The Book Case Files of Rainy March, Book Witch
by Maxine Blake
Then I turned to the first chapter, first page.
“Out loud,” she said.
My voice was steady when I began but broke and shook as I read the following words out loud.
All stories are love stories if you love stories.
And I do love stories. As a Book Witch, you kind of have to love them. It’s on our recruitment posters, after all.
My name is Rainy March, and yes, it’s a bad pun and also a weather forecast, and no, sorry, I can’t change it now. It’s already embroidered into my underwear and printed on my bookplates.
The book fell out of my hands.
“You know now, Rainy?” she asked gently.
I nodded.
“I know,” I said. “You’re a writer. You’re…my writer.”
“And who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Rainy March,” I said. “I’m a fictional character and always have been.”
“I did try to warn you,” she said. “Things are never what they seem.”
—
“Do you wantto faint?” Maxine asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Go for it,” she said. “Fictional characters do tend to faint more than the general population.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. Back soon.”
My knees buckled, the world went black, and I was out like a light, like a fictional light in a hallway made of words, paper, and pure imagination.
When I came to, I lay on a soft shag rug that hadn’t been therebefore I fainted. “Sorry about that,” I said as I blinked at the ceiling. There was also a mirror up there, but I didn’t look too deeply in it.
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “Want some more tea? Water? I can conjure some up for you if you’d like. Or would you prefer bourbon?”
“Bourbon? I don’t drink bourbon. Or do I?”
“You’re having a mild existential crisis. Bourbon might help.”
She reached out her hand to me. I took it, and she helped pull me upright. We sat cross-legged on the rug facing each other, like two little girls about to play patty-cake on the playground.
“One shot won’t kill me, right?” I asked.
“Not on my watch,” she said. She reached behind her, and suddenly there was a picnic basket. She put it on the rug, which had become a red-check picnic blanket, and opened the lid.
“Here we go,” she said. “I picked up a bottle of this in Kentucky on my last book tour.”
She set a bottle of bourbon on the rug between us and two shot glasses. On the label was a picture of a woman in a cowboy hat holding a scythe.
