“Number Four: Take no weapons into the stories, for the pen is mightier than the sword.
“Number Five: Never use the powers of a fictional character for personal gain.”
In other words, don’t go dragging the Owens sisters out ofPractical Magicto fix your love life. For many reasons, come to think of it.
“Number Six: Never eat, drink, sleep, or take up residence in any way in a story, lest you become part of it.”
Sleeping is especially dangerous. Many a Book Witch has fallen asleep in a story only to wake up certain the story world istheirworld. They are like the dreamers who can’t be convinced they’re only dreaming. Waking them is cosmic agony. Imagine someone telling you the world you live in is only a story in someone else’s imagination…would you ever believe them?
I continued. “Number Seven: Real people belong in the real world. Fictional characters belong in works of fiction. Rare the twain shall meet.”
Rules six and seven translate to “Get in fast, get out fast, and leave no trace.” Just as fictional characters are not allowed to take up residence in the real world, real people are not allowed to live in story worlds. We can only hop into a book when work requires it, leaving the second the job is done. Imagine the discipline and self-control it takes a Book Witch to not jump into their favorite stories willy-nilly. I’d never once snuck into the Duke of Chicago’s books before, and quite frankly, I think I deserved a medal.
“And Number Eight?” Dr. Fanshawe prompted.
“Never fall in love with a fictional character,” I said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s all eight. Can I go now?”
Even over the phone I could tell Dr. Fanshawe was wincing, already regretting what she was about to say.
“Very well, if only because we’re running out of time. But take no chances. Don’t doanythingthat will blow your cover,” she said firmly.
“Thank you, I won’t let you down.”
Without missing a beat, she launched right into the mission. “Page eighty-seven has gone blank. We have reason to believe the Duke is being held captive in a speakeasy on Damen Avenue.”
I turned to page eighty-seven. Sure enough, the page had turned white. I flipped to the next page, only to see that eighty-eight was starting to fade as well.
“The Bathtub?” I said. “Yes, I know it. The Duke meets his contacts there.”
“Get him out and back on the plot at once.”
“On it, boss.”
“And be quick about it.”
After Dr. Fanshawe hung up, I looked Pops in the eyes.
“I won’t let you down either,” I told him.
He smiled. “I know you won’t. Be safe, Raindrop.”
“Koshka!” I called as I ran from the library and up the stairs. “Come on. We’re going to Chicago!”
My usual uniform of black leggings and a black-and-white striped sweater was not proper attire for Depression-era Chicago. No worries. Up in the attic, Pops and I kept a large wardrobe to blend into any story, any genre, any setting: A space suit for sci-fi. An elf costume for fantasy. Black cloaks and ball gowns galore for Gothics.
For this mission, I was thinking my Hennie Fox silver cocktail dress? No, too impractical. Then I spotted the tailored wool men’s suit I’d worn for Agatha Christie’sThe Mysterious Affair at Styles.The suit was a decade out of date in the Duke’s world, but better than trying to fight off gangsters in an evening gown.
I dressed quickly and tucked my hair up under a newsboy cap. If Pops didn’t think Gangland Chicago was safe for women, I’d simply go as a man.
In the cheval mirror, I gave myself a onceover. My long dark hair remained firmly hidden under the hat. I’m about average height and a little too skinny (by Mrs. Turner’s standards anyway), so in my suit I fully resembled a pale and slightly freckled teenage boy who just happened to have unusually long eyelashes.
“Ready?” I asked Koshka, who’d been impatiently pacing while I’d gotten dressed.
He meowed loudly in reply.
We returned to the library, where Pops had already taken my magic umbrella out of the wall safe and laid the damaged copy ofEmpty Gravesopen on the reading table, an onyx paperweight on each corner. It’s much easier to escape an open book than a closed one. While you can get out of a closed book, it feels like taking off a scuba suit in a tight sleeping bag. And it’s not much fun for the book either.
In this particular novel, the Duke of Chicago is tasked with rescuing a socialite who’s supposedly been kidnapped by gangsters, only to discover a far more complicated and tragic truth. The book, originally published in 1948, had a deliciously campy cover with a beautiful redheaded femme fatale in a painted-on scarlet red dress holding a shovel.
