nose lifted and wiggling.
“Snickerdoodle, you’re good at that.” I laugh.
“It’s a gift.” She leaps onto the table and starts nudging Luke’s arm with her head, purring up a storm.
“I don’t have chicken,” he says.
